Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
Untitled
I find it hardest to write
When I’m happy
When my emotions are stable
Chemically balancing
Stimuli vanishing
Feeling much less like therapy
And more of a challenge
One comprehensive mountain climb
Melancholy is a tonic
That only the sad comfortably stomach
Makes the jolly man vomit
Maybe it has to be this way
Maybe I must
Absorb myself
In it’s state
Maybe by ruminating
Too hard
The happy would erase
I fear to dissect it
Lest it turns to dust
And I adore it too late
There’s a transparency
In those windows
Riddled with mildew
That the happy glass
Doesn’t have
It I struggle to see through
I wish to able to to find
Inspiration
In sunshine
In rainbows
In faerie gardens
In flowers that sit in pretty rows
But I only know how to really
Talk
Speak
Voice
Debate
Pain
And how it freezes you
How the downs in life
Reduce you
Like a jeu
But produce the best in you
Too
I want to swing from rafters with glee
And write about these things
Unapologetically
But the human in me
Sees happy as
Defeat
As far too neat
Not abstract enough
Not deep
When I’m happy
My grasp on language
Simply retreats
Maybe I’m stuck believing
Torment is living
And contentment is giving in
And that’s why these happy states
I don’t stay in
I can’t hold my happy too tight
Or like a butterfly it just might
Fly far far away
Out of my sight
So I keep worry to the side of me
And despair in my pocket
So that when I’ve lost it
That joy
That harmony
When from it I’ve been accosted
I can slot right back in
Back into the gloomy
Semantic glory
I know best
The safest kind of nest
And lay my writers block
To rest
by Forest
The Fall of 2024
Today I tried to write again, but my mind is empty and
So are my hands; I have spent them all away, on
Blouses just to prove that I lost a couple of pounds,
And bits of some things to show myself that I have more
Than a couple of pounds—my mind is far, far away, and
Yet—but—so—and—half of me has been here to bear
Witness, to bare what is left of me before it all chips
Away, a way to remember the words I have used only to
Pour the ink all over the curves and blur it all back
Together, but at least this is what remains, and what is
Left of me, the last bit of common sense that I will
Never use, from the beginning to the present end.
I am still young, I tell myself, and there is still so much
Time left in the world, all of it, time enough for only
you and I, in the lateness of the morning and the early
Beginnings at the end of the year, but every candidate For my affections brings this old feeling that only you
Bore, by land or by sea, whatever it is, there is still
Distance by heart or by proximity, so I keep ringing up
The couriers and reminding them of my free shipping,
I keep calling you up so you know that I am living, who
Cares to live if it is not for your love? Spill that apathy
From my lips to your faithless country, spit that venom
From your faith to my fate, let it go every time we touch.
Today I remind myself that I am a writer so I must write
But I have given all my words away to the garden of
False fairies and godless gnomes, I claim it’s charity but
I truly only need a facade of generosity for my vanity,
I let myself believe that I have kindness in my heart, so
I may put myself to sleep in the belief of my purity,
You have robbed me of my sentences to string you
Along, now there are no more words to fill up a meaning
And there are no more syllables to make up your song,
You have judged to sentence me to a silent misery,
If there is some regret in you, may it chain you to every
Inch of the servitude that I once volunteered for you.
I carry with me my words and our noises, I recite it with
A couple thousands steps along the way to put me in
God’s way and to my own ease—if physicality is your
Intimacy then you must be as pure as the Madonna, if
Words are my intimacy then I should be as filthy as any
Other smut on a whore, but who are you to fall to your
Feet and declare yourself my friend? And who is he to
Turn on his feet and become a heartless foe? Call it
What you want—whatever lies you may tell yourself
And wherever your heart belongs, whoever you are
Holding me now in your hand, I know a thousand
Poems cannot save me anymore, more than ever before.
by Leya Kuan
A Writer’s Prescription for Unexplained Aches
A large dose of words—
by candlelight and in patterned socks/ to be
found on a shelf within a strong spine/ or passed
through lips/ in song/ chant/ prayer/ apology/ in a
coffee shop with your friend with kind eyes/ cradled
in your lover’s arms/ a large dose of words/ large enough
to fill pages in blue ink/ or overflow your kitchen sink/ repeat
until you see emerald grass and a sapphire sky/ until the night
air is not hungry for your blood/ repeat until the weight of the
world lifts from the small of your back/ until each word lays
a brick for the house you needed since your bones were young
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.