Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
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.
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
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!
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.
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
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