Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
You Read Me Like Poetry
The way you read me is like no other… you read all of my pages and didn’t stop at the cover… it’s as if when you read me, you don’t just see black and white but hues of every color… then you add your words of affirmation and it makes my heart flutter… you even read my imperfections and error without a stutter.
You’re really good at reading in between the lines… how you don’t judge the limits that I don’t define… maybe you don’t always understand my rhymes… what they try to describe, but you always try to understand me from a different pair of eyes.
Poetry is an art that varies from person to person… but you always choose to read mine… so in that case I’ll continue to be poetry that you read, I know you’ll always have the time.
Celestial remedies
orbiting in the crevices of my body I
found that a lighthouse lives
in the pinpoint, triangular cusp
of my heart
the trickling goes on and on
to the quiet region of my gut
backstrokes in memories
below, some earthy overgrowth
floral features flood the fragments
[absences]
sewing seeds into my bones
now — of molasses
imagine that water was collecting at
the commencement of my daydreaming
held my breath to examine the
spotted roof above
found tightropes with wild dragonflies
fired up / still mirroring glass
compromised by pines and currents
if in this lies the stillness of movement
i’m going to stay some more
by Paris Jessie
Ramblings of a Born-Again Sinner
For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.” -Matthew 20:1
We see what the kingdom of heaven is like... But what is god like?
We didn’t fail god
god failed us
God is like a child with a “Do Not Enter” sign on his bedroom door. You draw closer, he draws
further way.
With each step toward him, he takes one back.
God is like
a father that walked out on his child.
The child abandoned asking what they did wrong.
god left his people
Long before the “salvation” in the desert.
Long before the exodus.
God left us in the garden
half-naked
exiled.
The first father
Walked out on his first child
Sins of the father as they say
God is like
a distorted mirror
We were created by him
In his image.
How vain
With the task
to love him.
How selfish.
To create something Just for it to love you.
How pathetic.
God is like
the child that
Tires of a toy after he breaks it.
Tossing it aside to collect dust.
God is like
the Fuckboy
That you want to feel closer to
Promises of
Love
Safety
Security
But
Sin disfigured us.
Made us ugly to him.
Ghosted by the Holy
God is like
the teacher that fails his students
Testing us
But
He created a test with no right answers.
And told us to pass.
Knowing we’d fail.
Fuck the test.
He failed us,
Not because we ate the fruit
but because he already ate it too.
God is like
The therapist
You go to at
Your most desperate
Weakest
Most vulnerable
He mocks your weakness
Twists the knife
In your mind
Mutilates your thoughts Nothing left but a
Lobotomized husk
God is like
The rebel leader
His gaslit torch
Promising
Rebellion
Disruption
Revolution
All the while Sowing seeds of
Conformity
Corruption
Suppression
His perfection is a lie.
Thinking if they were better
Then dad would have stayed.
The father failed his child.
God failed his children.
God’s not dead, he’s just not here right now.
God is like
The landowner
That hikes the rent
He works you in his fields
Only for you
To pay him back the wage
As you toil for your pennies
He snatches them away
Yes, god’s kingdom is like a landowner
who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.
by Rae Lee
A Canvas Over the Crack in the wall
Inspired by the Eunice Olumide’s essay “Programmed […]” from the book ‘loud Black Girl’
There is a canvas,
That depicts me as a the obedient ‘Mama’ of the south. Comedically unattractive compared to world Beauty standards, and unequivocally satisfied with her life, as the servant of the one who has gone With the wind.
There is a canvas,
And on it my body is curvy with pain filling my back rolls. My mouth is bigger than my head and it is Filled with rage, and my loudness transcends whatever age I might be.
There is a canvas,
With a cape on her back and scars on her front, she holds that weight of an empty wallet, and Unforeseen circumstances. Her family is considered “broken” but this inspires those who say that she Flies above all, onto the next challenge with her formidable toughness.
This next canvas,
Features lips, cheeks, boobs, lace fronts, lashes and all.
Phenomenally sensual and free.
And eye candy to the man who condemns with his mouth while his hands shake with excitement
And the bête noire to his wife who is the antithesis but loves to rock “boxer braids” in the
Summertime.
This gallery exists within the wide span of media but the small frame of our screens.
These canvases can be used to categorise at the expense of my demise.
Because I’m not familiar to their eyes, so I must not be… black enough.
Paint spreads onto the next and the next,
Causing layers to solidify over parts of the truth.
The paint is tough like I am
Supposed to be.
But what if submissive, loud, curvy, and sensual does not depict my phenomenality?
Am I too soft to wear the cape?
Too shy to be loud?
Too skinny to be sensual?
Do I even qualify to enter this gallery of what is perceived as a strong black woman?
These questions wonder my mind as I fade into the stereotype of who people believe I am supposed
To be.
As if us, without categories is terrifyingly wide.
A plethora of possibilities that the socially constructed mind can’t even begin to comprehend.
As if there is no time left to learn and accept absolutely all of us.
When do we grab the kitchen knife and neatly slice through each flat canvas to reveal the Multidimensional effigy of a black woman?
All shapes and shades.
All crowns and armour.
Expanding the colour palette of Brown skin beauty and transforming the picture of 100 synonyms into
A community of a thousand definitions.
Loudly and gracefully.
Showing the world that we are more than pain.
We are a foundation of joy, wisdom, and light, from matriarchs to minors.
What Place do Books Have?
Reading is liberation from ignorance.
It’s redemption
And draws attention
To experiences through new or familiar eyes.
Picking up a book took curiosity and courage
Reading it took patience.
A relationship is formed with the speaker when we dive into their world.
The writer takes us on journey as we tango over arches and status quo’s, all the way to the last page.
Where their catharsis ends and my desire for assimilation begins.
My world shifted when I entered the realm of shared experiences,
Perceiving that the things we share are often more important than things we don’t.
Black writers helped me decipher the relationship with my skin
And the sour taste of our culture that stretches across seas and purifies dreams
In little minds.
Those stories were birthed from real experiences in their time -
Over 50 years later a young Black British girl was experiencing something similar,
And I saw her in those chapters. Her silence was loud.
A book gave the gift of insight into the “angriest black man in America”.
The first read was eye opening and the second was almost like recalling a moment from memory.
We pass down these books like passing the figurative baton to those behind us.
Seasons of knowledge for potentiality to bloom into greatness,
And how will I get to use this?
The way a writer conceptualises and shares, is miraculous
Strengthening bonds between generations.
Personally,
Reading books is like holding hands with history,
And recognising the seeds that are growing in my present.
History, no matter where or when it takes place, replicates.
Therefore, truth telling leaves room for genuine connection
So that obliviousness does not consume us.
The place books have in my world is crucial, and
Holds a purpose that is greater than me alone.