I was immediately called to Spell to Acquire a Beautiful Voice by the premise—of all the things to make happen by way of a spell, I loved the idea of the spellcaster’s greatest desire being a beautiful voice. I am a poet, and so: same. I was thinking of “voice” here not as the sound one makes, but as that other, elusive thing we call “voice” in poetry—the feeling of a specific presence behind the words, animating them. The image of the object itself called to me as well: the papyrus crowded from top to bottom, right margin to left margin, with tightly packed, breathless text—and then the lacunae, the literal holes in the paper, running vertically down the center. I tried to imagine what words would be in those gaps, which led me into thinking about what words I myself am missing: names, terms, ways to articulate myself. And so I decided to try my hand at writing an incantation, beginning with the ingredients that open the original spell: white dove’s blood; calamus extract; musk. I continued from there into a ritual of my own, a plea of my own, to gather those I miss and those I belong to but have no name for, my every lacuna; to ask for a beautiful voice of my own. And so, ars poetica, because isn’t this what I’m trying to do every time I sit down to write?
Spell to Acquire a Beautiful Voice. Papyrus, 14 11/16 × 10 in. (37.3 × 25.4 cm). Courtesy Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library (AFB.476)
"Ars Poetica" by Safia Elhillo.
Blood of the bird, sweet flag
Flower whose scent was taken by time
I belong to long and cursive lines of women
Even I who am their daughter
Even I have not been told their names
I call to them in this way: ritual assemblage
Exalted water in the cup
Peace be upon my every mother
Peace be upon translucent maiden aunts
Crowding the corners of this room now and dressed in shadow
Peace be upon my nowhere children
And the gone lands in which they dwell
And to my neighbors on the other side
You who rattle my windowpanes in late autumn
Greetings with white honey
With what language between us remains
And to You who unknots my tongue
Whose name I murmur into my palms
I am calling now and every day
In the presence of these my dead and these my living gone
To ask that when I speak I may do it clearly
And without hesitation, that when I speak
I may do it fluently despite my broken tools
By the tallow in the hair of my living grandmother
Applied now to partings in my own
By my long name and its repetitions, its every aperture
By my lines of blood and by the rivers, the two joining into one
By my word:
I call now, and again, and ask please
May I say it well, and with beauty.
