How the Struggle for Liberation Made aja monet Into a Poet

In an age of information overload and doom scrolling, poetry is essential. A good poem can cut to the core of an issue more immediately than an entire tome of research. It can jolt you awake, stir you to action or whisk you into a dream space in which you completely reimagine your life and its possibilities.

In her work, aja monet accomplishes all of the above. The New York-raised, L.A.-based writer and performer calls herself a “surrealist blues poet.” Her Grammy-nominated 2023 album when the poems do what they do pairs her words — alternately searing, comforting, grief-stricken or romantic — with jazz grounded in Afro-Caribbean rhythms. (Keyboard and flute stylings by Berkeley-raised siblings Samora and Elena Pinderhughes add to the record’s dynamic emotional landscape.)

monet’s years of community organizing inform her heart-swelling invocations of love and gut-wrenching reflections on violence inflicted upon Black Americans. She spent years in Florida working with Dream Defenders, a prison abolitionist organization formed after the killing of Trayvon Martin, and the Community Justice Project, which offers free legal aid in Miami. When her star as a poet began to rise after winning the Nuyorican Poets Cafe Grand Slam competition in 2007, monet had already spent years immersed in work instead of chasing accolades. Her numerous poetry books and debut album alike blossomed out of the movement.

In addition to fighting for racial justice, monet has long been an advocate for Palestinian liberation, using her words to draw throughlines between human rights struggles around the globe. Most recently, she authored the foreword to Rifqa, the debut poetry collection by Palestinian writer, activist and The Nation correspondent Muhammed El-Kurd.

After sharing potent renditions of her poems on NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert last year, monet and her band make their San Francisco debut at the Swedish American Hall as part of Noise Pop on Feb. 29. Ahead of the show, I spoke with her about writing for liberation, her growing platform and how her work resonates with the Bay’s deep legacy of revolutionary organizing.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Nastia Voynovskaya: I’m excited that Noise Pop will be your first time performing in San Francisco. You’ve cited [Black Arts Movement co-founder and former San Francisco State University professor] Amiri Baraka and [for colored girls who have considered suicide playwright] Ntozake Shange as influences, both of whom had a huge impact here in the Bay Area. What excites you about performing in the Bay Area in particular?

aja monet: I think about the cultural legacy of what the Bay Area has created, in terms of people who have made an incredible impact, in this country and in the world. There’s the cultural work, but then there’s the organizing work that has made a huge impact on our movement and the ways that we approach ideas about social justice and freedom.

The Bay has a lot of significance to me. It was one of the first places I traveled on my own for a poetry competition when I was about 17 for Brave New Voices, which was hosted by Youth Speaks. Some of my best friends that I adore are from the Bay, and some of my favorite poets are from the Bay.

When you mention your favorite poets from the Bay, who comes to mind?

Tongo Eisen-Martin, Chinaka Hodge. Mahogany Browne is originally from the Bay. June Jordan isn’t from the Bay, but she spent some time at Berkeley, and one of the most influential programs that she implemented has been a guiding light and force for me as an educator, as an organizer and a facilitator. So thinking about the revolutionary blueprint of Poetry for the People and what she was able to implement at UC Berkeley.

You’ve been an organizer for years. Whether it’s Black liberation or Palestinian liberation, these are long, multi-generational fights. How does poetry help fuel and sustain these movements for the long haul?

I don’t want to make blanket statements about poetry because not all poets are effective in this way. Certain poets have reflected establishment values and have been very focused on an objective that is rooted in accolades and awards.

Then there are poets who understand poetry as the function of the people’s heart and spirit and truth. Poetry, to me, is more of an approach. It’s a way of being in the world. When I think about that, I think about poetry as the measure of one’s true devotion to their craft. And so when I say someone dances like a poet, or someone sings like a poet, or someone plays an instrument like a poet, what I’m saying is they have a very different sort of profound orientation toward their gift. It’s taking it to an elevated dimension, and it’s bringing it new meaning and depth. And so I think poetry is really like a possessive, obsessive sort of devotion that transcends into a deeper sort of core truth that is really resonant to the spirit.

It’s no longer just a surface-level approach to an idea or a deep emotion that we all struggle with as humans, whether that be love or anger or war, frustration or death. It’s really delving into why, how, who, what’s the meaning behind that happening. And I think that when you can harness that sort of depth, it automatically elevates the consciousness of the people and the value system and the North Star — the thing that one ends up working towards.

So movements are incredibly powerful for the poets that are created through them. I don’t think poets create movements; I think movements create poets. When one is really accessing that real, urgent depth, then I think that all of us are transformed by that pursuit. It’s delving into the interior landscape, which is what we usually say is ultimately the final frontier of our freedom movements.

Live music is a big component of your work. Why is that important to you, and how does it change how the audience might receive your words?

I’ve always seen myself as a sort of word musician. Finding musicians who hope to elevate what you’re doing, to be in conversation with you — I mean, that’s ultimately the dream, because being a poet on a stage by yourself is pretty lonely. The co-creative part of being with the band is what excites me, and it allows me to be less in my head and more playful. You feel more protected. You’re on a battlefield with others, with fellow soldiers that are trying to struggle with ideas and cultural norms and push against structures that have kept us from really expressing ourselves with authenticity.

Ultimately on the stage, it’s one of the few places where Black people are able to express the full range of one’s emotions without the threat of death. One can be utterly angry, upset, crazed, even ecstatic, enthused, joyful. The range of our full humanity is safe when it’s seen as a performance. But what we do is — we ultimately know we’re doing ceremony. We’re doing spirit work. And I think somehow the stage protects that work. What the West has made into a consumer capitalist venture, it ultimately is really just ceremony, displaced.

Powerfully said. With your recent Grammy nomination, you’re getting recognized on a much larger platform. How does it feel getting validation from the entertainment industry?

I don’t know if I’ve necessarily been acknowledged by the establishment quite yet. For me, the most meaningful thing about the nomination was people being excited about the work. Ultimately it takes people to say, “Nah, yo, whether they give this record an award or not … I’m going to support it because I know that it’s actually a quality thing done with intention, done with skill, with artistry, with creativity, with innovation, with spirit, with soul, with Black people in mind” — whatever it is that your metrics are.

We have to have some sort of, what are we measuring our worth towards? Who determines our value? And to me, it’ll always be the people. So that’s why I keep trying to remind folks, you know, when you like something, when you love something, when something really resonates with you, support it in every way, shape or form. We usually wait until we’re dead and gone to get our flowers. That’s kind of the expectation of poets, at least. Any opportunity as a living poet to be able to be appreciated and valued, I will never take for granted, ever.

If I could give awards to Sekou Sindiata, Amiri Baraka, June Jordan, I would give them all the awards they deserved and never got. As Black folks, as people of this time who care about the heart, the spirit, the soul, integrity, we have to not wait until people are dead and gone to acknowledge the impact of the work, and we must find ways to celebrate the things we love that don’t have us searching outside of ourselves for validation.

Well said. Now that you have more people’s attention, how do you want to use this moment?

There are myriad issues that we are facing as humans in this time, in this life. And if I’m obedient to the gifts, if I’m obedient to the calling, then the work will do what it needs to do for this time.

That’s the way I have been orienting myself. Before, I used to think, “Well, I gotta speak to this. I gotta touch on this.” I think poetry in and of itself and how one moves, how one thinks and how one loves and how one relates — that’s how you show your values, and that’s how you show the concerns of the time.

And so I’m not concerned with Palestine because it’s popular and everybody’s talking about it right now, and now people see, “Oh wow, it’s a genocide.” I’m concerned with Palestine because I have relationships with people who are Palestinian, who have changed my life. I’m concerned with Palestine because it affects my day-to-day life. You know what I mean? I’m concerned with the Congo because I have relationships with people that have impacted my life, and I know how this impacts the day-to-day of their lives.

So it’s not so much of like, “OK, well now I have attention. So let me bring everybody to this thing.” It’s just, how do you remain steadfast, consistent and of service to one’s calling and gift and be truthful to that and sincere to that? And hopefully, the truth will rise. The meat of it, the heart of it, the spirit and the musicality of it will reflect the best of who you are and what you’re trying to struggle with and the ideas you’re working through.

So I think it’ll change. I think I just want to continue to be able to create and to be provided the resources, the access, the ability to reach the people that I care about. So long as I’m here, let me just continue. I want to continue to do what I’m here to do.

aja monet performs Thursday, Feb. 29, at the Swedish American Hall in San Francisco as part of Noise Pop. Tickets and details here.