Poetry, Fiction and Random Ramblings
This was inspired by a paper I was proofreading for one of my closest friends and I realized that I might not have anything like this, while there are plenty of odes to girlhood, womanhood and femininity. Also, I have been experimenting with shorter poems a la rupi kaur and nayyirah waheed. So here you go.
Everything about you is a threat
From the way you walk
To the way you play
and breathe
Even the way you wear your hair
They might not see you as
Human but you are
Worthy of love
Today, I’m sharing a poem by a poet that I’m quickly developing an affection for; Jericho Brown. I’ve shared a piece by him before(probably last April) and I thought that this one was another great one to post. I’m currently reading a book about parents protecting (or not protecting) their children and this poem seemed perfect to share in light of that. I’ve added Jericho Brown’s books Please and The New Testament to my ever-growing list of poetry books to buy. Hopefully, I’ll be posting an update of that list and sharing what I’ve purchased soon.
Hopefully, you’re all enjoying this Sunday as we prepare to wrap up April and National Poetry Month.
We stand together on our block, me and my son,
Neighbors saying our face is the same, but I know
He’s better than me: when other children move
Toward my daughter, he lurches like a brother
Meant to put them down. He is a bodyguard
On the playground. He won’t turn apart from her,
Empties any enemy, leaves them flimsy, me
Confounded. I never fought for so much—
I calmed my daughter when I could cradle
My daughter; my son swaggers about her.
He won’t have to heal a girl he won’t let free.
They are so small. And I, still, am a young man.
In him lives my black anger made red.
They play. He is not yet incarcerated.
Hi! Happy Saturday! Here’s another poem to celebrate National Poetry Month. This one is really rough and I will probably tinker with it a bit to refine the imagery and to add some layers but here’s a new piece by yours truly. It was inspired by a song by one of my grandfather’s favorite singers, Sam Cooke, while I was listening to music and avoiding doing something.
As always, I hope you enjoy!
Another Saturday night and
I am mourning what
should have, could have, might have
been while you are
Drinking in the diet love of someone who
will never treasure
the possibilities
So, this poet’s name kept popping up everywhere that I was thinking about submitting and I was curious so I went to his page to read some of his work. And I love how he suffuses his work with his love of music. Especially this poem! I am a long-time lover of ATCQ, I mean long-time(If you’re not, get your life right) like when they were in the Buddy video. And the title of this piece caught my attention right away. But the poem itself? In it, Hanif Abdurraqib managed to layer all of the emotion of a Tribe song, the feelings girls and boys all over had when listening to their music along with documenting a segment of the population whose life experiences sometimes are only shared through a speaker.
This piece originally appeared in Muzzle. As always, I hope you enjoy.
all them black
boys in the ‘hood
had they wallets
unearthed in cities
they ain’t never
seen before & they
was all empty
‘cept for maybe the bones
of the last woman
to hold them in her arms &
call them by the
name they blessed the
earth with & all of the horns
on my block crawled back
into they cases & marched to
new mouths & fathers
had nothing to press
their lips to & make sing &
i think this why brandon’s mother
left & what difference is there
in those things which we lose
& those things which decide
to gift us with a kind
of feral silence?
the change that leapt
from our pockets into the cracked
basketball courts & the older brothers
who never found their way back home
I’ve read some of Nikky Finney’s work before but I wanted to share this piece because there’s a richness here against the backdrop of love lost and summer that it was almost tangible. The title reminded me of Alice Walker’s “Everyday Use” and I hope that you all enjoy it.
Sundown, the day nearly eaten away,
the Boxcar Willies peep. Their
inside-eyes push black and plump
against walls of pumpkin skin. I step
into dying backyard light. Both hands
steal into the swollen summer air,
a blind reach into a blaze of acid,
ghost bloom of nacre & breast.
One Atlantan Cherokee Purple,
two piddling Radiator Charlies
are Lena-Horne lured into the fingers
of my right hand. But I really do love you,
enters my ear like a nest of yellow jackets,
well wedged beneath a two-by-four.
But I really didn’t think I would (ever leave),
stings before the ladder hits the ground.
I swat the familiar buzz away.
My good arm arcs and aims.
My elbow cranks a high, hard cradle
and draws a fire. The end of the day’s
sweaty air stirs fast in a bowl, the coming
shadows, the very diamond match I need.
One by one, each Blind Willie
takes his turn Pollocking the back
fence, heart pine explodes gold-leafed in
red and brown-eyed ochre. There is practice
for everything in this life. This is how
you throw something perfectly good away.
Last week, I shared a piece by Wanda Coleman. Today, I’m sharing a sonnet dedicated to her. This sonnet is evocative of Coleman’s style and paints a picture of the lushness of womanhood. A recognized poet, Hayes’ work often considers themes of popular culture, race, music, and masculinity. In this elegy, Hayes pays homage not just to Wanda Coleman but also to her poetic style, ability to inject the essence of a woman into her work and her reclamation of the sonnet.
As always, I hope you enjoy!
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