Poetry
poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence ~ Audre Lorde
In heat.
It’s the heat that kills.
When I lie in bed and it seeps through me pooling in that inferno,
I forget what the flames eat first, and what evil lurks beneath,
Or within, but I hold my breath until it stills.
I wait and linger and plead, but the darkness wants everything to do with me.
It fills me until the cracks smooth over and I kick at covers.
When I was smaller, you would tell me to leap from the sheets,
Grab everything I could hold onto; now my hands work against me and I no longer use yours.
For a while I held on, cramming the space around me and then it turned to great waves,
No longer driftwood on the strange tides, but jetsam trashing my shores.
I loathed these walls and the ice that crept around me,
Teetering along edges and finding me weak.
When I can no longer reason, it is your name I speak,
Then the flames swell and flicker and part.
I descend further and stop to see your face from below
And remember how it felt long ago to sit by your side and burn
When I used to wait for sparks to take flame.
It is the embrace of time I only know so dear,
Yet I hope to see you come back around here.
by Hannah
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.
euphoric love
this euphoric gaze
is infectious
until i’m stuck in a daze
of love for my people,
i’m in love with my people
basking in their love for me,
all of us riding euphoric waves
unafraid because this joy protects us
see,
we’re connecting with a higher self
a higher way of being and
dreaming
and feeling
and
this joy isn’t fleeing
no,
it’s sprouting new leaves as i speak
reaching for above
euphoric branches reaching news peaks
proving that this love
for my people
and my peoples love for me
will always see us exceed
limitations placed by another
our unity helping us to achieve
the very best
for our growth,
for our people
for our culture
and because of this i can trust
that with us
there is hope
for a future
full of peace,
full of love,
full of joy,
and that is enough.
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
Untitled
like halos adorning the crumbles of history, fog
traces
her fingers over forgotten names, swirling
translucent
cursive along lettered echoes
‘soon, soon, soon,’
withered red, frail skeletal darlings, decaying
romantic lexis on ruins
his preserved body lazes on a wooden frame,
bathing
in my blood
forever the white saviour
we shall know nothing more than what the past
dictates us to believe-
does desire of the truth plague you incessantly?
chains condensed, snugly fit into pages in your
garter,
he rustles against your fingertips
frilled cuffs amidst the shifting shroud of death,
breath fragrant with wine,
laconic noon and stern sun-downs brought
us here
the cyclical link whose hair i adorn with strings of opalescence
a lost soul feeds on the solitary gasping
Marlborough,
the one weighed by the weeping Caucasian
warmed by a honeyed flame
by Nia
The Gravedigger
When I met the fox, he was a gravedigger
‘The years have aged me’ the fox would weep
Every tombstone was shiny
Covered in clingfilm
‘to stop the rain from tearing them to bits.’
In another life, the fox was a criminal
Mother loved bad men
‘I could have been a dancer’ the fox said
‘I had nimble feet’
On tippy-toes, the fox would dance in the moonlight.
There was one particularly special grave
The grave of a badger named Elaina
The fox would scream her name
Pretending it was a performance art piece
I asked him what she did
He replied, ‘she was a master of disguise’
That isn’t a job I quipped
‘and yet she was always working’
Love could not be laughed away
Still every night the fox had a heart for dinner
With a side of fries
‘hold the ketchup please’
I don’t visit the Gravedigger anymore
He calls me on his mobile device
And when he can’t hear me
He calls me Elaina, and I cry
by Fowsia
Ramblings of a Born-Again Sinner
For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.” -Matthew 20:1
We see what the kingdom of heaven is like... But what is god like?
We didn’t fail god
god failed us
God is like a child with a “Do Not Enter” sign on his bedroom door. You draw closer, he draws
further way.
With each step toward him, he takes one back.
God is like
a father that walked out on his child.
The child abandoned asking what they did wrong.
god left his people
Long before the “salvation” in the desert.
Long before the exodus.
God left us in the garden
half-naked
exiled.
The first father
Walked out on his first child
Sins of the father as they say
God is like
a distorted mirror
We were created by him
In his image.
How vain
With the task
to love him.
How selfish.
To create something Just for it to love you.
How pathetic.
God is like
the child that
Tires of a toy after he breaks it.
Tossing it aside to collect dust.
God is like
the Fuckboy
That you want to feel closer to
Promises of
Love
Safety
Security
But
Sin disfigured us.
Made us ugly to him.
Ghosted by the Holy
God is like
the teacher that fails his students
Testing us
But
He created a test with no right answers.
And told us to pass.
Knowing we’d fail.
Fuck the test.
He failed us,
Not because we ate the fruit
but because he already ate it too.
God is like
The therapist
You go to at
Your most desperate
Weakest
Most vulnerable
He mocks your weakness
Twists the knife
In your mind
Mutilates your thoughts Nothing left but a
Lobotomized husk
God is like
The rebel leader
His gaslit torch
Promising
Rebellion
Disruption
Revolution
All the while Sowing seeds of
Conformity
Corruption
Suppression
His perfection is a lie.
Thinking if they were better
Then dad would have stayed.
The father failed his child.
God failed his children.
God’s not dead, he’s just not here right now.
God is like
The landowner
That hikes the rent
He works you in his fields
Only for you
To pay him back the wage
As you toil for your pennies
He snatches them away
Yes, god’s kingdom is like a landowner
who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.
by Rae Lee
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.