The Poets of Fire & Ink: An Introduction

My responsibility as a poet, an artist, is to not look away.
—Nikky Finney, Fire & Ink keynote, 2009

We live in a time of tempest, physically and culturally careening toward the precipice of—something. We find it hard, sometimes, to find—to see—each other. Shrouded in ambiguity and uncertainty, and seemingly fraught with peril, the future appears as an enigma. Who do we turn to in these moments? Those alchemists of language and architects of resilience who help us move past paralysis and fear; those who help expand our vision to perceive the beauty amidst the chaos. We turn to the poets, those visionaries among us who illuminate the path ahead.

At the beginning of this year, I sent a beacon through the winter dark just after the twenty-first anniversary of the first-ever Fire & Ink convening, a historic gathering of LGBTQ+ writers of African descent. The Fire & Ink community has served as a testament to the transformative power of art—embracing poets, playwrights, novelists, memoirists, and scholars, writers for the screen and the voice. We were all first called together in the ash-rainy days post-9/11. Hundreds responded. What began with the foundational gathering in 2002 in Chicago, Illinois, continued in 2005 and 2009 in Austin, Texas. Our most recent gathering, nearly a decade ago, was 2015’s “Fire & Ink IV: Witness,” in Detroit, Michigan. In between these large gatherings, we sponsored and hosted intimate readings, conversations, and events in cities across the country.

This folio regathers dozens of the poets whose attendance, leadership, and support for Fire & Ink has been so critical to our growing community. Here, together, we celebrate and lament. We may drip trauma, we may feel afraid, we may step numbly, but up we step. We dance arm in arm with our poet-besties and make room at the table for those who’d let rest their quills until they heard the call again. The majority of us are making our first appearance in the country’s oldest monthly poetry magazine. Some, like Chicago Poet Laureate avery r. young, “dance(is)” us through the exhausting demand of the long-accustomed foreign gaze, insisting, even within it, on “laffin” through the discomfort. Insisting on “my greatness         one mo gin.”

I called out to these poets while the world around (and in and through) me fought—still—about who deserves to have their basic humanity recognized. Respected. Protected. The times are such that who even knows upon which precipice we’ll be balancing as we go to press. I suspect, though, that far too many of us will still be pressed—pressured—depressed—repressed—oppressed—and far too many will still be wondering what all the fuss is about.

We need to hear the voices of Black and Queer artists who refuse to be silenced, whose narratives challenge the status quo, and whose language celebrates the beauty and strength that sustains us, especially when we find each other and come together. We gather here, once more, as a testament to the enduring legacy of camaraderie and creative expression.

Dig, if you will, the pleasures that await you as you immerse yourself in this folio of Black LGBTQ+ poets who answered the call to Fire & Ink. Led by two founding pillars of Fire & Ink who helped to pave the way from the start, our odyssey begins with divination, as it must. Sharon Bridgforth pulls from her poetic oracle deck to set our intentions as we reunite after nearly a decade apart, to reaffirm our voices and reassert our collective love and care. Next, Marvin K. White knocks the wind with his meditation. It is right and fitting that Marvin is the Minister of Celebration at San Francisco’s exalted Glide Memorial Church; his words, like incantations, showcase a profound sense of reverence and introspection.

We are poets laureate of cities and states. We are the first Black trans woman elected to office in the United States, a poet. We are high school principals, Broadway darlings, archivists and retirees, prestigious journal editors and justices of the peace. Our focus was always international and our influence extends far beyond the confines of literary circles. Some of us have stepped away from poetry to publish novels or to raise children and care for families. We have been published by houses large and small, and we’ve barely been published at all.

Fire & Ink was a community bound not by accolades or achievements, but by a shared vision of possibility. We did not convene because we had arrived; we gathered because we were in the process of becoming. Together, we forged a space where every voice, every story, found refuge and resonance. We created space for our voices to thrive, to rebel, to exist. This folio pays homage not only to those who grace these pages but also to the countless souls who have shaped the ethos of Fire & Ink. Whether present or departed, their legacies burn brightly within our collective memory.

Everywhere I go, students, poets, writers, readers, and publishers all crave what Fire & Ink created. What we offer. What we deliver. We don’t gather now to merely commemorate the past but to embrace the present with a renewed sense of purpose and passion. We rebuild our movement of poets, writers, and artists—now as Fire & Inkwell—on the shaky precipice of a new era. The power of all of our words in all of our languages to inspire, to provoke, and to unite has never been more vital. We’re here to seize this moment, together, and forge a future where creativity knows no bounds. We answer the call to ensure that our flame continues to burn bright as ever and then brighter still, to illuminate the path for the generations yet to come. This folio is for them, and it is them for whom the movement itself returns.

“Breathe,” insists poet/performer Staceyann Chin to those of us who so often find ourselves unable, “blow the motherfucker out.”