THANK YOU FOR THIS WEEK.

i really don't know how else to title this post, except above.

(sigh)

i can't say it's been the easiest past week, but what do us humans do? we survive. i tried my damndest to dodge a cold, and that sumbitch hit me right in the face. stuffy nose and all. beyond that. it has been a JOY to dive in deep to the poets this week. of course, this may be because they're right up my alleyway. no, i'm not from los angeles. but, the fact that these poets (and their particular poetry here) is written with a purpose in mind for consumption via spoken VOICE, vibrated vocal chords transcending through flesh, is everything for my survival.

now, this entry isn't going to delve into their words on the page, their form, as much as it is their PURPOSE in writing the poems on these pages. i hear these poems before i see these poems. to speak about the layout is to completely dismiss the impact behind their work, and the language that comprises it. from the grandfathers of performance poetry, The Last Poets, up through Nancy Padron, Jerry Quickley, and Imani Tolliver (who I'll mostly focus on, because, um, WOW) -- these are the poets that remind me that yes, it's okay to carve that space to get some shit off your chest about what's around you, what's inside you, to be influenced by your surroundings, to speak to those surroundings, to use "I" statements (and that wasn't a diss, i'm just sayin!!). the Last Poets are the 1st generation of contemporary Black poets born out of a declared commentary on the Black community, at one of the most turbulent times in our history. their work, however, is mostly male-centered, like most of the remembered figures of their time. this, however, does not detract from the poignancy of such poems like -- dare i use it -- "Niggers are Scared of Revolution", as I am still gripped by lines like:

niggers would fuck if fuck could be fucked...
but when it comes to revolution...
niggers say "fuck revolution"

and of course, the refrain of the numerous uses of "SHOOT"ing. i would love to see the rest of this documentary, as it speaks to a foundation of why poets like the ones we read (and myself included), exist. people forget that "spoken word" as it stands is not this vast, bastardized collection of trite language, snaps, sing-songy-ness, and incense that it's been condensed and diluted to be. many poets (not all, but many) have a purpose, and a need to discuss these pressing issues to our community, in order to contribute to our community's healing, and especially our own. because there is still a lack of this commentary and force in the telling of our past, future, and especially now. the fact that people think we're in a "post-racial" society because we have a Black president is reason enough to write a poem about institutionalized racism as it stands, to remind your audience that we are all affected by this damaged thinking, no matter what race they are. i won't even begin to touch on their being the grandfathers of hip-hop, because i could spend the next three blogs talking about how hip-hop's connection to our people was co-opted by corporate white supremacist control, like many other elements of Black history.

clearly, there is use for the poets that speak to the streets in all its forms; otherwise, there would be no documentaries or anthologies with them included ("streets" in this context meaning the intersecting communities you come from and supposedly represent -- not just "the hood"). i have to emphasize this point because reading these poets spoke through to my bones as a Black queer female native Baltimorean poet, who is the first in my family to receive a Master's degree in ANYTHING. when i finish this program, i wonder if i'll be able to explain precisely to them just what having an MFA even fucking means. despite the 3,000 miles between myself and my family, they are still in my dreams, still in my conversations, still in my blood, my heart. i have had many frustrating thoughts relating to my own credibility in an MFA program, trying to make sense of why I'm here, and why I feel it would legitimize my own craft. why can't i do this work on my own? why am i choosing to go into debt to legitimize my work? why the hell can i hear a pin drop in class after i read some of my poems? (Poets of Color class not included, by the way...LOL.) i'm still trying to achieve a balance in my spirit between my spiritual, reflective poems that never see the light of day outside of my journals, and my reactionary, socio-political ones that often do. when i get up to speak in front of an audience, my spirit won't let me perform the former yet. but, off the immense self-reflection that the poets conjured up for me.

enter...Imani Tolliver.

firstly, i must say it's SUCH a joy to read another Black lesbian poet in print in this class; why hasn't this happened moooorrreeee??? her poem "mudcloth" was gripping in its dealings of loss; however, i've heard so many poems with the words "frankincense" and "locks" in them that i just had to say "oooohhh...kayyyyy" to myself. i don't want to understate the tremendous wrenching of losing a love, how hard it is to say, in print, in a PUBLISHED poem: "believe me, this life is harder/without your encouragement, baby/harder without sweet wakening/to you whispering prayers over my dreams"

...WHAT????? *collapses*. i'll end that there.

"the fire this time. remembering april 1992" is another poem that leaped off the page and threw my head back. i watched her perform this, and heard many laughs from the audience -- that's a good sign, though. she spoke to the complexities of being this more or less innocuous Black woman, "a 20 something, veggie, westside girl/fighting the good fight of inclusion and voice/at a predominately white community college by the beach/where my best friend sold jewelry and fell in love", yet is seen as an absolutely terrifying Topsy figure, striking fear in frightened white minds during the time of the LA riots. one word: "BOO" is all it takes. (i've thought of saying that to other unjustly frightened white people, but haven't mustered up the care to yet. it'll happen, i'm sure.)

in her remembrance of the riots, she takes us to many places -- historical, cultural, physical -- to describe what she is, but more importantly, what she is not. i fell AGAIN at this stanza:

a revolution over my right shoulder
an army of fatigued nappy babies in black berets to my left
and my man, my king
festooned in an army of red, black and green
kwanzaa baskets rimming with fruit and ears of corn
habari gani, my sister
as my brown fist eclipses all traces of light

i am none of those things
you won't find me hiding underneath a yard of fabric
with charcoaled eyes waiting for my turn to speak

she sets a physical and literal distance between her supposed "place" as the obedient Black woman who remains barefoot and pregnant, doing her good part in the name of the so-called revolution. her reflecting on the riots allows her space to reflect on her Black womanhood beyond that week in April, and the set-aside roles for us. if not Topsy, or mrs. revolutionary, then who? can she declare her own intersections and experience of being a Black woman, for herself? this doesn't mean she's doing "Black" poetry (whateverthefuck that is), but because these days, there is still an uneven representation of who we are being reflected in the world sphere.

she speaks to the necessity of survival in this piece, in a way that so many 2nd generation poets do. sometimes, we don't always wanna be on the front lines, waving the glock, or behind the scenes, waiting to speak. sometimes, you have to use that fist to protect your brother from going to prison for the rest of his life, finding a bullet to place his rage in. sometimes, YOU AREN'T READY TO EAT RATS. but, we are still fighting (and snatching) that space to speak to all of these things equally. we are still having to prove our validity and our voice as a person first, then as a "people", and declaring our own roles for ourselves.
to me, she sums that idea up in this point:

there is a scream that happens when you are left out of something
a dying happens 

sometimes, we use white space to express this silence. sometimes, rage comes from somewhere, we just straight up gotta express that silence is happening, and we don't like it. my mom always said, "close mouths don't get fed". there is so much power in this declarative statement, that i think in a reading, open mic, or anydamnwhere needs to be spoken in order to truly be heard.

a downfall to writers who speak our poetry is that sometimes, too much is said; the topic flows pretty much in every compassed direction. it's almost as if every time we write, we're writing the poem of our entire life. she even takes us to her friend jeff, and his poem about white privilege, all the way through to Michael Jackson's (RIP) bout with self-hatred. this poem could be more concise...but could it? perhaps the riots sparked all of this for her in her spirit, and she knows she is taking that space to speak it...

i'll just leave the blog with this last 2 stanzas, because they blew me OUT the water. i have truly, truly said enough; but thank you SO much Elmaz for blessing us with these folks, and reminding me of my purpose!!!!!!!! (yeah. it was that deep for me. i don't know why i need constant reassurance of this at Mills, but...for now, just for now, I do.)

i believe in love
and i will believe in it
until i am gone
until my scars are ash
and i am the sum of my journals

besides
how are you gonna hold hands with anyone
with your fists all balled up like that