What Do You Call It?- Write Azaglo

Poetry is more than words. It is a force for change, the song of our souls, a call to action, a means to claim pride, or to capture a moment. Sometimes, the voice of the poet is so powerful that it leaps off the page! That’s what happened with this piece. I am proud to share with you the words of one of my favorite poets, Write Azaglo. This piece first appeared on her Instagram and I begged her to let me share it here. 

Hope you enjoy! 

What do you call it 

When they bottle up your blackness too

and place your body in the hands of white supremacy?

As if it was supposed to soothe their hunger for peace

Like they didn’t cause it to starve in the first place 

Like we ‘pos to just cheer on another black body being handed to  the police

For them to drink

For them to consume

For them to destroy 

Like we have smiles on our faces when we mourn

Like we don’t have tombstones written at the bottom of our soles

What do you call it? 

Aubade-Claudia Rankine

They say brave but I don’t want it.
Who will we mourn today. Or won’t we.

Black all the windows. Lower

down the afternoon. I barricade

all my belonging. I am mostly never real

American or anything

availing. But I do take. And take

what’s given. The smell of blood.

I breathe it in. The dirt so thick with our good

fortune. And who pays for it. And what am

I

But fear, but wanting. I’ll bite

the feeding hand until I’m fed

And buried. In the shining day. 

All deadly good

intentions. A catalogue of virtues

 This is how I’ll disappear. 

Oak Grove Cemetery- Don Thompson

This week I wanted to share the work of  another, new to me, poet. There is something beautiful in the way that he describes “this place” that resonated with me. Maybe it’s because right as this hit my inbox, I was working on a similar piece. Regardless of the reason, it seemed like the perfect piece to share. 

Just enough rain an hour ago

to give the wispy dry grass some hope,
turning it green instantly.

This place has been abandoned,
the old faith overgrown, confused
by brambles,
and in these hard times,
its upkeep cut from the budget.

But we walk, soaked to the knees,
making our slow pilgrimage
among gravestones, speaking
blurred names back into the world. 

Happy National Poetry Month!!!

It’s April again which is National Poetry Month. It’s one of my favorite months, not just because I am a poet, but because I’ve always been a fan of poetry. 

In the years since I found out about National Poetry Month, I’ve always had lists of how I plan to celebrate and I usually never accomplish them. I always want to do a lot but don’t plan ahead or enough in advance which seems to be the case against in 2017. 

 So this year, I am doing something simple. I’m scaling it all the way back to enjoying and supporting the art form. In that vein, I will still be sharing poetry all month but these are my major plans for NPM in 2017:

Read More Poetry!

Buy More Poetry!

Support a poetic event!

Does anyone have plans for National Poetry Month? Any exciting events that you plan to participate in or attend? 

Bed Music-Charles Simic

Our love was new, 

But your bedspreads were old.

In the flat below,

They stopped eating

With forks in the air. 
They made the old sour puss

Climb the stairs

and squint through the keyhole,

While we went right ahead

Making the springs toot,
Playing “Low Down on the Bayou,”

Playing “Big Legend Mama,”

Playing “Shake It Baby”

And “Carolina Shout.”
That was the limit!

They called the fire brigade.

They called the Law.

They could’ve brought some hooch,

We told the cops.

She Gave Life

Her six inch scar

Was a permanent reminder

of the gift she gave. 

That pink hypertrophic cross 

of life

always glared at those 

who dared to take notice. 
Apparently, the scar knew that 

She wouldn’t raise a shrinking violet.

She brought forth 

a tempest.

All wild haired and fiery;

a whirlwind 

of words, venom and sporadic niceness.

She spun that into poetry.