Hey Guys,
I know it's rare for me to interrupt the flow.
But at the advice of she who has given birth to me, I've been considering starting a poetry vlog series.
What do you think good idea?!
Leave a comment, let me know...
and now back to the regularly scheduled poetry in progress.
Amiri Baraka performing “Wailers.” From Poetry in Motion (1982) by Ron Mann.
I wonder where he is? he asked. His thoughts were so far away from the ledge in front of him. I want him to love me but, he paused mid thought as a rock crumbled beneath the weight of his foot. Searching the sky for signs of the moon, he eased back from the ledge a little. Maybe he’s looking at the same moon. Same clouds.
His heart sunk as a small malicious voice from the back of his neck, in sharp whispers said, you don’t know that’s true. No, he said. Yes, it says, he has no need for love sick fags derailing his focus. He’s all objective and goal and you’re in the way. He doesn’t even return your phone calls. But he’s my best friend. Men don’t have best friends, that’s what brothers are for. Shut up. I love him. You think the world will let you two idiots be together. He sniffed, stifling a cry. Slowly he pulled out his phone to call him, and when he didn’t answer, sent a text that read: Pls can i stay by u. He waited. Shushing his inner demons. Clinging, terrified to feel alone facing this ledge.
The waiting. crushing. every second that passed with no reply. He crawled into a ball refusing to cry because the darkness didn’t deserve his screams.
He waited.
Shaan Heng-Devan recites the epic poem ‘All Rise’ as Cameron Okeke shows off his choreography all to the sound of “Sanctuary” by Utada Hikaru.
Don’t smile
for some reason smiling is a sin that tempts the devil inside most people to cross that line
between polite and creepy
Don’t fear the boys who follow you
like dogs sniffing at the scent of your heels pressing the pavement
running will only encourage those emboldened by the cover of night
Never slouch or try to disappear into yourself
this will only make them want you more
Hold your chin parallel to the ground
more often than not they just want the queen they see gliding by to soften
to cuddle their crusted over sense of rage and rejection
to hold not knowing how so they reach out and grab
You remind them of ma and grandma pounding yam in the kitchen before dinner
of Sunday school mornings and hide-and-go-freak evenings
of their first dirty magazine
and the embarrassment of not knowing how to kiss because no one tells them what they’re expected to know
Don’t offend when skulked
Watch your shadow in a reflection
it will meet a person too close
before your eyes do
Don’t back down when challenged
and balance your bags on both shoulders
Don’t let that comment burrow inside
I know you’re tired
but home is waiting just there
and that place
you should keep safe…
and defend
by any means
necessary.
An English poet, Philip Larkin, said that poetry doesn’t start with an idea; it starts with a poem…
You have to be open to mystery. If you are open to it, mystery will come.
If you’re not, why should it, actually?
–Lucille Clifton
Christina Andrea choreography presents a beautiful take on poetry in motion!
Talaivan says—
Fearlessly, my heart has departed
to embrace my beloved.
If its arms are too slack to hold her
what use is it?
The distances between us stretch long.
Must I think of the many forests
where deadly tigers rise up roaring
like the waves of the dark ocean
standing between us? I don’t dare.
Allur Nanmulla
Kuruntokai, verse 237
—Translated by A. Anupama
a poem
can hurt or hate, can feel abandon…and reckless
it can joke
and lie
and speak
and whisper all the things you want them to hear
a poem
can have secrets
when the soul is too heavy to carry them
it can live
in the bruised skin on your knuckles
and just beneath the ducts in your eyes
can hold you
feed you
miss your voice as its reading
it can be
a listening friend when everyone else
ignores the screaming
Deep in the Boogie Down—
the bassinet of the boom bap
where the trinity is The Treacherous Three,
English is the third language
behind Bronx and Puerto Rican,
and I was nervous
because I only speak Catholic school
and I’m a Red Sox fan.
I’m just a student of KRS-1, not a son,
on a train fourteen stops beyond my comfort
zone hiding behind headphones coughing
bass, and a backpack full of lyrics:
Notorious B.I.G., Rakim, Perdomo,
Run DMC, Brooks, wanting to be real cool,
wanting to be their “dawg”—
but feeling like a mailman,
another Elvis
to the students I will lead
through a workshop in a language
I itch to get my rusted cavities around.
--Michael Cirelli
The Poetry Corner 