Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
The Apocalypse Never Ends For Some of Us
They call it assimilation
I call it annihilation.
The belief that you must shed yourself
to access the white man’s bliss
when they have labeled you the white man’s burden.
It cuts like a dull knife, rough, & jagged, and though there’s no blood
there’s still loss; not all violence is as clear as a fist to the face.
Many give in to survive, but whether it is self-inflicted or imposed
it creates a wound that will not close. Not on its own.
I’ve heard it said that not all skinfolk are kinfolk
and it’s sad how we confuse monoliths for unity
and shrug off our communities.
They teach us if we don’t speak right we don’t deserve to be heard
by who holds the power. They cannot exert it if they don’t have it.
And they cannot have it unless you give it, so instead they take it.
And it’s not a crime if it’s sanctioned by the state
when violence becomes law they don’t have to negotiate
because ‘the law is the law’.
This is why they don’t want us to think.
So, when they call for my assimilation
I will respond with this declaration.
-yo no me quito.
I will not swallow the mothballs you try to feed me
I am at my softest physically and mentally
and that makes some people uncomfortable
(with themselves).
Statues of aphrodite reveal that the goddess of beauty and love
had some meat on her bones, as do I,
but I know I am not the West’s ideal type.
Maybe that’s why I’m not allowed to take up more space.
Maybe that's why I’m given less room to wiggle in.
My ass and tits have grown a bit
when it happened; I didn't realize that it was sacrilege.
I wonder what Taino deity represents beauty. I wonder what she looks like.
Is her hair long? Does she view herself as a her? Does she think she is beautiful? Or does that assessment come from others? Does she even care for beauty? Or is it just a known part of her?
I’ve gone through a metamorphosis and came out the other end thicker.
Who says the caterpillar must become a butterfly?
Maybe I’m a moth.
I like my softness, it makes me sturdier, and don’t we all need some padding
from the beatings of this world
from the beating of our own hearts
from the beating of the drums that tells you to get back up.
The butterfly is drawn to the flower.
I am drawn to the light
in the darkness.
PENT UP
I wanna rip every fingernail out from beneath
my skin and stick metal screws in their place
I wanna throw punches through a wall
with the temperament of a white man
as I watch the nail slow jam their
way further into my finger, so I’ll
Have a reason.
All I need is a reason.
I wanna slice open my skin and pull back
Each layer of fat and a muscle, rummage
Through each tendon until I find the veins I’ve never seen
glow through the first layer of my skin
And pluck at my veins until my heart stops,
So I’ll have a reason.
All I need is a reason.
I wanna rip my jaw clean off my skull
then people will finally fucking listen to me.
Our Unheard Screams
Do you know that plants can be in pain too?
Do you know that they scream and send out distress signals?
Do you know that they too, like us, can feel?
It was true.
But I wasn't talking only about plants.
I was also talking about you,
and me.
About us who have learnt to cry in silence.
About us who have learnt how to bite our tongue for the sake of maintaining peace.
About us who have learnt to dig our nails to our palms than to claw at other's faces.
About us who have learnt to hold the anger within us and silently burn ourselves from within than to sear at another's skin.
Tell me,
have you grown tired yet?
Tired of screaming for help but get nothing but a sore throat.
Tell me,
have you grown tired yet?
Tired of explaining yourself but still, get nothing but blame.
Tell me,
have you grown tired yet?
Tired of bending over backwards to please, yet still expected to do more.
I am.
I am, in fact, tired.
Let's plan our way out shall we?
Maybe we can build a little cottage somewhere in the forest.
Maybe we can live in peace, surrounded with the things we love.
Or maybe,
Let's stop and look around.
Try to listen to those cries.
To the cries that came from others who are just like us.
Let's try listening,
maybe one day someone will listen to us too.
by MG
Doll House
Did you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of teas and dolls and friends only you can see?
To be someone you're not.
A princess, perhaps.
Hosting tea parties.
A sovereign over the imaginary.
Playing with puppets.
Our will is their will.
More sugar, more tea.
The party isn't over until I say it's over.
Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
You enjoy this as much as I.
Even when you do not.
How many of you realise you're the puppet now?
Do you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of dreams and promises and friends only benefits hold near?
To be someone you're not.
A commoner, perhaps.
Working towards a goal.
A glorified slave of the unseen.
Playing with your life.
Their will is your will.
More trials, more suffering.
The play isn't over until they say it's over.
Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
We enjoy this as much as they.
Even when we do not.
How many of us realise we're just dolls in a house?
Shh…
silent.
We’re not supposed to see beyond the stage.
Do not question.
Do not seek.
Smile, smile.
My dear.
by MG
The Things We Bury
Hold it!
Bury it deep inside the earth at the back of your house.
The ground will welcome it, wrap it in its moist embrace,
in soil made wet by the rain.
Work quickly!
They are only out for a moment, you may use your hands if you want,
When you are done, retreat from the sunlight.
No!
Don’t turn your back to it…back away, nimble.
You may breathe once you reach safety.
Now my Dear, you are clean.
The tears you cry to control me
The privilege that comes with your identity or absence of melanin is the same shade as the tears you cry to control me
The privilege that comes
with your identity
or absence of melanin
is the same shade
as the tears you cry
to control me
the struggle you claim
to comprehend
fails to acknowledge
our experience
robbing us of
our space to heal
when you ask
if I need help
you are doing so
to absolve your guilt
of your ancestors
ask me instead
if you may begin to listen
to my stories
not from the written word
of those who claim to know it
better than those of us
who have lived it
but by delivering yourself
to the lion’s mouth
Gritos de la Vigilante
They say, ‘All Lives Matter,’ as they turn their backs on
Indigenous women who are being pulled into the shadows.
They say the overturning is about the sacredness of life, but say nothing
when Black bodies are being impaled by bullets.
‘Life starts at conception,' they lecture as
screaming mothers are being held back by the police.
They watch as children are blasted in the head by deranged AR-15s.
When the massacres are over, senators and governors
drop to their knees and kiss the barrel of the hot, blood-stained metal.
I speak out against it, claiming my autonomy.
They long to kill me.
To bind my hands behind my back while I slip on the kindling they’ve gathered.
They are skilled at ending women like this.
Their laws demand us to smoke upon the stake.
They don’t know there is already fire inside of me.
My heart burns with eternal sacred light—a testimony to the spirit that won’t die.
My ancestors scream ‘fight’ into my ears.
I must rain down on them the rage and heat of my people.
Vengeance for all the people they’ve destroyed.
I will never submit my body to their prodding.
Never will they decide the fate of my brown skin.
They say it’s ‘We the People,’ but they've never seen me as a person.
And I scream at the top of my lungs for all who are being crushed under this regime.
Swiftly— I strike with the sharpness of my pen
to combat this darkness closing in on us.
The Children of Yemen
They cry before they learn to smile,
In the eye of the bloody storm,
The children of Yemen,
They play in the rubble adorned with
concrete toys belonging to boys in governments,
Who value money over man,
The slaughter over the lamb,
And the land over famine.
As they take their last breaths,
Their mothers are behest with the rancour
of rockets that fly ahead,
Keeping them awake when they sleep in their beds,
They imagine another life where they can eat food and bread,
And not worry about the daggers that drop
from the sky,
Whilst they whisper their last prayers to the shining power up high.
But God will not save them from the static deserts,
Where rows of stony slabs make morbid pavements,
Yet we forget the Holy infants that lie beneath,
As we sit in our living rooms sipping milky cups of tea,
Whilst we waste the abundance of what we have,
May we remember the children of the golden sand.
by Pippa Hill
The Utopian Truth
Utopia is rest.
Without the fear
of becoming subservient
Looming above like a curse
Rewinding history.
It was what the older generations
Have strived for.
In many variants of pain.
It always began as a journey through
The dreaded swamps–
Thick and waist deep.
Forests swallowing the lost into obscurity.
A moment through shallow waters
or clear pathways were scarce.
While the destructive world aimed
their vile glares.
After all the nightmarish turmoil
Sinking in their skin.
All our ancestors pleaded for was rest.
To gaze upon the land in pride.
To absorb what was deserved.
Lay underneath trees bared in ripened fruit.
Sleep afternoons away without the jolt of expectation.
Spend the waking days surrounded by family.
Every day will become a celebration of life.
No more hungering for bluer eyes
or accepting life sentences to drag
culture through a genocide
But dancing under sprinkled joy.
Utopia is free.
Without the weight
Of judgment becoming a prison
Feeding into reality.
Without fighting till the afterlife
calls their name.
Scorched Eyes
You can’t poison a tongue
That has already licked thorns
With her head dragged
Through a thicket of rose bushes
Eyes scraped from the leaves
Blush pink petals left messed in her hair
Her crown bleeds yet never falls
A voice tells her to appreciate the flowers
Rather than to speak ungratefully
Questioning how she cannot see
The bright side of this sight
As she picks off the thorns from her temples
Her eyes already witnessed horror
Of streets being set fire fueled by laughter
Cackles from those who set flames
While those who supposed to protect
Run around like headless chickens
As homes burn on the street
She remembers the poor girl
Who was slapped for crying over
Her missing rag doll
The one her grandmother made
She wonders how anyone could smile
Upon the sight of ashes
She will no longer be surprised yet
She will always be shocked
she has many names
maybe sultanahmet is the brain
where the memories of the old city live
maybe the bosphorus is the veins
maybe beyoğlu is the heart
beyoğlu broke and the city cried
the bridges started to collapse around me
by Gamze Şanlı
The Dance Manifesto
I think, leaders of countries should be made to dance in public, be they dictators, monarchs or the head of a republic.
Before being sworn in crowned or inaugurated, leaders should first display unadulterated, physical articulation, by way of pelvic thrusts and gyrations, as a symbol of trust, to their nations. After which, they should twerk with ease, to show they aim to work for and please, each and every citizen they serve.
I don’t quite want them to dance in a group or with a partner. Alone, baring their soul, is the daring I’m after. Maybe, they could lead a Conga line, and then, straight into… a dutty wine.
If I, were bestowed, with unconditional power, I would legislate for a complete hour of dance, every day, for everybody. You see, I find it unfortunate and sad, when I hear people obstinate and glad to say, that they don’t like movement, or even music! And though you might disagree with my decree, I guarantee, that to move can improve, the body, mind and souls of individuals. Individuals form nations and nations shape the world!
Now irrespective of frivolities, like, I’m shy, I’m a guy, it’s just not my thing. Or varied abilities, such as the body you live in has limitations. Dance isn’t just for people who can walk, stand up, hear, see and talk. Nor does it seek high education, or low morals. You can be a winner, a happy sinner, a tightwad with a hotline to God. Dance has no preferences or boundaries.
If you can move, you can groove and delight your soul with flow. What you move and how you move it, is up to you! You can boogie in complete silence, to the sensational sensations within. Or sit in a chair and lead the cheer with gestures. Do your thing, it’s yours. Free up and do it, your way!
Movement can be bombastic, lyrical and fantastic. Yes, dance is for everyone; even the clumsy.
So don’t scoff at dad, and say his antics are bad! Try observing him through loving eyes, and hopefully you’ll realise that he’s responding to a joy inside, that’s having a bit of a bumpy ride, exiting his spirit.
The dance elements, of body, space, effort and time, come together to rhythmically rhyme…and make you feel good.
It’s an inner magic, ethereal but oh so real. And though dance is visual the essence, is to feel the feeling and surrender to it.
Try this. After a bad day, take yourself home, smooch with your partner or smooch on your own. Motion releases emotion, and emotion colours motion. Flow with it, go with it and know; that you can dance to remember, just as, you can dance to forget!
Did you ever see Mandela dance? What a King. He so nobly expressed himself through everything God gave him.
Because I know it will take time for most to understand and agree, Mandela is evidence that my decree, is the ideal movement, to take that bold step-for-change, into a new joy filled, world of peace!
Let leaders take a chance and dance. Starting with some pelvic thrusts, for trust!
Did you make it through winter?
Did you sleep through what you thought was winter
with 2 blankets
only to open your eyes and find
that it was still dark,
making you roll over
and stay in bed for longer?
But then,
realising that troubles don’t last,
did you wake up one day
to the sun shining outside,
finally,
onto dry pavements
and windowpanes?
Has it happened yet,
that you feel optimistic
for the year ahead
despite the chaos all around
and uncertainty of each moment?
Among it all,
is joy filling your heart
slowly but surely from the bottom up,
lovingly threatening to stick around
until the end of year celebrations?
Have you yet recognised
the power to do anything you wanted
as the thing that you carried in your arms
day and night
throughout this season
as the dark sky overpowered
the presence of light in your life?
Are you now seeing what is confirmed
as hope at the end of your tunnel?
They said things are looking up
and it’s the first time
you’ve felt that in months
now it’s real
You made it through winter
whether you dragged, drugged, persuaded, or willed
yourself to do it
in the face of all your tribulations
You did it
and you will do it again,
just like you always have.
DO YOU REMEMBER THE DAYS OF SLAVERY
This poem is an ode to Caribbean women (me included) stuck in the rut of the slavery diet, which our tastebuds inherited the tasty trauma of. Salty, fatty meats, placing value on animal produce and devaluing nutritionally dense food isn’t something that can go unspoken of when the conversation of slavery arises. Especially not in a diasporic community where women and men are twice as likely to contract prostate and breast cancer in comparison to white counterparts. Slavery still lingers and the effects have never required observation or sight alone. The effects are clear through all five senses of pigtail stew peas goodness. The poem explores a conflicting conversation I had with my ancestors about why they chose to pass down recipes that gave my mum high cholesterol and my auntie breast cancer.
Do you remember the days of slavery?
How do you want to remember slavery?
Am I a victim of transatlantic slavery?
Or am I a survivor whooooo...
Bares the same trauma as my ancestors.
Them ask why we still affi talk about slavery...
...Because oxtail, crowfoot and pigs feet still taste so sweet to me
From the likkle scraps massa gave my great great granny
No nutritional value pon it
Di likkle piece a skellion can’t save it
Nuh matter how mi try fi mek it sound healthy
Them ask why we still affi talk about slavery...
...Because food we still ah eat can cause disease
Aunty breast cancer, chemotherapy
Mi ah suck out the bone ah di lamb neck stew
Chew off di gristle pon the chicken back
Links to high cholesterol and heart attack
Mi still nuh want face di facts
But who is to blame for my family recipe
Is it di massa who left di scraps fi my great great granny?
So when them ask why we still affi talk about slavery...
...It’s because plantation food still taste so so sweet
by Jahmila
Treasure your worth without measure
Seek to be worth knowing rather than being well known,
Since thats the beauty of letting your true essence take the throne,
Quality over quantity because the company you keep will help you flow towards your growth,
Circle carefully radiused makes it hard for any thorns to edge inside your sacred home.
Seek validation from within as that way you will always win,
The grooves, curves, scars and even the imperfections you may want to change; Is what makes your beauty truly radiate!
Finding comfort is promoted as an uncommon lane,
But appreciate the skin that you are in;
Remember we are not all meant to look or behave exactly the same.
If societal constructs or media platforms were non-existent today,
Tell me; Would divide and conquer still underplay?
Seventeen
they will never have you like this again
pretty and fresh
empty stomached, open palm
you are adventurous
having been nowhere
drunk on life
but cannot buy a beer
they will write songs about you
and wide eyed you will listen to them
eat what they give you from their hands
make their little a lot
their nothings into somethings
and in turn they will call you woman
to hide how much they like you as little girl
they will never want you like this again
pretty and easy
painfully, blindingly easy
seventeen
by Sariah Lake
Magic
(TO MAKE) THE IMPOSSIBLE
[AT LEAST CONSIDERABLE ]
SUCH IS THE WAY
OF WHAT SOME CALL “MAGIC”
WHEN IT
IN FACT,
UNFOLDS EVERYDAY IN FRONT OF OUR EYES
CRUELLY,
UNJUSTLY,
FORCEFULLY,
TIL WE CANNOT TOSS AND TURN ANYMORE
“IT GRINDS MY GEARS”
I’LL SAVE MY TEARS
FOR A TIME-WHEN-TIME FEELS
[AT LEAST CONSIDERABLE ]
by Yulin Huang
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.