Black Magic

Girl, the masses called her

High

Priestess


of Soul, in an interview she air

quoted cuz her world isn’t limited

even when flung from it

by labels or to go as far

to say

language as a whole , I’m talkin’

‘bout Nina

you know Simone, bless her invested soul


other worldly, always living in more than on and yet

10X more experienced in her 3D body, never a concern for the material

meaning, language is limited

she means

well, she would’ve liked to go home

walk the streets she performs for


and not be robbed, be laughed at later

for explaining the lack of change


be paid for her lip

service, an equal split

check her back & have a hand on it

what year is it and equality is still

a thing of the past, present, & future tense fist, she was tender in every circumstance except for song, there’s no time

to sugar

coat


talent comes with conditions

period dot


dot dot she never signed up for


a life of misunderstandings, she wanted

her name,

stage to call her

own like a kid possesses stuff-


ed animals & everything they can

hug, doesn’t every woman in this industry? The rigid masters degree of backlash it takes

to achieve like attending a real university


black magic vanishes

if the voice box is suffocated, isn’t that right, Nina? Rise if it’s true plants will droop, elevate ‘n

die depending on


the music played

around them. i watch


what I play in public, but nature

urges me to pay attention to frequencies

in private too, I’d whisper

if it’s facts to my hand-


glued crystal Tillandsias in my mint

-green room, but none got through

the thick of Michigan

winters. Rose


quartz is pretty to pinch and admire,

but let’s face it, the color is what we all

grab her for like an object, no power in that

movement, ask our former orange-flesh

President of U.S via his twitter

handle, what he finds pleasure in

grabbing, the colors he can’t see

working It’s magic

on the human race

no situation is purely black & certainly


not white, this race lives in their pink

matter too much

who said

a black heart couldn’t mend

a strung out time-


line, who said time

matters at all when art is

a perpetual


necessity, people

pick up poetry like


Nina


wasn’t playing lyrics, wasn’t playing

was she? No, she was


living the times on key.

Always on key. Black & white.

by Maria

Foundations

Watching the sturdy bricks

that make up your being,

cement lined with

vitality and

resilience

that weaves into the

creases

of your elbows,

into the slight

bowed curve of

your legs

caressed with a tendency for

fineness.

Built to be an unmovable

pile caught willingly

in the pain,

emotion, and

uncensored

complexities

of those surrounding you

as well as

supporting

the sombre spirit

encased within my

shell.

Those foundations

of yours

establishing stability

as intended.

The antithesis of fragility.

Yet,

lingering in the

gaps between the bricks

lies the whispering

residue of a

growing burden,

both transient and infinite.

Beautifully

entranced by reality,

in awe of being,

of existing,

of speculating

perceived truths and

discovering the adventure

of creation,

but simultaneously

buried by

the boundless

emotions of

bodies

betrothed to you.

Caged by

Bricks which conceal

the spirit

of your

unfiltered being

that floats like the

delayed

death of stars

behind soft

brown eyes that gaze

upon the

multitude of turmoil

thrust

upon you.

And here I

stand

watching,

as the load on

this house,

becomes heavier,

closes the

finite gaps

between the bricks

and

shuts off your path of

release.

by Olivia Simone

Passing Notes

Darling,


please be careful

loving me

The weight will

cause me to crumble

My shining armour


is made of foil


wrapped up in fondant sweet

to mask the taste


of countless deficits

What you view as perfection

is a mirrored illusion

that reflects back


only who you think

you long to be

by Lé

Dancing Souls

We hear music

not just with our ears,

but with our veins

and create art

in physical form.

Swaying

right

as life

turns us

left.

At times,

we might

even spin

out of control

by losing

each other’s

cues.

But,

we slowly come back

to the rhythm

of our love.

by Solany Lara

Sinned

had a dream about my teeth falling out again

but the dream was not mine

it is a common dream

a common phenomenon

plenty of us had our teeth shattered, torn, cracked,

falling through the foundations of our mouths as we hissed

in anguish,


I felt I would accidentally swallow them.

last night, they were abnormally large


I looked down upon them on my palms


and felt the weight of them against the world.

a derailing feeling


like I just extracted a bone from my body

to watch it disintegrate outside


to know that

I grew that


and get that


it’s not that

ground-breaking


to anyone else, but me

and so I weep for them


and bury them


with the previous ones

that shattered, upon impact.

and I give them one last grin

(sorry to keep you)


(sorry to wake you)

(sorry to make and break you)

forgive me, for I have

by Yulin Huang

her name means many things

she tastes of roses

and powdered sugar

her belly

is a quince

by Gamze Şanlı

The Invitation

There seems to be some confusion

An historical false conclusion

As to why The Windrush Generation

Had a sudden inclination

To leave the sun

To cold, cold ‘inglan

From 1948 to ‘71

News reporters from the past

And until today

Tend to run up their mouth and continuously say

That Caribbean people

Came all this way

In search

of a better life here!

For a better life is partly true

But what I want to say to you

Is that I take issue and want to review

The stimulus that brought them to

Britain.

The details need to be

re-written!

They came, because…

they were invited.

Let me recap,

Because I like to be exact,

The motivation,

The stimulation

Was a

Post-war Declaration

Announcing

That Britain,

The Motherland…

NEEDS YOU!

So they answered the call

and travelled,

with personal dreams too

Let historical detail

Hereby be righted.

Caribbean’s

Crossed sea and ocean to Britain,

Because

they were

INVITED!

by Sheba Montserrat

-self

I am my focal point.

desire and hope the edifice

of purpose in the past years

in a search for the self-preservation

that I heard won’t save me

perhaps I should forfeit my whole-self

to save it from indulgence

‘Self-preservation won’t save you’ they said

and now I see it, I believe

so, what should I do?

by Adefela Olowoselu

Let me introduce myself!

My presence commands the room,


As my voice may speak to a few,


My energy spreads around to greet all of you,


These clothes put together to express my creative finesse.

Some may know me for my sculptures,


Others may have felt my words spoke to them best!


The rest may have even seen me cut a few moves on the dance

floor;


But let's lay that to rest.


My Ugandan ancestors walked in Grace,


Before me.


Heads held high with strength and glory;


and through them is where I get my Blessing, I guess.

Thank you for welcoming me into your setting!


I know this introduction was not what you were expecting,

I hope my spoken words take you on a journey,


showing you a little piece of my inner being.

by Grace Blessing

Untitled

let me welcome you

into the garden that is my mind

graced with thriving vines of thought,

plagued with thorns of doubt

that cause a litter of words

broken and frail

to form at my feet

until i’m drowning in words,

tightly packed

and jumbled up

confused as to whether they could have

ever made sense

and as i sink

into the leaves of insecurity

i can’t help but admire the sky,

glittered with hope

of what these vines could produce

and what could thrive in this haven

of my mind

that has already proven resilient

to the drought of creative flow

and from the drought

came an abundance of growth

a testament to a bigger truth,

that my talent remains consistent

even when the words are disconnected

and the river of creativity doesn’t flow,

my mind has always and will always

be graced with new growth

and my garden will remain

a haven

in my mind.

by Chan Seraphina Ahadi

Untitled

what say you about this body of mine?

what says the arms and the hands of time –

“She’s let herself go,

does she truly not know?

or

“As the main character in your own show,

please, do not cast yourself as the foe.”

I ask because I struggle sometimes to find the right rhetoric

to make use of this pain – make it, somewhat poetic

by Leisly Roman

witHin aLL mAtteR

by Jahmila

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.

by Abigail Tucker

Sat on the Curb

Sat on the curb


On the edge of this stupid world

Legs dangling into a sparkling void

I think,


If I could jump into it


I would

Why not?


I would be crushed in its embrace

Choked to ecstasy


A final rush before the everlasting peace

If I got intoxicated tonight


Would I get to be a different person tomorrow?

Maybe for a moment

For a moment you’ll feel the rush of a different life

Of being someone you’ll never get to be

You know it’ll fade,

You don’t need me to tell you that.

by Liliana Tucker

Untitled

blackberry stains tanned skin,

the periphery of sickly sweet.

days stretch languidly, billowing

wider as the fans blows the sweat from your

brow

sleep an unwelcome stranger,

vocalised thoughts seem

to have more solidity than the dreams that drip from

my

tongue,

sunlight on our shoulders, the stars spilled

across your lips.

heat was always distasteful to me, ironic since the

air was charred upon my birth,

yet the warmth of your breath against my ear,

fingers

and valleys and mountains intertwined feels right.

‘love?’

blurred by hesitation and doubt.

perishes on my tongue

you made me lust for the fever, the burn

scorched skin.

maybe this is it,

love tastes like summer berries.

by Nia

Monkey Parts

I enter the room

Ten toes on sterile floors

The doctor is ready to examine me

I wrap my indecent parts in tissue

Hop on board the sailor’s ship

ready to go with the wind

He takes a part of my leg

From the knee to the ankle

“It’s got to go” he says

What “It’s all rotten.”

They’ve been experimenting with monkey parts

“I’ve got one just right for you”

What “skin tone… and all”

I don't want to be different, or more so in this society

He’s hunched over watching me twitch in fascination

I won’t feel the pain of his grip on my leg soon.

It will fade

I hold the catalogue above my head

“They are sacrificed for you”

He’s talking about the monkey parts again

“Pick one with a pretty name”

The man, the doctor, the one with the masked face

is out of my sight now

Standing behind my head

I’ve heard from my sisters the process is painless

I’ve listened to them howl in their sleep at night

It’s time for me to go now, and

when I awaken, I’ll have my monkey parts

And he will have profited

by Fowsia

Mhm. Yes, Of Course

I’m still here. listening. I’m not

sorry

oops, that’s overused. Tell me something

better. Sounds

good. Hmm, mhm. I’m listening

Yes, queen. Bees buzz

past my black, light

absorbing pupils like Face-

Time. Ring ring, rainbow wind

chimes. Listening to the unnamable birds with two tapping

thumbs on the screen. Blues. Feather


head. Tweet tweet. Look it up or down

scroll some more. Queen E bye bye


birdy. The throne is so blue from up


her(e) blue j-


ust like the sky. No one knows

why, we just daze on and forget to admire the canvas

as it alters

before our red, dormant volcano

eyes. Bedhead even when brushed

for the day. The realist


objects are responsibly writing themselves


outside of this plane’s flimsy limits.


Lavender air in spring or sapphire summer is just like a present

poetry collection (unfinished when on

view for the world), lemon scents inviting us

to scratch the surface, and land


upon golden pollen & & & this grand rising

of the chest can combat pollution if you would please

let it out w/out force, honey.

by Maria

Fearfully and Wonderfully... Dysphoric

I look in the mirror


And see the buzzcut of a lost daughter

Stubble gripping her chin


That sinful fruit wedged in her throat

Choking her


She gasps


Each uttered syllable cracking and aching

Escaping her lips

Shoulders broadening with repugnance

Tear-soaked calloused hands


Gripping a chest that never grew

Skin hardening


Atop the development of bones


A structure that can never be undone

Becoming an abomination before her eyes

Stiffening of her genitals


She desperately hides them away


Dark and thick hair grows down her once

smooth legs


Encasing them in shame

A body matures and morphs before her

Swelling of confusion and bitterness within

her

I gaze in the mirror


I’m empowered as


I see the most recent incarnation of a story

with no ending

He begins to slip away

Each day she becomes

More visible


More real

More tangible

I’m empowered by her will

Not to live


But to thrive

She is alive

by Rae Lee

Blue Beyond

we cry for our mothers

as we one day learn

that being confined is luxury

that there is beauty in training bras and peel off polish

in sidewalk chalk and dollhouses

in visiting womanhood as one visits the beach

something to dip your toes in

to swim in,

let cool the rushing heat of your preteen hunger

of your thirst to be grown and taken serious

to sip of, and decide that blue is pretty enough to stomach the salt

but there was always something to reach for

your age, your youth

a dock behind you

when your small light limbs grew tired of fighting current and making desperate waves

there was always land

until one day you reach back

and you find splinters

and blue

and blue

and blue

by Sariah Lake

Times Like This

There are times
Times like this
Where I yearn for the law of the streets
I am by no means versed
But based on the evidence I have gathered
From Bonnie and Clyde
And Power
And Breaking Bad
And Scarface
Justice actually exists
On the streets
Not the PC powder puff
Farcical justice
Being pandered to us in the courts
No, the sweet swift brutal justice
Of our ancestors
That meant one had to actually pay
For ones own crimes
Let's just say they got it wrong
Forty percent of the time
There are times
Times like this
Where I'd trade for that
At the drop of a dime
As my brother gets in from his night shift
As my lover leaves my arms this morning
May our ancestors protect him
Please may he not be
Yet another victim

by Chihoro