"A Bird Made of Birds" | Sarah Kay

I have a friend named Kaveh Akbar, who is a fellow poet.

And Kaveh found this photo online

of the anatomical heart of a blue whale

that scientists had hung on a hook from the ceiling,

which is how they were able to observe that the heart of a blue whale

is big enough that a person can stand up fully inside of it.

And when Kaveh shared this photo online,

he did so with the caption,

"This is another reminder

that the universe has already written the poem you were planning on writing."

And when I first saw that, I was horrified.

I was like, "Come on, man! I'm trying to invent new metaphors!

I'm trying to discover beauty that hasn't been discovered yet.

What do you mean, the universe is always going to get there before me?"

And I know this isn't a uniquely poet problem,

but on days when the world feels especially big

or especially impossible

or especially full of grandeur,

those are the days when I feel,

"What do I possibly have to contribute

to all of this?"

Not long ago, I saw this video that some of you may have seen.

It makes the internet rounds every couple of months.

There are these birds that are called starlings,

and they fly in what's called a "murmuration,"

which is generally just a big cloud of birds.

And someone happened to catch a quick video on their phone

of these starlings flying.

And at first, it's just an amorphous blob,

and then there's a moment where the birds shift,

and they form the shape of a starling

in the sky!

(Laughter)

And as soon as I saw it, I was like,

(Gasps) "The universe has already written the poem

you were planning on writing!"

(Laughter)

Except, for the first time, it didn't fill me with despair.

Instead, I thought, "OK.

Maybe it's not my job to invent something new.

Maybe instead it's my job to listen to what the universe is showing me

and to keep myself open to what the universe offers,

so that when it's my turn,

I can hold something to the light,

just for a moment,

just for as long as I have.

The universe has already written the poem

that you were planning on writing.

And this is why

you can do nothing but point at the flock of starlings

whose bodies rise and fall in inherited choreography,

swarming the sky in a sweeping curtain

that, for one blistering moment,

forms the unmistakeable shape

of a giant bird

flapping against the sky.

It is why your mouth forms an "o"

that is not a gasp,

but rather, the beginning of,

"Oh. Of course."

As in, of course the heart of a blue whale is as large as a house

with chambers tall enough to fit a person standing.

Of course a fig becomes possible

when a lady wasp lays her eggs inside a flower,

dies and decomposes,

the fruit, evidence of her transformation.

Sometimes, the poem is so bright,

your silly language will not stick to it.

Sometimes, the poem is so true,

nobody will believe you.

I am a bird

made of birds.

This blue heart a house you can stand up inside of.

I am dying

here

inside this flower.

It is OK.

It is what I was put here to do.

Take this fruit.

It is what I have to offer.

It may not be first,

or ever best,

but it is the only way to be sure

that I lived at all.

(Applause)