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Kingdom Animalia
The poems in this highly anticipated second book are elegiac poems, as concerned with honoring our dead as they are with praising the living. Through Aracelis Girmay's lens, everything is animal: the sea, a jukebox, the desert. In these poems, everything possesses a system of desire, hunger, a set of teeth, and language. These are poems about what is both difficult and beautiful about our time here on earth.
Aracelis Girmay's debut collection won the Great Lakes Colleges Association New Writers Award. A Cave Canem Fellow, she is on the faculty at Drew University and Hampshire College. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Aracelis Girmay's debut collection won the Great Lakes Colleges Association New Writers Award. A Cave Canem Fellow, she is on the faculty at Drew University and Hampshire College. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
120 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2011
34 people are currently reading
2260 people want to read
About the author
Aracelis Girmay
26 books139 followersAracelis Girmay is an American poet. Her poems trace the connections of transformation and loss across cities and bodies.
In 2011 Girmay was awarded a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. A Cave Canem Fellow and an Acentos board member, she led youth and community writing workshops.
In 2011 Girmay was awarded a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. A Cave Canem Fellow and an Acentos board member, she led youth and community writing workshops.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 96 reviews
October 17, 2011
Phenomenal! I just love Ara's expansiveness...this book includes so much: self-reflection, family history, nature, dirt. For me, the line that sums up the book is "I want to know what to do/with the dead things we carry" from her poem "This Morning the Small Bird Brought a Message from the Other Side." These "dead things" are not just literal; they can be lost relationships, lost items, Aracelis' childhood self. And she carries them everywhere. They are ever-present. This book is at once haunting and beautiful.
October 18, 2022
of course the collection with "im not ready to die yet" is going to get a perfect 5 stars
October 31, 2011
Aracelis Girmay, winner of the 2011 Isabella Gardner Poetry Award for her work Kingdom Animalia, is a voice any of us would trust in the dark of the unknowable and the striving. She is clear, and writes with a hope-filled truth-force that will have your head cocked to hear every cherished word, in any language.
I was fortunate enough to hear Girmay read aloud at Wellesley College’s Distinguished Writers Series. Her “Ode to the little ‘r’” of this collection, and her poem to her elementary school student, from another, shook me awake, alive, living. Such profound movement.
After Aracelis and the renowned Martín Espada shared their words and conversation, I very nervously approached Espada to sign my copy of Alabanza, and more courageously introduced myself to Girmay. She is a light of a human being, the kind of person who stands in a pool of moveable wax, positively dripping with deep yearning to understand and connect with humanity, the origins of this earth, and those who inhabit it. She asked me to which class I belonged. I said none, I’m just here. Her smile broke bigger and she asked me if I was a poet. I said “I hope so.” She said, “That’s how I think of myself too.” She signed her book for me, and I told her how much I loved her reading, how beautiful it was, how the way in which she speaks reminds me of Suheir Hammad. The wave of her smile spread wide across her face again as she uttered I know her, like I know her—oh Suheir, she’s—fiery! Girmay told me how she could see exactly what I meant, and that she is going to tell Suheir about it.
I am enormously grateful for the experience of hearing this young, talented woman share her poems with a room of ears and hearts won not only by her skill and imaginary, but by her genuine, searching, sharing, spirit.
I was fortunate enough to hear Girmay read aloud at Wellesley College’s Distinguished Writers Series. Her “Ode to the little ‘r’” of this collection, and her poem to her elementary school student, from another, shook me awake, alive, living. Such profound movement.
After Aracelis and the renowned Martín Espada shared their words and conversation, I very nervously approached Espada to sign my copy of Alabanza, and more courageously introduced myself to Girmay. She is a light of a human being, the kind of person who stands in a pool of moveable wax, positively dripping with deep yearning to understand and connect with humanity, the origins of this earth, and those who inhabit it. She asked me to which class I belonged. I said none, I’m just here. Her smile broke bigger and she asked me if I was a poet. I said “I hope so.” She said, “That’s how I think of myself too.” She signed her book for me, and I told her how much I loved her reading, how beautiful it was, how the way in which she speaks reminds me of Suheir Hammad. The wave of her smile spread wide across her face again as she uttered I know her, like I know her—oh Suheir, she’s—fiery! Girmay told me how she could see exactly what I meant, and that she is going to tell Suheir about it.
I am enormously grateful for the experience of hearing this young, talented woman share her poems with a room of ears and hearts won not only by her skill and imaginary, but by her genuine, searching, sharing, spirit.
March 21, 2019
Ars Poetica
May the poems be
the little snail’s trail.
Everywhere I go,
every inch: quiet record
of the foot’s silver prayer.
I lived once.
Thank you.
It was here.
May the poems be
the little snail’s trail.
Everywhere I go,
every inch: quiet record
of the foot’s silver prayer.
I lived once.
Thank you.
It was here.
September 1, 2020
Aracelis Girmay is an absolute legend - this book has changed me & is a kind of book I didn't know how much I needed until I read it. No words to describe my gratitude for this book.
December 4, 2019
I first read an excerpt of a Girmay poem somewhere in isolation and it reminded me of the strangeness of some Garcia Lorca poems and weird boldness of Cesar Vallejo.
This is the second stanza of the poem “Kingdom Animalia” -
Forfeit my eyes, I want to turn away
from the hair on the floor of his house
& how it got there Monday,
but my one heart falls
like a sad, fat persimmon
dropped by the hand of Turczyn’s old tree.
I want to sleep. I do not want to sleep.
That at once reminds me of Garcia Lorca’s Gacela of the Dark Death (I want to sleep the sleep of apples / I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries …) and of many odd, bold poems of Vallejo, such as Prayer on the Road (I don’t even know who this bitterness is for!).
In the same vein I loved “Science,” which begins:
We were trying to refind the eye & brain
we had when we were pelicans,
but the wind came down, it had ten hands,
it had more mouths & took & took us far to sea.
Girmay writes hauntingly about family, lost things and about injustice. I really enjoyed the striking and original voice. The book is split into six sections, the last one —"the book of one small thing"— contains just one poem. It’s terrific:
Ars Poetica
May the poems be
the little snail’s trail.
Everywhere I go,
every inch: quiet record
of the foot’s silver prayer.
I lived once.
Thank you.
It was here.
This is the second stanza of the poem “Kingdom Animalia” -
Forfeit my eyes, I want to turn away
from the hair on the floor of his house
& how it got there Monday,
but my one heart falls
like a sad, fat persimmon
dropped by the hand of Turczyn’s old tree.
I want to sleep. I do not want to sleep.
That at once reminds me of Garcia Lorca’s Gacela of the Dark Death (I want to sleep the sleep of apples / I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries …) and of many odd, bold poems of Vallejo, such as Prayer on the Road (I don’t even know who this bitterness is for!).
In the same vein I loved “Science,” which begins:
We were trying to refind the eye & brain
we had when we were pelicans,
but the wind came down, it had ten hands,
it had more mouths & took & took us far to sea.
Girmay writes hauntingly about family, lost things and about injustice. I really enjoyed the striking and original voice. The book is split into six sections, the last one —"the book of one small thing"— contains just one poem. It’s terrific:
Ars Poetica
May the poems be
the little snail’s trail.
Everywhere I go,
every inch: quiet record
of the foot’s silver prayer.
I lived once.
Thank you.
It was here.
February 27, 2025
A stunning collection, and how could it not be when it contains “I Am Not Ready To Die Yet” (one of my very favorite poems)? I’d recommend this to poetry readers & non-poetry readers alike. Just wonderful.
February 2, 2022
my one heart falls /
like a sad, fat persimmon
This is the only kingdom. /
The kingdom of touching; /
the touches of the disappearing, things.
the lost room of your face
Come back… Sit /
beside me for a while & tell me things. /
Do not let me mistake you //
for a shadow or a gull.
Wear a body /
I can see with my slowest eye.
We are pinned open /
like a scientist’s moths
Trust the queen is you. //
Trust the mud is you, /
& the soft, silver afro of the dandelion.
we put our faces /
to the dirt & call you by /
your old and human name.
If I stand /
in the middle of this red & crumbling road
Swan, As the Light Was Changing
Fall, when everything was turning /
dark. & the fog moved in /
like a wolf, circling the park
I
move headlong towards the fire of daffodils, /
resuscitated by the laughter of birds, & girls.
this instant that is as long as my life.
the sea & beach move into each other’s mouths /
particle by particle; each one wanders/
the big rooms of the other. //
O, god, let us love /
like they love.
A Blooming Tree (funny)
& the far, far mountain //
beveled by light, by rain, /
the easy eye of the sun
& isn’t the heart /
an ampersand
his life, like our lives, /
depends on what /
is at his side.
& she used her English /
to make an axe
But, “r,” little propeller /
of my name, small & beautiful monster /
changing shapes, you win.
All the songs you know are from a different country. /
The fruits in your father’s poems /
do not grow here.
our lives /
brief and miraculous, as the bees.
Would it risk its life /
again to give me the message /
of your name?
the fire of daffodils
‘A Blooming Tree’ - hilarious
the heart would /
rather die than keep /
its too dark arms /
all to himself; /
his life, like our lives, /
depends on what /
is at his side.
the wars /
they fought without /
being able to vote for /
the president
the first small pieces /
of rain falling down /
like nickels in departing light
the bright /
& shining planets of their dresses
the beautiful clamor of planets /
dressed as girls
The things I’ve marked & been marked by
Sometimes what keeps you alive is a mystery
“Three Girls, One of Them a Coward Girl”
I am most afraid of how quickly we said /
“yes” & “yes” again, to the bright confusion /
of their bodies in the water
the boy is fat & beautiful /
& he sits on the counter like a cake
This is what /
a girl has in common with the lightning
“Self-Portrait as the Airplane”
(Ode to the Noise in the Ear)
sound entered spangled /
& warbling
a small, pink-colored suitcase of sounds
I did not want /
to but was more sad to say no.
the laughs /
& ordinary sounds clanging like miracles
Every thing was vanishing or about /
to vanish, and we sharpened our ears like knives, /
glad for how they worked.
The ear is not a jukebox, it opens its mouth & swallows /
jackhammers, coyotes, & the tambourines
my eyes caught a flood & I turned /
looking for someone who would understand
How marvelous. Ordinary. To get to see /
& turn around, & know somebody else /
was seeing, too.
a bucket of eels /
to set loose /
in the dark, December sea
she can smell her mother’s bite /
on your skin & nothing begins to grow inside her
A lucky woman gets to see her children dance
we walk in the rubble /
of the African dream //
brushing shipwreck from /
our hair & dresses //
this is the country /
of the gone-away: Harlem
It is almost unbearable — /
the heart that works.
Beneath the dark & chewing dirt
“Break”
beautiful windmills, /
one of whom is my brother
This is how they fall & get back up. One /
who was thrown out by his father. One /
who carries death with him like a balloon /
tied to his wrist. One whose heart will break. /
One whose grandmother will forget his name.
See him. Fall. Then get back up.
But you tell me something the story never did: /
Look back at the burning city. Still, live.
I want to be the one /
with the longest funeral.
‘I Am Not Ready to Die Yet’
Taqueria. & swim, kin
I want to live longer. /
I want to love you longer
Isn’t that you, old friend, my love? /
you might say, while swimming in some ocean /
to a small fish at your ankle.
could this be what makes me stop /
in front of that dogwood, train whistle, those curtains /
blowing in that window.
You remind me You remind me
yes, honey, yes hive, yes
this strange & holy place
& we filled the songs /
with trees for our mothers to stand under
The sea knows what to do.
We must build houses for our mothers in our poems
the kindness /
of the conveyor belt who lends me /
its slow, strange mollusk foot
& this kindness returns me to myself
the kindness of sisters who send mail
not for glory & not for a joke
the last two million, impossible years
a thing for lightning to move through
the wind slowly eats her as it eats each of us
like a sad, fat persimmon
This is the only kingdom. /
The kingdom of touching; /
the touches of the disappearing, things.
the lost room of your face
Come back… Sit /
beside me for a while & tell me things. /
Do not let me mistake you //
for a shadow or a gull.
Wear a body /
I can see with my slowest eye.
We are pinned open /
like a scientist’s moths
Trust the queen is you. //
Trust the mud is you, /
& the soft, silver afro of the dandelion.
we put our faces /
to the dirt & call you by /
your old and human name.
If I stand /
in the middle of this red & crumbling road
Swan, As the Light Was Changing
Fall, when everything was turning /
dark. & the fog moved in /
like a wolf, circling the park
I
move headlong towards the fire of daffodils, /
resuscitated by the laughter of birds, & girls.
this instant that is as long as my life.
the sea & beach move into each other’s mouths /
particle by particle; each one wanders/
the big rooms of the other. //
O, god, let us love /
like they love.
A Blooming Tree (funny)
& the far, far mountain //
beveled by light, by rain, /
the easy eye of the sun
& isn’t the heart /
an ampersand
his life, like our lives, /
depends on what /
is at his side.
& she used her English /
to make an axe
But, “r,” little propeller /
of my name, small & beautiful monster /
changing shapes, you win.
All the songs you know are from a different country. /
The fruits in your father’s poems /
do not grow here.
our lives /
brief and miraculous, as the bees.
Would it risk its life /
again to give me the message /
of your name?
the fire of daffodils
‘A Blooming Tree’ - hilarious
the heart would /
rather die than keep /
its too dark arms /
all to himself; /
his life, like our lives, /
depends on what /
is at his side.
the wars /
they fought without /
being able to vote for /
the president
the first small pieces /
of rain falling down /
like nickels in departing light
the bright /
& shining planets of their dresses
the beautiful clamor of planets /
dressed as girls
The things I’ve marked & been marked by
Sometimes what keeps you alive is a mystery
“Three Girls, One of Them a Coward Girl”
I am most afraid of how quickly we said /
“yes” & “yes” again, to the bright confusion /
of their bodies in the water
the boy is fat & beautiful /
& he sits on the counter like a cake
This is what /
a girl has in common with the lightning
“Self-Portrait as the Airplane”
(Ode to the Noise in the Ear)
sound entered spangled /
& warbling
a small, pink-colored suitcase of sounds
I did not want /
to but was more sad to say no.
the laughs /
& ordinary sounds clanging like miracles
Every thing was vanishing or about /
to vanish, and we sharpened our ears like knives, /
glad for how they worked.
The ear is not a jukebox, it opens its mouth & swallows /
jackhammers, coyotes, & the tambourines
my eyes caught a flood & I turned /
looking for someone who would understand
How marvelous. Ordinary. To get to see /
& turn around, & know somebody else /
was seeing, too.
a bucket of eels /
to set loose /
in the dark, December sea
she can smell her mother’s bite /
on your skin & nothing begins to grow inside her
A lucky woman gets to see her children dance
we walk in the rubble /
of the African dream //
brushing shipwreck from /
our hair & dresses //
this is the country /
of the gone-away: Harlem
It is almost unbearable — /
the heart that works.
Beneath the dark & chewing dirt
“Break”
beautiful windmills, /
one of whom is my brother
This is how they fall & get back up. One /
who was thrown out by his father. One /
who carries death with him like a balloon /
tied to his wrist. One whose heart will break. /
One whose grandmother will forget his name.
See him. Fall. Then get back up.
But you tell me something the story never did: /
Look back at the burning city. Still, live.
I want to be the one /
with the longest funeral.
‘I Am Not Ready to Die Yet’
Taqueria. & swim, kin
I want to live longer. /
I want to love you longer
Isn’t that you, old friend, my love? /
you might say, while swimming in some ocean /
to a small fish at your ankle.
could this be what makes me stop /
in front of that dogwood, train whistle, those curtains /
blowing in that window.
You remind me You remind me
yes, honey, yes hive, yes
this strange & holy place
& we filled the songs /
with trees for our mothers to stand under
The sea knows what to do.
We must build houses for our mothers in our poems
the kindness /
of the conveyor belt who lends me /
its slow, strange mollusk foot
& this kindness returns me to myself
the kindness of sisters who send mail
not for glory & not for a joke
the last two million, impossible years
a thing for lightning to move through
the wind slowly eats her as it eats each of us
May 1, 2015
This startling elegiac collection digs into how life is honored, spent, and celebrates it all. Often while reading, I found myself pushed and pulled, coerced into thinking in intriguing ways about not only the content, but the play with form at times. Some of the sentiment, and certain lines are still repeating in my mind, hours later, and probably will continue to do so.
January 1, 2023
Another lovely collection my dear friend shared with me 🥺
Favorites (so many!):
- Kingdom Animalia
- Small Letter
- Zewdit
- Portrait of the Woman as a Skein
- To Waste My Hands
- I Am Not Ready to Die Yet
- Ars Poetica
Favorites (so many!):
- Kingdom Animalia
- Small Letter
- Zewdit
- Portrait of the Woman as a Skein
- To Waste My Hands
- I Am Not Ready to Die Yet
- Ars Poetica
October 25, 2021
“I never set the house on fire. i never killed the doors & the spoons. i wanted everything to live.”
February 8, 2022
5 stars a hundred times over. my favorite poetry collection since harryette mullen's "sleeping with the dictionary"? likely.
a sampler for you:
a sampler for you:
"Kingdom Animalia"
"Abuelo, Mi Muerto"
"Zewdit"
"Starlight Multiplication"
"&"
"Ode to the Little 'r'"
"I Am Not Ready to Die Yet"
December 10, 2021
This book took me awhile because I did not want it to end. There is so much in here, and I am amazed at the revelations and beauty throughout. Thank you thank you thank you.
January 12, 2024
strange and stunning and animal & metal & earth— beauty!
"little Cyclops, you are, again, a praying thing,
not mantis, but a human animal, what did it take
to make you kneel down, so?"
"little Cyclops, you are, again, a praying thing,
not mantis, but a human animal, what did it take
to make you kneel down, so?"
Read
February 25, 2022I'm so happy I went back and read this to its conclusion, especially because most of the best, large-scoped, far-reaching poems are in the final twenty pages or so.
"On the Shape of the Sentence" opens with a line impersonating (the best of) Rupi Kaur and becomes the collection's best, most surreal, impressive, and defining poem. Earning that line is the most badass thing here, and that comes after a grandma sex poem, a self-portrait as a snail, and some of the most beautifully haunting war images I've ever read.
I feel spoiled by the fact that I haven't read enough poetry yet to have read anything I don't like. And it's all still pretty magical.
Standouts include (in no particular order, mostly for my own benefit):
- "On the Shape of the Sentence"
- "Starlight Multiplication"
- "Self-Portrait as the Snail"
- "Elegy"
- "For Patrick Rosal Who Wore a Dress and Said,"
- "Praise Song for the Donkey"
- "I Am Not Ready to Die Yet"
- "On Kindness"
- "Ars Poetica"
"On the Shape of the Sentence" opens with a line impersonating (the best of) Rupi Kaur and becomes the collection's best, most surreal, impressive, and defining poem. Earning that line is the most badass thing here, and that comes after a grandma sex poem, a self-portrait as a snail, and some of the most beautifully haunting war images I've ever read.
I feel spoiled by the fact that I haven't read enough poetry yet to have read anything I don't like. And it's all still pretty magical.
Standouts include (in no particular order, mostly for my own benefit):
- "On the Shape of the Sentence"
- "Starlight Multiplication"
- "Self-Portrait as the Snail"
- "Elegy"
- "For Patrick Rosal Who Wore a Dress and Said,"
- "Praise Song for the Donkey"
- "I Am Not Ready to Die Yet"
- "On Kindness"
- "Ars Poetica"
April 26, 2022
from "La Boda del Mar y Arena"
If we, for long enough, look,
with the clean eyes of children
at what this big house is saying,
we will start to understand
the language of our parents,
what the salt means.
If we, for long enough, look,
with the clean eyes of children
at what this big house is saying,
we will start to understand
the language of our parents,
what the salt means.
November 26, 2023
"Sometimes you leave your hair at the bus station
& get on the bus & as your face falls asleep against the window
you realize it is all your body now, everything between you
& the pieces you lost once, the towers and crows,
the city (you) gleaming
in long, glorious hyphen
beneath stars."
::
This was a magical collection,, my GOODNESS!! I think about this poem, "Self Portrait of the Woman as a Skein", all the time.. soo ADHD core. Of course, Aracelis's work is just magnificent. This collection was such medicine and such whimsy and such transmutation of grief. LOVE!
& get on the bus & as your face falls asleep against the window
you realize it is all your body now, everything between you
& the pieces you lost once, the towers and crows,
the city (you) gleaming
in long, glorious hyphen
beneath stars."
::
This was a magical collection,, my GOODNESS!! I think about this poem, "Self Portrait of the Woman as a Skein", all the time.. soo ADHD core. Of course, Aracelis's work is just magnificent. This collection was such medicine and such whimsy and such transmutation of grief. LOVE!
August 30, 2013
I struggled a little between 4 and 5 stars with this one, but its fierce originality won me over to the 5 side. (Wow! Two five star books this month?)
The voice in this work is so fresh, so absolutely enthralling both in its darkness and its tenacious grip on hope. I honestly haven't encountered a poet who seemed so new (for lack of a better word), so wondrously new in a long, long time. I feel like a walking cliché, trying to describe this collection, but it is just left me awestruck in its raw, intense power. This, it reminded me, is what language can do, can be... This is pure faith - faith in the words and the way they can carry us.
These poems take time - they aren't easily digested, nor are they meant to be. Each is a full, complex meal. You will not be left hungry.
Absolutely amazing. Pick this one up. You won't regret it.
The voice in this work is so fresh, so absolutely enthralling both in its darkness and its tenacious grip on hope. I honestly haven't encountered a poet who seemed so new (for lack of a better word), so wondrously new in a long, long time. I feel like a walking cliché, trying to describe this collection, but it is just left me awestruck in its raw, intense power. This, it reminded me, is what language can do, can be... This is pure faith - faith in the words and the way they can carry us.
These poems take time - they aren't easily digested, nor are they meant to be. Each is a full, complex meal. You will not be left hungry.
Absolutely amazing. Pick this one up. You won't regret it.
Read
March 30, 2012I was so excited about reading this book, and it certainly has some beautiful moments, but it was nowhere near as compelling or musical as Teeth. I found this to be a little too rambly, too esoteric without a lot of clarity or grounding.
June 24, 2012
This 2011 book of poems is very enjoyable. Girmay uses language like a lightning rod.
She makes images that last. Several of the poems are called self-portraits. "Self-Portrait
as the Airplane" and "Self-Portrait as the Pirate's Gold" are examples. It is a startling
voyage of discovery and I recommend.
She makes images that last. Several of the poems are called self-portraits. "Self-Portrait
as the Airplane" and "Self-Portrait as the Pirate's Gold" are examples. It is a startling
voyage of discovery and I recommend.
May 9, 2013
Death haunts this collection, and the closer it came to this topic the better the poems seemed to work for me. Not that I'm a particularly morbid person. It also felt very coherent as a whole, with similar images and sub-themes returning from poem to poem, which helped build the sense of resonance the further through the collection one traveled.
January 13, 2012
This is one of the most moving books of poetry I've read in the last year. Her voice has a great consistency and authority in these arrestingly beautiful, confessional poems. As a poet, I am highly jealous of this book -- it's doing all the things I aim to do, but better.
June 20, 2013
As this blog post says, it is almost impossible to single out one poem from this luminous volume, but I agree that this one is well-deserving:
http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com/2012/...
http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com/2012/...
February 10, 2017
Absolutely stunning and beautiful. Many of these poems are elegies but they are very much full of life that comes from a voice that is still amazed and provoked into imagination when looking at the world.
November 5, 2012
Fresh, original
December 5, 2012
Girmay does a lot of things well here. Powerful, inventive poems.
September 26, 2013
I loved this book. Read why here: http://hollywendt.blogspot.com/2013/0...
October 18, 2014
I'm completely in love and in awe of this woman! love love love love
July 10, 2022
reread 7/9: and it's still so good holy shit, even better maybe
wow
(i'll share my thoughts later)
wow
(i'll share my thoughts later)
August 7, 2022
Gorgeous.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 96 reviews