Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
Beirut is my mother
Interrupted
I found my mother at the Korean spa
She bathed me with coconut milk then rinsed me with bear hands
She asked how old I was
I said 5
“I am Esther” she whispered
I teared up and turned away
Where was mother all those years?
At the Korean spa? In Japantown?
Today, I am grieving
I know it when I am binging investigative journalism
The truth requires work
And my mother did not love me
And it took six years of investigating on a couch
How come grief won’t leave?
I walked up a hill to a place I used to work before we were interrupted
A lockdown, an explosion, an orange smoky city made it so I won’t get to be a therapist with a couch
Maybe I get to be 5 until I am interrupted again
On the steps of the clinic
Where we wrote clients’ cancellation by hand
I write in my journal
Is it enough to write?
I meet beautiful compassionate white people in San Francisco
They have a lot of energy
My body is sinking into a sea of coconut milk
Will they save me?
The clock ticked and it had been an hour
Esther was no longer my mother
I am no longer a therapist
by Jess Semaan
"Mis Propios Sueños"
En los ojos de
Mi madre, y mi padre
Los límites no
Existen- al menos no
Por sueños de su sueño
by Leisly Roman
Untitled
my mind is not my body,
my body is not my mind
and yet i find
my thoughts
drift from atom
to atom,
piercing my veins
as if to pierce my flesh
as if to pierce my soul,
as if to say
these words hold weight,
hold meaning
hold space
take breath,
from one lung
to the other,
planting seeds at the root of my tongue
sprouting leaves that overflow
into streams of consciousness
that transcend linear ways of
thinking
and being
and feeling
extending from my soul
as if to take flight
in search of a greater place
to further emphasise their worth.
Untitled
if life was black and white,
your cigarette would light mine,
dewy summer skin shed as
we unstick ourselves.
raspy throats and cloud breath trailing up,
lunar
path.
i’m tugged to the memories of our heeled
footprints in
dry soil, crushed leaves, frozen mud.
we were there,
we are here
were we?
i wish you stayed crystalline,
i wish I never knew you.
my feet soak up puddles,
kohl tears and pearls perched atop velvet gloves,
your black trench feebly
grasps the remaining
tortoiseshell button,
pocket stuffed with napkin notes.
you and I,
once blazing, you and I,
now starved,
soot and char of a fallen star, wax droplets
mimic Daedalus’’ despair.
jasmine still rests on my sleeves as I watch
our ashes leak
through
my
fingers,
our love choked the spark we worked so hard to ignite.
by Nia
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.
Who are you?
There is her
Who sits on her humble throne in the living room
Unknowingly controlling you all
She sits and knits and gossips
Like she used to do with her aunties and cousins
Back home
The home she left when she was 19
After the birth of her third child
The one they call your mother
So here you sit between your cousins
Chocolate brown and lily-white
You are somewhat brown
Olive, is what they tell you
But you’re more beige
Brown and white
A muddle on a paint palette
Not enough red or blue to make you human
A grey-green sludge on a page
No-one claims you
So you claim yourself
It doesn’t make sense that they call your brother
A terrorist and a paedophile
Yet you are exotic and beautiful
Your noses are exactly the same though
Not quite west
Not quite east
Just a little crooked with a low rounded point
At what point do they consider you human?
Just the Inside. Please.
There is history in the layers
Peel back the rib cages
Examine the lungs
Root around for the kidneys
They all hold lies, rotten
With your fork stab the heart
Watch the air pour out
Steal the helium and blow it into the ears
Expand the brain numb the mind
There is history somewhere
You are keeping it locked up
How can you expect respect?
When you can’t even have a little fun
Take your insides and throw them on the wall
You’re hollow anyway
Why not make a little money on the side
There is history in the layers
There are scars on your appendix
Deliciated placed in your time in the womb
Does it not sting to swallow?
Do you not feel embarrassed?
You are a machine missing parts
A hotdog without the bun
The buns the best bit,
you don’t even come with mustard
there is history in the layers
So, go ahead add another
You were never going to break…
Generational trauma
by Fowsia
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.
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
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!
-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?
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.
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.
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
