Mommy's Hands

at nineteen
my mother held her swollen belly
and God blessed her hands,
His power emanating through the thin barrier
that separated the three of us
her hands chose life

as a little girl I was always obsessed
with Mommy's hands
how soft and delicate they were in my tiny palms
I always wanted to feel her warmth
that I could feel came from a higher power

with those hands
we were never without
and we were able to be

Calm After the Storm

my heart has stopped racing
breathing now requires little effort again
and my chest no longer has that throbbing ache
hugs don't hurt anymore
especially when it's his arms that are around me
I even find myself drawing more and more into his warmth
while before I couldn't bear another's touch
no matter the sincerity behind it
I used to believe that falling in love created such a thrill
that it hurt so good
an earthquake that tore through your heart
shattering everything negative
thunder rolling through the hills
shaking trees to their core
such destruction was a beautiful mess
but I've realized that this kind of falling in love
only leaves nasty scars
and have learned to turn my mistakes into art
so when people ask about them
I call them tattoos
this was how I thought I was in love with someone
you let them tear through your heart and they leave behind tattoos
but this time my heart isn't experiencing such turbulence
is this wrong?
do I not love him?
but it's moments like when I am curled up next to him
my face buried deep into the crook of his neck
his arms draped over me like a blanket over a sleeping child
or when we're asleep and he pulls me into him
such a calmness melts inside of me
this is a different kind of love.

I'm Back!

Hey everyone!

I didn't mean to take such a long break, but I really needed it. I learned that stressing over having writer's block really isn't helpful at all, so I embraced. Also, I wanted to enjoy my summer, and what an amazing one it was! Now school is starting up again next week and everything is slowly winding down. I'm back to focusing on my blog and my writing and I've even picked up some new material to read (Toni Morrison's God Help the Child). 

As many of you know, I'm beginning my third year at Rutgers University, and I have never been more excited! Mainly because I finally get to take an Africana Studies course and a very interesting creative writing class. I'm hoping that something I learn from these two courses will somehow find its way into my writing.

Just a quick update and to let you guys know I'm still here! People have been asking why I haven't been posting, too. Glad you guys care! :) Be on the lookout for new material.

XOXO,
Jada

The Revolution

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

                                              --Dr. Maya Angelou

Like the phoenix we rise

Out of Blackened ashes 

A new nation, a new people

With sun-kissed skin strong like coffee

And hair defying the white man's gravity

Our backs no longer bearing white burdens

But carrying our fallen young brothers and sisters with us

As we fly into a world of our own

We speak their names

Say his name: Trayvon

Say her name: Aiyana

Say his name: Michael

Say her name: Renisha

Say his name: Tamir

We speak all of their names

So they will not be forgotten 

But the white man is trying to keep us down
Tearing our wings right out of our backs
Ms. Simone said southern trees were bearing strange fruit
I didn't know what she meant until I saw them too
The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice
Suddenly meant something totally new
Using our Black skin for target practice
First it was our men and then our babies
Now we have to watch our backs as we kneel before God on Sundays

Negroes--Sweet and docile,

Meek, humble, and kind:

Beware the day--

They change their minds.

And we will rise

We will rise.

I Dreamed of Poetry

Last night I dreamed of poetry
Of lines running past each other
Like two ships passing in the night
For that small window of time
They were all each other had
Oars beating against the current
In the depths of my chest
I woke up in a panic
Running my hands over my bed
And then my body
I was missing something
My mind kept trying to wonder
And I knew if I weren't careful enough
It would lose itself again
And I'd have to spend another week
Trying to finding it among the rubble
That had piled up inside
So I tried to think about my dream about poetry
And how disturbingly calm it made me
So I filled my glass half-empty
And melted into the overwhelming vastness
Of the white paper
Because I learned that we should never
Regret loving in permanent ink
But what can be more permanent
Than tattooed scars?

Now That It's Finally Over

Pain has become the incessant flow of lovers
who stay for only one night and I ask to leave in the morning
because I don't remember their names, or don't want to remember
They are either nothing like you or too much like you
And I can't decide which is worst
How late nights and early mornings are fraternal twins
I don't make an effort to distinguish because
I see no point
I'll pour myself another glass of wine before I pour my heart out
so that I can blame this senseless act on not being sober enough
Even though sobriety feels like this constant that hasn't existed
Having now spent countless nights obsessing over
what was real and what was fake
Which one of us was the impostor?
You pretended to be sincere and I pretended to believe you
I thought that I would finally be able to breathe when it ended
but as I listened to the last thing you said to me
your hand already wrapped around my heart
tightened and yanked at it so hard
I can still feel your fingertips and palm there
I lie in bed at night and have to remind my body to take deep breaths
you've suffocated me for so long I don't remember how to breathe
A laying on of hands
Fingers pressed tightly into my throat still
I see you doing what I wanted for me
and the soreness in my chest returns as I realize
you only do for whom you really want
Now that it's finally over
my love has yet to waver
it's just standing in the empty dirt paths of my soul
arms outstretched for you
watching you grow smaller and smaller
Wishing it had never opened up for you in the first place.

Music!

I have added a playlist to my blog of (some of) the songs I like to listen to when I have writer's block. You won't find anything recent though; most of this music is older than me or came out when I was fairly young. They set a certain tone for my spirit, and I felt that these 20 songs in particular captures the overall messages of my posts. Below I've selected a few that have a particular special meaning to me:

1. Drive by The Cars and Night Time is the Right Time by Ray Charles
I added these two songs because of my Grandpa (RIP). He passed away in 2011; he was one of the most important people in my life. Ray Charles was one of his favorite artists, but this song in particular reminds me of him. The other one just makes me think of my Grandpa. We traveled with him a lot growing up, so this song makes me think of those memories. Love you and miss you, Dad! 

2. Sweetest Thing by Lauryn Hill
Oh my God, what song by Ms. Lauryn Hill isn't my favorite?! My mother played her album all the time when I was a kid. This song in particular is what I think of when I think of love. It's a poem in itself; she's a talented writer! Not to mention that this was also in my favorite movie, Love Jones!

3. Lifetime by Maxwell
Maxwell is another artist my mother played a lot when I was growing up. I love all of his music as well! This one song, though, represents a pivotal event in my life and the inspiration behind some of my poetry. Thank you for introducing this song to me.

4. Heroes by David Bowie
I first heard this song in the movie Perks of Being A Wallflower, and I had the same reaction they had when they first heard it: what is this awesome song?! It is the perfect song for so many different occasions. I feel infinite when I listen to it.

5. Closer by Goapele 
I can't believe I forgot to add this song! This one means so much to me. Seniors in my high school are given what's called Senior Signing Day, where all the seniors announce where they will be heading for college. For weeks I could not find a song that resonated with me. I like all kinds of music (clearly) and if I could have I would've had like a mash-up of as many songs as I could. But I heard this song for the first time in a long time and thought, this is so perfect. I was graduating high school and going to a four-year college; things were really happening, this was a major step in my life! This song will always remind me of that day.

I hope you enjoy these songs!

Get Down with the Get Down!

Last week, I saw this picture in my Facebook timeline and laughed so hard, shared it, and said, "Yes." In my mind, I was thinking, this is the kind of brother I need, the kind of friends I need to be associated with. From beginning my natural hair journey (officially relaxer-free now after a year of transitioning!) to doing my own research on my people, I have taken on a new meaning of what it means to be a young, Black woman. There's a revolution coming y'all; whether you're ready or not, it's coming. And I will be at the forefront with my other brothers and sisters, fro'ed out, my melanin just glistening, and my Black power fist in the air. I'm so ready!

I said that I was taking some kind of hiatus from my writing because I really wanted to refocus my energy; however, due to some recent personal circumstances, my writing has once again become a source I pour my heart out to, and I've been writing my usual sad, gut-wrenching, tear-jerkers (I don't know if any of you experience all of these emotions, but I sure do, hmm!) I wanted to refocus my energy because I haven't written anything about what's been going on in the Black community. So many different things have happened in the last month, and each time I wanted to say something. But honestly, I haven't found the words.

But Jada you're a writer!

Ironic, isn't it? 

I have watched a lot of spoken word videos and so many people have expressed their feelings in such beautiful and profound ways. Language is powerful y'all, it really is. When I was ten years old, my teacher made me read The Secret Garden, and I give credit to this book and Frances Hodgson Burnett for me wanting to be a writer. I wondered how she was able to write the way she did. I'm my ten-year-old self again: how can I write about these events the way they did? I share my opinions so much on Facebook and Twitter on these topics, and now I just want to mold them into my poetry.

To each his own. I'm still trying to find my own voice when I write. 

Fret not; I am working on something. I have to address my new-found appreciation for my Blackness.

Are you down, my brotha? My sista? You betta get with it, chile!

5AM Jazz Musings

this morning
i fell asleep to melancholy jazz.

the darkness in my room overcame me.
ever since i was a little girl 
i've been afraid of the dark. 

but the humming from my radio
cradled me, lulled me to sleep

until the sounds became 
so hypnotizing/so numbing 

that they melted into my thoughts
that manifested into dreams.

and i dreamed of being loved,
of gentle kisses on collarbones and foreheads.

i dreamed of poetry's and jazz's romance,
of their manifested languages lying in my arms, I'm kissing
its eyelids like it had done to me once.

when i woke up the music had stopped
and the first thing i saw was your picture on my wall,
your eyes staring so intently at me.

i used to love him. 

This is how my 20's are going so far

At midnight, I rang in my 20th birthday three mugs of wine past delirious and waited until 2am for a phone call I never got. By then the bottle was empty and I fell asleep with eyes spilling over like a glass too full in wet sheets cursing what's his face. The wine was for me to evade this familiar darkness I carried in my chest but that night it just grew and laughed in my face. Nobody knew I was depressed. That even when I was laughing and playing, my heart was a cracked levee ready to burst at any moment. That late at night it invited itself into my bed and cradled me and even when I asked politely to have sleep it didn't go away. That when I undress in front of a mirror and try to force feed my mind and make it swallow that reflection, it throws it back up and says, This is why he is with someone else. That I wake up in the mornings and have panic attacks about not finding something, anything to do because it will occupy my idle body, strap me to my bed, and torture me with several rounds of shocks of memory I shouldn't have seen in the first place. That my smile is a band-aid I wear over scars that it continues to pick at as they try to heal. That everyday I feel like jumping out of my bones because I can't take the consistent aching that runs from my legs all the way up through my heart and into my mind. All because somebody broke my little heart and people say that we all experience heartbreak but it was the way he did it. Web MD says abuse is one of the factors of depression. That was the first time I named what he was doing to me.

Wanted: Have You Seen Her?

I am looking for a girl and I'm wondering if you have seen her:

She was wearing her heart on her right sleeve
Dragging beaten baggage through the streets
When he picked her up
You may notice the brokenness in her smile
From when he tore himself from her lips
You may hear her cry in the way she laughs
She won't let anyone touch her
Because she is way too fragile already
Look out for closed doors and bed sheets
Because that's where she's used to him keeping her
She probably won't come out
If you call her name
So tell her what he used to tell her
That he loved her
That she was beautiful
And I swear she will think it is him
And fix herself up good enough to love him
All over again
Because she believes in him the way Christians believe in God
Asking Him for forgiveness for whatever He deemed as sinful
Praying to him the way he had preyed on her 
Her sun-kissed skin is probably bloody, beaten, and bruised
She is having a hard time forgiving herself
For loving him for too long
She may be really sick
Trying to starve his memory out of her body
Throwing up his smile, his laugh, his eyes
The way he kissed her
And the way he touched her
How his heart felt when she laid her cheek against his hollow chest
How he held her heart in his palm and crushed it like paper
Please find her before he does again
She will consume him like the body of Christ on First Sundays
Swallow his "I missed you" and "Damn you still look good" 
And ask him, "God, why have you forsaken me?" 
She will smell the other women on him
And still be convinced that hers is still the strongest
Tell herself that he came back again because he loved her
Not that he just doesn't have his shit together
She will want to help him because
This is what she defines love as
No one has ever told her she can't help somebody who is that broken
She is probably waiting at a bus stop
Convinced that he is just running a little late this time
But he will come the way he came so many times before
She thinks she has that kind of effect on him
Or she is probably sitting in a cafe
Writing him into her poetry again
Because she knows he hates what she has to say about him
And he will come find her and tell her just that
Or she is running from him again
Because he embarrassed her again
Said that he loved her again
Pulled her into a hug again
Kissed her again
Made love to her again
But she found him singing the same song to someone else again
And told her "I think we should end this" again
Because he doesn't want to hurt her again
Because he cares too much about her again
But this isn't healthy for either one of them again
She has so many tattooed scars on her body
She won't even look at herself in the mirror anymore
Her eyes are probably so full of water
She'll want to drown in her tears tonight 
Like she did last night
And last week
And last month
And last year
All she does is cry at the moon and wonder
Why did he choose to do this to her
If I still know her as well as I did
I am certain she is sitting on the steps of a church
Trying to baptize herself into poetry
So that all of what she knew washes away.

If you find her, please tell her that I miss her.

Once Upon A Dream

I used to dream of midnights in Paris
a large bay window overlooking the Seine River
lying in white bed sheets staring at the city lights
and of course my Black King and I
basking in the sanctity of our love
We would be magic.

Now I dream of dark alleyways 
and tainted bed sheets of betrayal
I am but a beggar in rain
asking for my things back
glaring into his eyes
as he smiles into hers.

At First Sight

I looked at him the way one looks at art--
first taken aback, then mesmerized
by his lines in his bare back
and the way his deep brown skin glistened
as the sun kissed him
the way I wanted to--
soft and gentle
he was my kind of poetry
the kind you read over chai tea and milk
on a rainy Sunday afternoon
the kind that tugs at your soul
and you lose yourself for a moment
I wanted to stay lost in him
for as long as I could
He was a beautiful masterpiece.

Hiatus!

Hi, Readers!

Writer's block is something serious this time around, so I've decided to (obviously) take a writing hiatus and refocus my energy. This upcoming fall I'll be transferring to Rutgers for the remainder of my college experience and starting my Africana Studies minor (yay!). During this time I want to catch up on my reading, specifically by writers of color and even more specifically women. I'm looking for more material to write about. Lately I've been so inspired by these Black women I've stumbled upon, and I am in such awe when I read their work. Right now I'm trying to get my hands on Toni Morrison's new novel, God Help the Child. She's one of my favorite writers, and I've heard this one is really good. I also plan on rereading Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. I was only a junior in high school when I first read it, so I think I'll appreciate more now. 

A good writer is an avid reader! Find a good book and try to read a couple of pages a night.

--Jay

Unrequited

Under a lone streetlight
I stood as rain drenched my entire body
my hands outstretched with my heart in them
tears falling relentlessly
as you walked ahead of me
your arm draped around her neck
a kiss placed against her forehead
All I ever wanted was to love.

Yes, I want to be a writer; why is that a problem?

Hi, Readers,

I know I've been slacking; these last few weeks of the semester are crunch time, so I'm focused on getting these grades right and start my new journey at Rutgers University next fall (yay!). In the last few weeks, more than usual I've been asked what it is exactly I want to do with my life. My answer is usually, "I'm only a sophomore. I have enough time to figure all of that out." That's the safe answer. What I really want to say is: I'm working towards being a really famous writer someday. I don't say it often because I get weird looks and the "Oh, well you know they don't make a lot of money." *Rolls eyes* Or they'll ask about my major and say (very condescendingly), "Oh, you want to be a teacher? They don't make a lot of money. Being a teacher is not easy." *Rolls eyes again* 

I always knew I didn't want some boring desk job answering phones, staring at a computer all day, going to boring meetings. I wanted to do something that I had complete control over. With the help of my 10th grade English teacher, I realized that one, I was pretty damn good at writing poetry, and two, that this was something I could do. How I was going to get to that point was a different story, but that was what I was focused on. Every year since then my writing has improved drastically. I get better and better every time I write a new piece. I read other poets' beautifully written work, and I think, Jada, this could be you someday. 

Being an artist is not easy, whether it's a writer, an actor, a painter, etc. I'm very well aware of that. But why would I not do something I love for the rest of my life? You hear about these CEOs who leave their jobs, making crazy money, to go live a simpler life? Because they're happier that way. To some people, money is everything. They want to live that lavish lifestyle. I'm not into that. As long as I have enough for food and a roof over my head, why am I complaining? God always makes a way.

So please, do not talk to me about doing something else or finding something else. I will not listen to you, you will be wasting your time, and it's only going to piss me off and prove you wrong even more. Either be on my side and help me on my journey or get out of my way and watch me succeed. People are going to know my name. They are going to read my books in school, for leisure. I'm going to touch people with my words.

Why can't you see that it is a beautiful thing to be able to create images and stories with words? It's amazing. I feel sorry for you for looking down on people who can do that. 

Don't let people tell you that you shouldn't do something because it doesn't seem practical. Do it anyway to prove to them that you could but also more so for yourself, that you can do it. 

XOXO,
Jay

Flashback: Permanent Ink Pt. II

I was looking through my Google Docs for all my old poems and stumbled upon this. Isn't it amazing to find something years later? I thought, did I really write this?! Enjoy!

I never wanted to love in permanent ink because I knew that 
one day it would be all I had left. But I didn’t want to forget those 
moments for they were precious segments of time that needed 
to be captured. In blue ink I inscribed just about every beautiful 
episode for batum, so that I could replay them when the stars 
were the only things that accompanied me. My blue ink continued to 
scribe, even the nightmares. I couldn’t wake up from those terrors. 
Even worse, they were now apart of me. Like a broken record, 
they kept showing themselves behind my lids over and over again. 
They wouldn’t wash away like ink on skin because they had replaced 
each inch of my flesh. I was ready to play Russian Roulette. 
All I had was one shot. And all of it would end. But the safety kicked in 
when I pulled the trigger and my life flashed before my eyes. Staring at this 
piece of steel, it transformed into the one who had bequeathed me the pen 
in the first place. Never regret loving in permanent ink but I let it consume me 
and take over me. I won’t be careless with this blue ink anymore. 
Trading in such things for new ones will only be my ultimate downfall. 
The ugly scars left behind are now simple remnants of my old self. 
So I prance on Earth’s shoulders, scarred and all. 
One day someone will see past my imperfections and I will too.

Reign

And he fell like rain on a Thursday afternoon.

"And on this day, a blog was born."

Happy birthday to my blog!! This totally snuck up on me (thanks for the reminder Facebook!). I cannot believe a year ago today I created my blog. I've seen myself grow so much as a writer in this year. Thank you to those of you who take the time out and read my posts. I appreciate it so much. I haven't had much time to write like I want to, but I hope to get some more pieces done by the end of this week. 

Here's to Year 2! 

XOXO,
Jay 

Forget Me Not

This morning I stood by my window sill as the April
showers fell ever so lightly against the white panes, the
petrichor filling my lungs as I clipped away the stems
of forget-me-nots. I thought of giving instead the white
oleanders in milk--but I loved you too much to cause
that much pain. These blues will be my memory for you just
as these scars are your memory. Does your heart break when you
hear my name? All I ever wanted was to dance in your
arms way past midnight. I attach kisses and teardrops to
each petal along with the very lasts of you that live
in me. I wrap the flowers in the best ribbon of blue
and place them six feet above where you lie. Forgive me, love,
I know not what I do, love. I could not stop loving you.

Resistance to the Strong Black Woman Mantra

From birth we are nurtured to never show signs of weakness

because America was built on our fore-mothers' backs

and they did not break.

They bore children to a man that was never theirs

Had to lie on their backs

and brace themselves against the abuse 

that was thrust through her body.

She hurt but she did not cry.

We are told to never let a man violate

that which is most sacred

and to never believe what he appears to be.

Little girl, they say, you don't know what love is

You have all the time in the world for all of that.

What got me was that if I got my little heart broken

I better not show him that he hurt me.

Let no straw break your back.

But I loved someone whom at one point loved me too.

Let me cry a little.

Therapy Session

grown woman sits propped between 
Momma's big brown legs 
head resting against her thighs 
weighed down by memory
Momma has a brown comb in her hand
parting her hair and scratching her scalp
grown woman is suddenly little girl again
gritting her teeth and wincing at 
the pulling of her thick, coily mane
Momma is singing her a blues
she tried hard to forget
trying to scratch that memory out 
of her baby's head
she sighs and rolls her big brown eyes
until Momma sings an end she never heard of
and comes to understand a Mother's love
grown woman/little girl
folds herself into Momma's arms
and thanks her with tears

Happy National Poetry Month!

Readers!

It's the time of year again! National Poetry Month is back, and it is the perfect opportunity to get back into the groove of writing. I will try to write for these 30 days, but as this semester of college is coming to an end and I'm making a huge transition in my life, it may not happen. But I will really try! I am on the hunt for really cool writing prompts, so if and when I see any I will update the list below. The new ones will be in bold. I'm not a fan of prompts because I can't always find ones that I like, but I will try some if I'm really stuck.

Happy Writing!
Jay

30 Writing Prompts
1. Find a newspaper article and blackout the words you don't like/want to create a poem.
2. Write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object.
3. Write a resistance poem. There are many forms of resistance, including militant resistance, resistance to new ideas, the resistance in exercise, and maybe even a little resistance to starting a new project. I hope you don’t resist the urge to write a poem today. (Writer's Digest)
4. Write a secret poem. The poem itself could be a secret, or it could be about keeping secrets or, I suppose, not keeping them. Or maybe it’s about a top secret project, or the poem is a riddle with some sort of secret meaning. Or, well, I’ll let you figure out how best to poem secretively. (Writer's Digest)
5. Write a fourteener. Fourteeners can be have any number of lines, but each line should have fourteen syllables. Traditionally, each line consisted of seven iambic feet (i.e., an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable, times seven), but non-iambic fourteeners also exist. (NaPoWriMo.net)
6. Write a departure poem. Many people depart to school and/or work every day, and they depart on a plane, train, or automobile–some even walk or ride a bike. Of course, that’s keeping things rather physical; there are also emotional and psychological departures. You may even decide to make a departure from your normal writing style in tone or structure today. (Writer's Digest)
7.  Write a “loveless” love poem. Don’t use the word love! And avoid the flowers and rainbows. And if you’re not in the mood for love? Well, the flip-side of the love poem – the break-up poem – is another staple of the poet’s repertoire. If that’s more your speed at present, try writing one of those, but again, avoid thunder, rain, and lines beginning with a plaintive “why”? Try to write a poem that expresses the feeling of love or lovelorn-ness without the traditional trappings you associate with the subject matter. (NaPoWriMo.net)
8. Write a things-not-as-they-appear poem. Poetry is filled with metaphors, similes, symbols, and layered meanings, so this should be a softball prompt. If you’re struggling, look at your current surroundings, pick an object, and turn it into a metaphor for something. Or think of somebody in the real world (mail person, gas station attendant, etc.) and make up a secret double life for them. (Writer's Digest)
9. The poet, Rudy Francisco, wrote what he calls his "Honest Poem." Use this outline from this site (http://ttinkin.com/2014/04/07/honestpoems/) to create your own honest poem.
10. It's April! "April showers bring May flowers...." Write a poem about rain without using the word rain. Find other ways to describe it (fun fact: petrichor is the scent of rain, hmm!) Have fun!
11. Start a poem off with the phrase "I have come to know..." Use it to tell a truth you've never said outloud before. This one can be particularly therapeutic. 

Homeless

she wanders down the middle of the one-way
too disoriented to pay attention to traffic
                                   yet focused
feet bare and covered in sporadic spots of blood
half           scattered black dress
like her broken heart

rain pours but she is unbothered
even if she cannot see
her heart knows where to go
they say, carry ya drunk tail home, girl
                                   she's too involved to notice

she begins to hum a series of anharmonic tunes
her arms and legs eventually joining in on this
uncoordinated          dance
is this good enough for you yet, love?
she calls to no one
she's not even sure if it's the rain or her own tears now
                                  she never wanted to play the fool

but he found her in an alley
licking her wounds from a previous beating
and nursed her good enough to love her
          good enough to love me?

now she can't find her way home
it was the last place he held her
                                and said, I love you.

Runaway

as soon as I pass the threshold
my knees press hard and deep into dirt and rocks

hands clasped together
shivering violently

God I don't know how to pray
but please get him away from me

his chip is still on my shoulder
his stench still strong in my nostrils

I can hear his memory calling my name behind me
and I'm trembling off of my knees

and into a run
tears flowing like rivers again

I'm trying to keep my head above the waters
but I feel him growing closer and closer

my natural instinct is to turn to him and embrace him
run into his arms like a child to its mother

because they were the only things
that once made me feel safe

but my ribs are still bruised from the last lashings
and if he touches them I swear they'll fall apart

I keep running
but he's always just a step behind me

Enuf by Ntozake Shange

In honor of Women's History Month, I have to publish this poem by Ntozake Shange. She is one of my favorite poets ever, maybe even my number one favorite! The language she uses and the stories she tells are so hypnotizing. I hope you enjoy this one!

at 4:30 AM
she rose
movin the arms & legs that trapped her
she sighed affirmin the sculptured man
& made herself a bath
of dark musk oil egyptian crystals
& florida water to remove his smell
to wash away the glitter
to watch the butterflies melt into
suds & the rhinestones fall beneath
her buttocks like smooth pebbles
in a missouri creek
layin in water
she became herself
ordinary
brown braided woman
with big legs & full hips
reglar
seriously intendin to finish her
night's work
she quickly walked to her guest
straddled on her pillows & began
you'll have to go now /
i've
a lot of work to do / & i
cant
with a man around / here
are yr pants /
there's coffee on the
stove / it's been
very nice / but i cant see
you again /
you got what you came
for / didnt you'
& she smiled
he wd either mumble curses bout crazy bitches
or sit dumbfounded
while she repeated
æi cdnt possibly wake up / with
a strange man in my bed / why
dont you go home'
she cda been slapped upside the head
or verbally challenged
but she never waz
& the ones who fell prey to the
dazzle of hips painted with
orange blossoms & magnolia scented wrists
had wanted no more
than to lay between her sparklin thighs
& had planned on leaving before dawn
& she had been so divine
devastatingly bizarre the way
her mouth fit round
& now she stood a 
reglar colored girl
fulla the same malice
livid indifference as a sistah
worn from supportin a wd be hornplayer
or waiting by the window
& they knew
& left in a hurry
she wd gather her tinsel &
jewels from the tub
& laugh gayly or vengeful
she stored her silk roses by her bed
& when she finished writin
the account of her exploit in a diary
embroidered with lilies & moonstones
she placed the rose behind her ear

& cried herself to sleep. 

10 Breaths

1. 
i feel broke
i feel broken

2. 
i built a wall around my heart 
after the first time it burst like fireworks in my chest

3. 
but somehow you broke in and found your way to its center
and to my surprise it was strong enough to take you

4. 
but you plucked your root as you walked out of the door
and it burst again
bleeding questions and confusion

5. 
i can't breathe

6. 
i could feel my heart cracking as i inhale

7. 
your smile wasn't for me anymore
it took me till now to figure that out

8. 
i hold my breath when people hug me
i used to enjoy it but i now fear it
because they might break me too

9. 
my frame is so fragile
and when you dropped me 
i shattered like fine china on wooden floors
i'm still cutting my brown skin on pieces i can't find
leaving traces of blood hoping you'll find
your way back to me.

10. Breathe.
i can't.

Breathe.
i can't.

Breathe.
i hate you but i will still make excuses for you

Breathe. 
if you couldn't handle my kind of love
you should have just said so.
now i'm walking around drunk off of your 
half-empty crystals of broken promises

Breathe.
don't come back again
i'll fix myself up good enough to love you again.

Death by Poetry

I.
i told you how i feared Death--
the very thought of it suffocated me:
to think i'll never get to be again.

i'm not afraid to die, you said,
throwing your head back and laughing
into the crowd of smoke.

II.
tonight
i saw red
broken bones and torn flesh
what had i done?

i burn the pieces
in the back alley of the park where no one
used to go.

III.
when i return home i dip my bruised body
into lukewarm bath water
and watch the rest drown.

you're dead to me.

i climb into bed, my body heavy
and on my wall find your eyes staring back at me.

Hidden

We always met in an open field away from
any sign of life. It made me feel special at first,
but this is the only way he could love me. Just
as night is beginning to take over and the sun
is leaving behind a pallet of pinks and oranges,
he pulls me in as my body begins to shiver--
first from the chill and then from anticipation. I sit
with my back pressed against his beating heart;
feels like booted feet running against wooden floors,
the steps growing louder and louder as he
presses me deeper into him. We thrive in silence. 
It is our own language. After several moments, 
his wet tongue trips over my right ear 
and I giggle, eventually cringing from anticipation
again. And there we are again, the grass our 
support, our hands not getting enough of each
other, blessing bruises like pastors, kissing scars
like mothers, melting into each other like ice on tongues. 
I would lose myself in trying to love him. When it is 
too dark to see our black bodies anymore, we break 
in silence.  I try my best to regain my scattered self 
as he stands near the banks and howls at the moon. 
I am trying to remember every little detail, 
just in case this is our last time. But it never felt like 
the last time. Our laughter echoing through trees and 
train tracks, kissing each other like rain droplets falling 
on eyelids felt like forever. When we returned to the city, 
no one ever knew he loved me.

Gone Girl

barefooted black girl
                       nappy hair in disarray

tears falling down the paths of predecessors

                       brown dress torn against bruised skin
chasing little boys down

                       dirt path roads
dust staining her black skin

                       chasing daddy

though he's long gone
                       ma's been crying for her to come back home

her grandmothers' prayers howling in the wind

Lord please guide her
                       back home

you poor girl

                      poor little brokenhearted black girl
these little boys can't love you

                       you poor girl
daddy should've taught you

                        what love is supposed to be

In Memoriam: I, Too, Sing America

Today is not only the first day of Black History Month, but it also Langston Hughes' birthday, one of the most prominent writers during the Harlem Renaissance. Happy birthday, Mr. Hughes, and thank you for your amazing contributions to Black art and literature. It is only fitting that I post this poem in honor of Black History Month. Enjoy!

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—


I, too, am America.