a daughter's geography {adios}: poetry

Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 7

Flyest Poem Ever

There are poems I love with all of my being. There are so many of those poems. There are poems hidden in my apartment. I put them in the pages of books and on the inside cabinet doors and in desk drawers so that I can be surprised every once in a while. I can be a teenager in the corner of the bookstore learning history, stanza by stanza, again. I love poetry. I say "YES!" to poetry. I say "I do."
I will not ever have a favorite poem. Impossible. That would not work. They all are strung together, one making the other stronger, louder, more real, more raw.
But there is one that gives me pause, that has brought tears to my eyes as I've listened to it read by a six year old girl, that sends a chill down my back. It is well-known and much-loved. It is Ego Tripping by Nikki Giovanni, the first poet I ever really read, whose early edition books I collect the way others do seashells and postage stamps.
Here it is.

Ego Tripping

I was born in the congo
I walked to the fertile crescent and built
the sphinx
I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
that only glows every one hundred years falls
into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad
I sat on the throne
drinking nectar with allah
I got hot and sent an ice age to europe
to cool my thirst
My oldest daughter is nefertiti
the tears from my birth pains
created the nile
I am a beautiful woman
I gazed on the forest and burned
out the sahara desert
with a packet of goat's meat
and a change of clothes
I crossed it in two hours
I am a gazelle so swift
so swift you can't catch me
For a birthday present when he was three
I gave my son hannibal an elephant
He gave me rome for mother's day
My strength flows ever on

My son noah built new/ark and
I stood proudly at the helm
as we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into myself and was
jesus
men intone my loving name
All praises All praises
I am the one who would save
I sowed diamonds in my back yard
My bowels deliver uranium
the filings from my fingernails are
semi-precious jewels
On a trip north
I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the arab world
I am so hip even my errors are correct
I sailed west to reach east and had to round off
the earth as I went
The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid
across three continents
I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission
I mean...I...can fly
like a bird in the sky...

Those last nine lines once rocked young B's soul.

Sunday, January 25

Sunday Shine* { O.G. 2009 }

I'd been typing, drafting, writing, crossing out, erasing, deleting, trying to build a cohesive thought for the things going down socially, communally, globally - but the sentences never formed.
Sometimes I need to write a poem. Just about forgot I started this life for myself, 15 years old, as a poet. How did I almost lose myself?

O.G. 2009
(a poem for Oscar, Sean, Robert, those before, those to come & my black boys)

if anything

you have reminded me
"good mornings"
are not to be taken for granted
there is nothing more appropriate than
a student trying hard to show
he loves

you have done more

on the newest day for many
another chance for most
you in your daughter's eye
your body and the platform
your blood dyeing our heavy cloak
reactions uncontainable like your smile
a people known for their good memory, even wiser

it is never over

a plaque on the station bench
a march to nowhere
a rock to a window
a flame to the gas
a misstatement of your name
but violence also begets
a spirit as aflame as the streets
the first protest from the last breath
a daisy sprung from the bullet wound
I hear the soil is rich in Oakland

Saturday, December 20

The Inaugural Poet

Cave Canem still remains a dream deferred for me. *BIG sigh* But the light of one of their teacherpoets will be seen by the masses on Inauguration Day. Barack chose Elizabeth Alexander as the Inaugural Poet. Ms. Alexander, who wrote
Poetry is what you find
in the dirt in the corner,

overhear on the bus, God
in the details, the only way

to get from here to there.

words I've tucked into my mind for safekeeping, is direct, striking.
I'm happy for us, and I'm anticipating the words she will be speak on stage, to somanypeoplemygod next month.

Thursday, December 18

Turn ons: a love for nature + a love for poetry + good looks

A brilliant designer by the name of Jiyeon Song has created one of the coolest and most thoughtful displays of public art (and just one of the greatest things I have seen, ever): the "One Day Poem Pavilion" - perforated panels that use sunlight to make poetry.
As the sun travels its daily course, the sunlight coming through the tiny holes creates shadows that reveal short poems. The poems lengthen and shorten throughout the day.
During the summer solstice, the poems have a theme of new life, while during the winter solstice, the poems speak about the passing of time.

Bringing poetry to the masses while honoring nature, Song deserves a Nobel.

The idea and research behind the project, as well as a time-lapse video, is located here.

Monday, October 20

Two Poems Before I Try To Go To Sleep

A Question After Prayer
for I am not gon' say but I won't be surprised if we make a baby

Should I have taken you
a long time ago
Mister Green Love for All (insha'allah)
how many times over how many years
have we laid in a bed
you whisper proposals
to my thighs
you make promises to the arch of my back
ask me to consider faith
in exchange for the way you get
when I am naked

I cannot always be naked though

used to think I
don't fight wild enough
don't stank up my face in public
don't get all up in the videos
don't move with the shakers
only to find out I did
right to stay quiet and come alone

and I do move

now you are getting older
my womb is getting restless
winter waits around the corner
and I'd like
to take my Revolution
spinning A Milli
between Fajr and Dhuhr
green in all but his eyes
which don't let me get away with a thing
and this loving
manifesting in how many ways over how many years

Things I Want To Give To You
for my darling 6th, 7th and 8th grade babies

give you your voice
and stop asking you for it
give you a microphone
and a video camera
your own spot on the FM dial
give you you
and the space where no one
will tell you to be quiet
you will know you can speak any time
and with your breath
words
the rawest ripest sounds
to ever flow out your mouth
how many griots and sages sit before me
eyes rollin at me
still I love you
here are things I want to give to you

Thursday, September 11

d'bi

(much love to susana for givin me one more reason to get out from under the rock/write/be open to people/be unafraid/step my game up/cry)

Monday, September 8

Loveless

This is possibly my favorite Ursula Rucker track. I had no idea there was a video for it though. She makes videos?

A positive but slow day. I remembered there is so much curricula I gotta get out of the way before I can do my stuff. Can't wait til' February. Yeah, I said February. That's when I can break free from the shackles of state exam and units of study I'd rather not teach. Of course, bits and pieces of what I love - Black lit, hip hop, folktales, jazz - trickles into the units developed by the literacy coach, but I'd like to dive into the units I created. I feel when I have that opportunity, I'll finally feel a love for what I do (or finally be assured classroom teaching isn't for me). I'm not looking forward to the "constructive" criticism I'm sure I'll receive from the coach, but I've got two words for her. I'll share them later.

And I just wanted to share this: Yesterday my friend pointed out to me that Cee-lo Green sounds like Nina Simone. He's right!

Wednesday, April 30

2nd thought

ready to quit my
job move to
Molokai and make
happy babies

Saturday, April 12

A Poem #3

He
arrives unannounced.
scrubs my sinkful of dishes
presses his palms into my soles
orders in
confides and argues and laughs with me
kisses my face while we watch the lightning
pulls the covers over while we listen to rain
I
wake up.
go for a walk
go to the farmer's market
and come back home
smile at him on the couch, reading.
make us a breakfast to be eaten slowly
How quickly my guard came down.
How right it all feels.

Friday, April 4

A Poem #2

I'm late.

Message for, Perhaps, A God (1929-68)

my boys talk
your name

as if it is
a mathematical equation

doctor plus king
equals
a sweet satisfaction that
comes with
knowing they would prevail
in a fight against a white boy
should a white boy
walk through tompkins projects
on a friday night
pointing out their
blackness

forty years later, a handful of wars
my boys
still don't know
the differences between
birmingham
vietnam and
afghanistan

it's a whole
other story if we're
talking
a knock off swooosh and
the real thing

my loves
have lungs
too weak for the mountaintop

Tuesday, April 1

A Poem #1

So... yeah, in honor of poetry month, I'm writing a poem a day. I haven't done this since I was 16. Yup. Don't get excited. They will not be as sweet as Aichlee's offerings and I would be a fool to submit any of them to Cave Canem. But at least I know I will make someone laugh today.*

each morning
a bowl of ho-hum
healthy hard to chew
which scratched my throat
if I added sugar
I got in trouble
if i added sugar
the drills
and tasteless suckers
if i added sugar
my tummy would ache just before
i hopscotch queen reached
number ten
if i added sugar
in a place where sugar cane grew
to create the outskirts
we came to on the days daddy
cared to drive in a long straight line

with just a little bit of fear in my soul
i'd step to the man who
would machete
these stalks
and hand me the splinters
that didn't prick
but left crystals
on my fingertips instead
and on my tongue a
juice just sweet enough to
understand what nature wanted for us and
we should
apologize for
disappointing her with
talk of cavities and
attempting to refine her

if i'd added sugar anyway
i might not be surprised
to find there are other
things that have sprung
up from the earth
tall and straight
that don't leave you rotten
make your belly ache
make you lose a game
you're good at
all this is to say

you
are

*Wow. This funk I'm in is no joke. I should drink some lemon verbena tea.

Sunday, March 9

Sunday Shine* { A Lovely Day }

The sun is out proudly, a bright white shining miracle in the sky and it's trying so hard to penetrate these cold winds. Give thanks.

I began this day hot & sweaty on the dance floor, and someone was kind enough to bring me a tall glass of water. Give thanks.

The only malignant growth inside me is just bottled-up anger, old and new, and it can be healed by forgiving and loving myself. Give thanks.

Below the cut is a meditation so lovely it needs to be shared. Thank you UltravioletUnderground for the direction , and Alexis of brokenbeautifulpress for the creation.

“wishful thinking” or “what i’m waiting to find in our email boxes”
(with Mendi and Keith Obadike–www.blacknetart.com– in mind)

dedicated to the black women at Duke and North Carolina Central Universities and you

1. you wake up each day
as new as anyone
there is no reason to assume
you would be supernaturally strong.
there is no reason to test your strength
through daily disrespect and neglect.
you don’t need to be strong.
everyone supports you.

2. if you say ouch
we believe that you are hurt.
we wait to hear how we can help
to mend your pain.

3. you have chosen to be at a school,
at a workplace, in a community
that knows that you are priceless
that would never sacrifice your spirit
that knows it needs your brilliance to be whole

4. your very skin
is sacred
and everything beyond it
is a miracle that we revere

5. we mourn any violence that
has ever been enacted against you.
we will do what it takes
to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.
to anyone.

6. when you speak
we listen.
we are so glad that you
are here, of all places.

7. other women
even strangers
reach out to you
when you seem afraid
and they stay
until peace comes

8. the sun
reminds everyone
how much they love you.

9. people are interested
in what you are wearing
simply
because it tells them
what paintings to make.

10. everyone has always told you
you can stay a child
until you are ready to move on

11. if you run across the street
naked at midnight
no one will think
you are asking
for anything.

12. you do so many things
because it feels good to move.
you have nothing to prove
to anyone.

13. white people cannot harm you.
they do not want to.
they do not do it by accident.

14. your smile makes people
glad to be alive

15. your body is not
a symbol of anything

16. everyone respects your work
and makes sure you are safe
while doing it

17. at any moment
you might relive
the joy of being embraced

18. no one will lie to you,
scream at you
or demand anything.

19. when you change your mind,
people will remember to change theirs.

20. your children are safe
no one will use them against you.

21. the university is a place where you
are reflected and embraced.
anyone who forgets how miraculous you are
need only open their eyes.

22. the universe conspires
to lift you
up.

23. on the news everynight
people who look like you and
the people you love
are applauded
for their contribution to society.

24. the place where knowledge is
has no walls.

25. you are rewarded for the work you do
to keep it all together.

26. every song i’ve
ever heard on the radio
is in praise
of you.

27. the way you speak
is exactly right
for wherever you happen
to be.

28. there is no continent anywhere
where life counts as nothing.

29. there is no innocence that needs your guilt
to prove it.

30. there is no house
in your neighborhood
where you still hear screams
every time you go
past.

31. no news camera waits
to amplify your pain.

32. nobody wonders
whether you will make it.
everybody believes in you

33. when you have a child
no one finds it tragic.
no map records it as an instance of blight.

34. no one hopes you will give up
on your neighborhood
so they can buy it up cheap.

35. everyone asks you your name.
no one calls you out of it.

36. someone is thinking highly of you
right now.

37. being around you
makes people want to be
their kindest, most generous selves.

38. there is no law anywhere
that depends on your silence.

39. nobody bases their privilege
on their ability to desecrate you.

40. everyone will believe anything you say
because they have been telling you the truth
all along.

41. school is a place, like every other place.
no one here is out to get you.

42. worldwide, girls who look like you
are known for having great ideas.

43. 3 in 3 women will fall in love with themselves
during their lifetime.

44. every minute in North Carolina
a woman embraces
another woman.

45. you know 8 people
who will help you move
to a new place
if you need to.

46. when you speak loudly
everyone is happy
because they wondered
what you were thinking about.

47. people give you gifts
and truly expect nothing
in return.

48. no one thinks you are
over-reacting.

49. everyone believes
that you should have all
the resources that you need,
because by being yourself
you make the world so much
brighter.

50. any creases on your face
are from laughter.

51. no one, anywhere, is locked in a cage.

52. you are completely used to knowing what you want.
following your dream is as easy as walking.

53. you are more than enough.

54. everyone is waiting
to see what great thing
you’ll do next.

55. every institution wants to know
what you think, so they can find out
what they should really be doing,
or shut down.

56. strangers send you love letters
thanking you
for speaking your mind.

57. you wake up
new
as anyone.

-Alexis Pauline Gumbs April 2007

Sunday, January 27

Sunday Shine* { Afro/kinetic }

I've been talking about it since November.

For the first time in eight years, I want a new hairstyle.

Quick hairstory:
1982-1990: My hair was pressed with a hot comb and braided or twisted, or washed and pulled into afro puffs
1990 - 1996: I wore extensions, in box braids or cornrows, and experienced the joys of a ponytail like all my white friends. The best part, though, was taking out the braids and seeing all that healthy new growth.
1996: I had a perm, that I rolled and set. Had no patience for that. And those chemicals forever changed the texture of my hair. It lost its softness.
1997-present: I've worn my hair in a natural afro of varying lengths (the longest was about 6 inches) or I've just shaved it off every other month.

For a whole bunch of reasons, I've been putting off going to my barber since November. Time for something new. My hair grows fast and it's very coarse, thick, and doesn't take well to most conditioning treatments. The winter is rough. On the weekends, I just deep condition it olive oil, coconut oil or jojoba oil, with some tea tree & rosemary essential oils for good measure. I spritz it throughout the week with Giovanni's Leave-In Conditioner or put some hemp & neem shea butter on my scalp. Easy? Yes. And short hair suits me. But I'm bored.

I remember that my hair was protected from the summer sun when I wore it in cornrowed extensions. So I'm thinking of having it cornrowed again and then getting an afro weave sewn in. I can hear my grilfriends now... Oh well. I've made peace with my beliefs about hair.

I want something big (but not too big) that i can play around with. I want my own hair to be protected until summer. It's hard for me to manage my own locks unless I'm keeping them short. My hair may feel like steel wool, but it's really fragile when the seasons change. If I continue to wear it out, the cold weather will just wreck it.
So... I'm gonna look around for the best price over the next few weeks and get it done in time for the mid-winter break. It'll be a surprise for all.

*
In honor of dancing at Royale 'til 4 am last night, here's a poem I wrote a loooong time ago in a poetry course of Sekou's:

no regular dance

my blood heated up that one august
standing on the front porch with
a mango slice to my lips
sun ablaze
bouncing light off my eyes
waiting for the rain
yes even the hurricane became a musicmaker
drumrolling thunder accented by bamboo chimes
my feet in time with the raindrops
didn’t stop til clouds covered up that last
bit of sun

i was blown for years by those storm winds
into superstitious salutations
on dance floor patios in backyard Miami
where our mamas didn’t see us windin
arms swinging
trying to swat mosquitos and look fly
at the same time
a flame in the corner of the club
or a moonbeam on the beach
show me hip shaking the everyday stranger’s hand from
round my waist
“mami, lemme dance witchu.”
uh uh no me tocas

estoy buscando el ritmo perfecto
and it ain’t no regular dance i do

Thursday, January 10

haiku

nature will nuture
bringing sun-filled winter days
to trump storm inside

Sunday, January 6

Sunday Shine { Looking Forward }

Ever since the little meet-up at Pam's last summer, I've been itching to get back to my craft. I know I did not go through all those undergrad writer's workshops & seminars, and rack up 20 grand in student loans just to let the writing and access it granted me go to waste. I can do better.
I want to be an artist-in-residence at a school. The photo essay project I'm doing post-ELA exams will be the starting point. My stint as a classroom teacher has shown me time and time again that I am capable of working out very tough situations, capable of adapting to curricula (and creating it), but I feel there's not enough room for the creativity and autonomy that I possess and want to bring into my classroom. I am fully capable of teaching another four months of test prep again next school year, but I definitely do not want to. Hurts the soul.
I don't want to come to hate this job before I even have my Masters. So the question now is: What do I need to do to make this happen?
I met a woman last night at a birthday party. I didn't get the greatest vibes from her, but I have to say that I admire her accomplishments. She's done several national one-woman shows, she's published, and now she works as an artist-in-residence at a school. She's where I want to be, career-wise. Maybe I won't be able to sit down and have a conversation with her about all that, but... maybe I will. Either way, I'm deciding to turn the negative (the tension between us over something trite) into a positive.

I start therapy again tomorrow. I like the woman that I'll be seeing. It's good that we've already met, in a different context. She's really trying to revitalize her neighborhood, opening up tutoring & mentoring programs for them. She's very much the EarthMotherAfrikanHealer type, and there isn't anything wrong with that. Sometimes, that community can be a bit exclusive, the folks within it can be a bit dogmatic. But she's been doing this shit longer than I've been alive. I just gotta talk & get some guidance. My worry is that I will spend too much time trying to find the right words for what I'm feeling, instead of saying whichever words come to me first.

Friday, December 28

Can't Sleep

The words of Sunni's poem have become an underlying force these past couple of weeks. Far too much struggle and chaos and, yes, light awaits, rejoicing is often, but somedays I cannot help but see this city, my block, this world as a sad & dangerous place.

I feel haunted by words I wish I could take back, words I left unspoken, everyday struggles I observed too closely, everyday beauties I ignored completely.
I wish it were still raining because then I'd just lie in bed, listening, until I fell asleep. Sometimes I get so tired of the sirens and the shouting.

Friday, July 20

Sekou Sundiata, August 22, 1948 - July 18, 2007

I found out this evening, amongst wine and poetry and hugs from old friends/fellow writers, that our professor, mentor, father figure, inspiration, guide, heartthrob, and friend Sekou Sundiata, passed away two days ago.
Heartbroken, yes, but he would be so so proud of what we'd gathered to do, in his honor, without evening knowing of his death.
Last week, and then earlier today, I'd walked a place he and I used to run into each other often. Last week, I smiled to myself, his face in my mind and memories of the way he took me under his wing my first year in this city. How years later, he would use a piece of my writing to teach his classes. We laughed so much. Today, this feeling came over me. Concern, I guess. And love, of course. I thought of writing him. He'd been so sick but so able to inspire us to live.
I will miss him. I wanted to tell him he was still teaching me, and I was teaching now.I wanted to thank him.
Such a strong, bright light.

Here's an article from the Washington Post. And NPR's tribute.

Friday, July 6

what it is

early summer poem

School's been out for a week.
Celebrated with good music, gin and hiiigh heels.
The best friends now live in the hood.
Life's good.
Time's free.
Straw fedoras, thunderstorms and icees.
Met a boy and he's sweet.
And he's coming over tomorrow night (eek!).
Yeah.

Wednesday, March 28

A New Day

I attended a poetry writing workshop uptown today. A room full of teachers acting as students for a unit of poetry lessons. Supposed to test them out on our students. Pretty straightforward ways of going about writing poetry. Lots of worksheets. Not quite the same as looking out your window and being inspired to write all day, but it'll do.
It was so nice be free of my classroom/school on such a pretty day, and to go sit in a room with other teachers and write poetry. For lunch, another teacher and I went down the block to Havana Central (which was appropriate - I'll get to that) where I had a tall glass of mojito with a the most fragrant mint leaves and a big chunk of azúcar de caño spilling out of it. When we returned to the second half of the workshop, I was tipsy and began making eyes with this handsome man all the way across the conference hall, who was totally enjoying the attention. Anyway, I produced two poems which I feel like sharing.
The first one is the result of the lesson about the "Self-Portrait Poem":

I am
midsummer in Little Havana
quiet, warmed
ready to settle down
for just a while

I am the sudden sunshower,
giving you
small inconveniences with pretty results
a rainbow before you can complain

I am
sweet plantains fried in ginger
sweet spice on the tongue

Storing moments of common
despair and secret beauty
I am like the tourists’ old cameras

I am the dusty salsa, old school, still fresh
seeping out the windows of the
dancehall on the corner
coaxing out your freest expressions

and then there was this one, for the "Memory Poem":

Underneath the trees, sunlight spotted
Me rocked by the breeze, all I heard
Were soft sounds of summer
Low squeaks of the hammock
The rustle of leaves
My sighs
And ice cubes in the water glass

Unworried, a little lazy,
unbothered
Asleep amidst the scent of ripe mango

Mangoes have been a staple of my writing (moreso than my diet) for ten years. I had a love-hate relationships with them when I was little, but they are necessary these days, up here, and they permeate all my memories about Miami.
It was a lovely day. The sun was shining, my apartment was so warm I've got the windows open! I think I'm about to cop this. Two more days til a long break and hopefully the weather won't disappoint.

Saturday, March 10

Motives & Thoughts

"Lie to your neighbors so you get ahead:
Modern day trickery is all you've been fed.
Motives and thoughts.
Check your motives and thoughts."

Strip every single thing away - every history book and Black Arts Movement poem and DAISY rap song and Morrison novel and tightly curled strand of hair when the perm used to be and issue of Essence and even my mother's tongue - and Lauryn Hill would be left. Hers is the voice that did it, that changed me.

* caught this clip in Joy's blog

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