Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
a woman (first) & a writer (last)
he puts pretty stones in my pockets
the ones to make me smile
they pull me to the earth
i am low
i am heavy
i can no longer be beautiful
when i want to be listened to
i can no longer have pretty lips
when i want to make them move
by Sariah Lake
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?
Nina Simone Was a Force of Nature
Maybe that’s why everything she did
canceled out
the divine feminine
her call remained on silent
fans handed her
nature to pay her after shows
as if it showered her
in love, summer rain some-
thing she never experienced at home growing up, the mark of a true artist is they never intended
to be famous and then they get labeled crazy for loving
what they do, some do end
up, but she will never
not be crazy
talented in my charcoal eyes
bouquets and
cricket
claps
that sprinkled
incremented nourishment. Yes, seeds & overcrowding weeds her hands slaved in soil, black
on the surface and even further
down
the road her parents paved
for a family tree of burned bark, brown
wading through the saffron
dandelion fields, eating
sour fruits
of their labor, sickening
howls for money to hold
a love she never was around
growing
up to keep her
apartment from crumbling,
this is the ugly part offstage
where an audience partitions
artist from Art is the starving,
the daily news
feed, sees a person as purely an image
Venus fly trap she was predestined to
nurture the feminine thirst, undeniable
will to feed to quench, indeed,
she had the mother
load, pockets full of
blaring blackness glaring back at her
tar-coated trust almost so dark
becomes invisible paper
bag over face, cover like Claudia
Rankine’s black hoodie
figure against a stark
white background, back again
mistaken for a creature
no choice, Mississippi
Goddam, kick cans in
a crumbling city until it’s
rebuilt with revolution, footfalls
eery echoes the immaterial
that sustains
trashed pothole
streets, riddled with plastic
people, washed-out, watch out
she will point trigger fingers if you stand
in the way of her
first love, Bach
weathered concrete, vermon was the man
-made ever two-way in giving, supporting
the soles? She asked no
one in particular.
No cents at her feet, not even a dirty penny. We could waste time
by listing the basic living swept cunningly from her soles, those rich roots
command
to be secure, an Earth Song 2.0
instead of their strength ravaged
all she wanted was love from the ground
up.
by Maria
Why Does My Body Hate Me?
Electricity courses up my left leg
Leaving a trail of static
That plucks at random strings of sinew
Water droplet slides down the side of my face
I go to wipe it away
My hand comes back dry
Formication
My brain is cheating on me
With my senses
All the while
The bones in the balls of my feet
Grind into the concrete
Despite the padding of the insoles
Jammed into my shoes
Another pair to despair
All the while
The muscles entwined
Beneath my right scapula
Pulsate with a dull ache
And my teeth unconsciously grate
Why does my body hate
Me?
by Chihoro
On Father's Day I dreamed about you
On Father’s Day I dreamed about you
Nearly a year has gone by
And I’ve thought of you maybe a handful of times
With each passing, intrusive thought
I roll my eyes
And continue my day
But
On Father’s Day I dreamed about you
I dreamed of all the things I’ve wanted to say to you
The profanities I’ve buried inside for nearly a year
All came bursting out
Each syllable leaving my lips
Sharpened and piercing you
The way your lack of words have pierced me
On Father’s Day I dreamed about you
At the end of the dream
You drove off
Crying and pathetic
No apology
No embrace
Just driving off
Again without a word
Abandoning me
It’s not new
Should be used to it
But still
It hurts
And
I hate you for it
I want to say that I could forgive
For your inaction and bigotry
But I never will
Even if we reconcile
I will never forgive you
On Father’s Day I dreamed about you
And I woke up
Not relieved for finally getting to say all of those words to you
But sad
Because it was only a dream
On Father’s Day I dreamed about you
And I hate you for it
by Rae Lee
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
Finally
I'm finally becoming a fan
Of my own
After centuries
Of indoctrination
Of misinformation
My love for my own
Has grown
I'm finally becoming a fan
Of my future
After decades
Of trepidation
Of catastrophisation
It appears times better
Will enter
I'm finally becoming a fan
Of my past
After years
Of confusion
Of humiliation
I've raised my mast
I've surpassed
I'm finally becoming a fan
Of my present
After months
After weeks
After days
After hours
After minutes
After seconds
I'm finally living
In my moment
by Chihoro
Mis antepasados viven
I never got to meet todos mis abuelos.
They did not grow viejos to see me grow up.
Some did not even get to see my own padres grow.
Sickness took them too soon from us,
but they still live in me. Abuelo Jesus lives
in the strokes of my pen on paper,
porque él también era escritor y maestro.
Abuela Agustina stares right back at me from the mirror
with her beautiful big brown eyes and skin.
Abuelo Pancho lives in my hard work and efforts,
as I put my heart in everything I do.
Abuela Soco aún vive, compartiendo
sus consejos, rezos y chistes con sus nietos y bisnietos.
Aún viven todos mis abuelos.
En mí y en mi modo de ser.
by Solany Lara
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
UNWANTED VISITOR
Why when you want relax
An’ jus’ chill out
You neighbour come 'roun'
An’ wan’ run she mouth.
You open de door
An’ before you say ‘come in’
She inside you house
Wid you bottle ah Gin.
She tek out she Embassy
An’ you heart start fu grieve
‘Cause once she start smoke
It mean she nah leave!
She start pan de Gin
An’ bwoy she drink plenty
But whenever she visit
She two han’ dem empty.
Now she start drink
She ready fi chat
An’ it’s only now she a tek off
She coat an’ she hat.
Victim number one
Pan she gossip agenda
Is she best friend, an she enemy
A girl they call Brenda.
She chat ‘bout Brenda
She say Brenda chat ‘bout she
An’ when de two a dem togedda
Me know dem chat ‘bout me.
She say she want to sue de council
She twis’ she ankle, the other day
An’ it was pan dem prapatee
So dem mus’ pay.
Now she’s a strong woman
But I really don’t tink
Dat she had any business;
a wash she foot
In a public toilet sink!
She a sip sip she drink
Now she hungry an’ want eat
She cuss me say me can’t cook
Cause me no eat meat.
After she eat
She use de phone
She start tek out she plait
An’ beg me a comb.
She half-finish she hair
an’ say she a go
She put on she coat
an she hat.
She si’ dong,
drain she glass…
An’ still she a chat!
Me put on de T.V
Fu try drown she out
But not even concord
Is louder dan she big mouth!
At last she ready fu leave
Me walk she to de door
She borrow ten pound
An’ chat five minute more.
De only reason she leave
Is ‘cause de bottle a Gin don
Lord have mercy
If she did ever spot de rum!
Company
I give my dying passions a warm goodbye,
thank you for helping me.
They are loves I’m no longer fixated on,
unfinished stories with pens drying beside them
and movements I grew away from
In leaving them all I forged an extension of myself;
an incomplete project is still worth commendation
for once it kept me company
and that’s all there is to it
I’m no longer frustrated by what I stop doing,
lose interest in,
simply abandon
For my heart knows when it means a lack of effort
and that is a different story
But to the things that faded away with time,
I appreciate what you did for me.
And I look forward to what I’ll embrace in the future
while holding tight to my current loves
as if I’ll never let them go.
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