The Poetry Of Details
Discuss Lynne Ramsay’s poetic films with Every Frame A Painting
Discuss Lynne Ramsay’s poetic films with Every Frame A Painting
money’s a management headache
leave nothing to fate
chances and romances
play havoc with the senses
saturn and neptune
provide fine tuned doubts
be alone with your thoughts
and you’ll work it out
The tattoo’s eyes bore past me.
Frantically, I banged on the door. When she opened the door again her face had recognizably paled.
“Kyra?” I asked.
“Come,” she said, coldly.
The branches on her neck emanated, as I watched her turn to climb the stairs. She disappeared into the shadow at the top of the stairwell before I decided to step across the threshold.
Her house was hollow, with all the windows closed and the shades drawn. A thin film of dust covered the furniture. As I bent down to survey everything a little closer, the door slammed itself shut.
Or at least I thought it did. There, standing just off to the right was what was left of Mrs. Williams’ body, peering at me. My heart began to race. I slowly crept towards the stairs, hoping not to attract its attention. Mrs. Williams’ shoulders hunched forward like an animal alert of its prey. In between her heaving pants, she crouched, lowering her face to the floor.
I waited. She was a statue, a gargoyle awaiting instructions.
Once I was sure she wouldn’t lunge at me I went to find Kyra. Down the corridor I could see her sitting on the edge of her bed, the door ajar. She was still as I came closer.
“Kyra?” I said.
“You can see us?” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. The cherry tree ink on her neck rippled, glowing a low purple. “How…” The sound this time was husky and sweet, a deeper decimal just below hers speaking along with her.
“I can help you, but you have to leave Kyra and her family alone!” I yelled, not meaning to appear so desperate before the spirit. “Where’s your people?” I said.
She pushed a curl behind her ear trying to wipe the water from Kyra’s eyes.
“Gone,” was her only reply.
She bunched up her skirt into clenched fists, tears falling into her lap. I looked up in time to catch a gathering of shadows down the hall around Mrs.Williams’ body. Apparently, the emotional state of the spirit had awoken its watch dog. The darkness scattered up the walls, frittering like insects, as the body moved towards us. Her leaden footsteps dropped onto the floorboards. I jumped to the other side of the room to throw open the window for a quick escape.
Mrs. Williams reached the sunlight, and somehow she smiled at me as sweetly as the first day we met in church. A little surprised I was in her daughter’s room, she crossed over the carpeting feebly when only moments ago she was sprinting.
Kyra perked up, transforming as if nothing was amiss. After she ushered her mom out, she happily bounced towards me with a mischievous smile on her round face.
The shades snapped shut, and instantly her expression hardened. Fog rose around us as she tiptoed to reach my face. She touched her forehead to my third eye, her warmth spreading as the fog filled the room.
This country is in a state of ‘turmoil,’ finding itself talking about race more often than not. Our society throws terms, like ‘turmoil’ or ‘justice’ or ‘race’, around like fists of shredded paper towels, too scared to stand beneath them. I’d like to take a moment from writing poetry to say that our country is not in a state of ‘turmoil,’ it is turmoil. Our country was born from struggle. There has always been an us, the Americans, and a them, the British; a North and South; and unfortunately a man-made separation between black and white.
It is this last point that is most evident in the Trayvon Martin case, the Ferguson riots, the recent developments on the University of Missouri’s campus; and, the Pennsylvania Human Relations Commission (PHRC) findings against Chestnut Hill College in the case of Allan Michael Meads. A model African-American student, director, actor, and volunteer was expelled on unfair grounds and harshly escorted off the premises with only weeks until his graduation in 2012 after his production of ‘A Raisin In The Sun’ debuted on campus due to an alleged misappropriation of funds. Today, November 23rd, after fighting an uphill legal battle for the past couple of years, his case is finally gaining some traction.

Allan Michael Meads (left) in his starring role of the production of ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ at Chestnut Hill College.
As a member of the cast for ‘A Raisin In The Sun,’ I honestly didn’t think that a play about race relations would have such an impact on the director’s life in the very same way. Through auditions and rehearsals, building sets and finding wardrobe and props, it became clear, at least to me, that as the first all African American production at Chestnut Hill College (CHC) our play would always be more.
Mead, the cast, and the African Awareness Society on campus poured ourselves into putting on the best performance we could because of the unspoken expectations of us. For every student who had struggled with a feeling of discrimination at CHC, it was a big deal if it failed in any way.
After successfully coming together to entertain and simultaneously educate hundreds of people, Mead deserved to enjoy his accomplishment. Instead he, as well as the cast, were scrupulously questioned in regards to the proceeds of the play and procedures. The PHRC found that
“There was no written contract or agreement between Complainant [Mead] and Respondent [Chestnut Hill College] detailing the obligations of conducting a student performance.”
Nor was there a faculty adviser provided to inform us beforehand of how these things should be handled.
Now, for people who may speak about this occurrence in the future with terms like ‘race baiter’ or ‘black card,’ I’d like to address you. Not every battle over race is bloody. Sometimes an event is devoid of riots and violence. Sometimes its the pain of the everyday, persistence with lawyers and meetings that makes a difference. There are many within the minority of CHC’s community, and the country for that matter, that attend a predominantly ‘white’ school (PWS) thinking that an unseen hammer is always hanging above them, ready to strike down at the smallest slight.
In some instances we can regard this feeling as paranoia, and others are too obvious to ignore. When “100% of the African-American students charged with a violation were either expelled or suspended,” compared to the overwhelming amount of ‘white’ students found guilty of the exact same infractions or more severe offenses, received suspension or alternate correction only after multiple cases, we can not ignore the facts.
These findings in no way reflect the amazing professors, faculty, cooking staff, and security guards employed by CHC that work tirelessly to treat all of us, black, white, or in between, as students and friends. But, even so, I have had moments on campus where a comment or disdainful judgement has made me feel uncomfortable to say the least. Hopefully, our Alma mater will learn to grow from this experience in accordance to their mission, and help transform the school for future generations of graduates.
Even though the college refused to cooperate with Allan Michael Mead and the PHRC initially, they are currently in the pre-hearing stages as of today. I for one would like to see a peaceful resolution reached, but if the case does make it to trial, I’d stand in full support against what was an egregious mistake.
I welcome all questions, comments, or concerns on this topic, if you’d like to contact me directly. If you’d like to learn more about the case, please click on the link below:
Open Letter on Behalf of the CHC Alumni of the Color Collective
–Written by Ariama Long, Creator of The Poetry Corner, Member of CHC Color Collective
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
as they spoon the succotash and
noodles
into a skull
past
caring.
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
in a world long ago
gone
leaving this is
nothing.
loving it was
too.
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
fingers thin to the
bone,
I offer no
prayers.
that I have known the dead and now I’m
dying
dying
I have known the dead
here on earth
and elsewhere;
alone now,
alone then,
alone.
–Charles Bukowski
This is how they love you back
I could stand here nakedly offering
him the key to my forever
He’d hesitate
This is how they love you back
say I am in love with love but
not the idea of your love just hers
or I could’ve sworn I heard a knocking on my heart
I just forgot to open the door
This is how they love you back
let me hold your hand here
before anyone sees
let me be me
because being an ass
is all I want to be
I don’t want the responsibility of your happiness
whatever you have to give though
I’ll take, gladly
This is how they love you back
I could suffocate on the waiting
This is how they love you back
This is how it feels
This is how it sounds
This is how it is
We burrow tears
bracing the levees
against the flood gates so that they won’t break
and we struggle
deep in the trench of giving
we sweat
to find footing in the mud
This is how they love you back
all smiles and wide gaped laughter
This is how they love you back
without trusting or knowing
This is how they love you
This is how they love you
This is how it feels
This is how it sounds
and we hurt
holding onto nothing
but struggle
This is how we leave you just a little bit freer
This how we love us back
This is for the last time I found myself wanting
This is for the comparisons
and mood swings
the general dismissal of my things
the leavings
the I need to work on my own feelings
the fifteen missed messages
and unheard phone rings
This is how we love us back
apply pressure to the muscle
gently squeeze
don’t forget to breathe
this is how it feels
this is how it sounds
this is how it is
Nothing lasts, behold.
Behold how the leaves, the flowers, the old villagers,
the pose of rivers’ dancing, the brazen pitchers and
the fire of hookah
and the flock of grown up girls gradually diminish
like the monsoon of Hilsa fish !
The yellow leaves, sounding in the wind,
fall down on the droughty desolate land.
The foreign ducks too,
on whose bodies there are millions of bubbles, fly away
into the shallow blue cup of the sky.
Why doesn’t anything last long?
The corrugated iron sheet, the hay or the muddy walls
and the undecaying banyan tree of village
get uprooted by the terrible typhoon of Chittagong.
The plaster splits and in the long run the mosque of our village,
like our Faith, collapses down with a heavy crash.
The nests of sparrows, the love, the twigs and tendrils
and the covers of books fall off twisted.
By the water’s bite of the Meghna,
the crops’ green scream of the horizon starts trembling.
The houses float, float the pitchers and the cowsheds.
Like the affection of my elder sister, the old
embroidered pillow gets also sunk.
After the decay of dwelling-houses, nothing exists more.
Only the birds, fond of water, flying in the sky
wipe off the foam of wind from their beaks.
–Al Mahmud, Bangladesh
madness is
wearing your ex’s bracelet next to the current boyfriend’s on the same wrist while fighting with your new best friend about your old one
madness is
puberty and periods and prom
madness is
four kids at bed time
madness is
the new
madness is
that good good, the kind you stayed awake for
madness is
music
madness is
getting pissy drunk on a Tuesday in preparation for the weekend so you forget about the job you hate
and somehow
my madness is
love
pure, like hunger, and the stabbing reminder that you are
I don’t like reminiscing
Nostalgia is not my forte
I don’t spill tears
On yesterday’s years
But honesty makes me say,
You were a precious pearl
How I loved to see you shine,
You were the perfect girl.
And you were mine.
For a time.
For a time.
Just for a time.
–Maya Angelou
R.I.P