4 the performance and what not

hey y'all! so this was no easy decision, been thinkin abt it all damn day.

but, i decided to read lucille clifton's "surely i am able to write poems"...as if that wasn't obvious already ahahahah!

for my own poem, i'm gonna read some new-new. like, so new i haven't even typed it yet, so new it doesn't have a name. it's fresh off the presses of this notebook with its pages falling out (!!!). when i type that up, i'll send it to tessa :-D

oh -- and my five word bio is: runs on shrimp and laughter.

yeaahhhh so excited for this!!!!

on the moon, alice

...before i begin this post, i want to immensely apologize to my lovelies. it was a wonderful day, until i got a ridiculously sized headache, and passed out; only for my body to f**k my alarm, and wake up at this hour instead. grrr. nevertheless, i was googly eyed for much of mattawa's writing, either because i'm waking up from a dream world or because it's that damn good.

i want to focus on "for years i've been prohibited for mentioning the moon", one for its amazing title and two, for it being such a far reaching gem of a poem. section 1 of Zodiac of Echoes is, in and of itself, a phenomenal whirling section that hit my soul further than most quote unquote pastoral poems i've read. it reminded me of being in the backseat of my dad's car as a kid, and being convinced the moon was coming straight at us the further we drove to it. in this poem, the moon really does come straight at you. in the opening stanzas, he has -- and this by no means matches the beauty of it, but describes it perfectly -- lunar verbal diarrhea. at first, i wondered, is this an excuse to write a sestina? is he mimicking the form? but as i was immersed deeper in it, it immediately caused me to wonder just why he was prohibited from saying it in the first place.

So now the cedar-scented moon, and moon-
glow encasing the sky in lavender velvet,
clouds splotched on a moon-radiant sky
and a sickle moon raking a field of violets
and the moon and sun in Joseph's dream kneeling,
and how years ago we could've been on the moon
watching the city from an airplane,
the stadium lights a diamond necklace,
and she was there, a star singing...

brill.i.ant. i want to hear his musings on the moon, and everything that the moon illuminates. even those less desirable things, like underground pipes. mattawa's imagination takes him to what's not being seen, and he acts in moon-like fashion to shed light on the darkness and physical underbelly of this precious land. he reaches from the sky to the depths of the earth, and is fixated on it for most of the poem. he still doesn't provide an answer for why he was prohibited from saying "the moon", but leads us into something much deeper (pun intended). it begs a question of "what was lost", which again is not revealed, but the sense of loss is immense throughout the poem. is it a loss of language, or loss of humanity/respect for earth and its citizens? if water is a life source, why is it becoming poisonous, and trapped in these pipes? why does his brain go from here to the moon, and back?

the poem has no physical pauses, and we are encapsulated in between fire hydrants and "pipes stacked like pythons", though it is unclear to me what turning "into this subdivision" means other than to transition the poem from sky to earth. still, even if the poem's lines move us along without any breaks, it is nevertheless paced; it doesn't feel rushed. the commas help to pace the poem.

then, he suddenly whisks us back -- the interesting thing about mattawa's poems is they have no specific date and time on them, but you can feel that he's evoking history. he assures us of this by stating "i am moved again by something i felt before":

surrounded by the rubble of conquest
where there are only old stars and dead wolves,
i am moved again by something i felt before,
shaken, but without an atom of pity in my body,
filled with a transparency capable of bearing
the whole world, a void that takes on the moon
in the sky...

this intuition and feeling of the sky, of having witnessed it all, of acknowledging that we're comprised of the same elements as the moon and the ripping apart of time, all the while being intrinsically attached to matters of the earth, are woven beautifully together. he captures those moments that i only mumble about to myself at nights when no one's watching, and scribble when no one's around. "the wind" was equally amazing!

surely i am able to write poems...

Lucille Clifton is a woman i have cherished for most of my writing life. having spent a considerable amount of time in my hometown for most of her life (not to mention the being poet laureate of Murrrlin, yes!), it's only natural to feel so drawn and connected to her. this however, was the first time I encountered her book Mercy. her spirit's words are right on time for mine.

so, it should come of no surprise that "surely i am able to write poems"...struck chords, rang bells, and zapped my consciousness to fire:

"surely i am able to write poems
celebrating grass and how the blue
in the sky can flow green or red
and the waters lean against the 
chesapeake (!!!) shore like a familiar,
poems about nature and landscape
surely   but whenever i begin
"the trees wave their knotted branches
and..." why
is there under that poem always
an other poem?" 

talk. about. it.

i've been thinking lately about the poets of color expanding our literary field, form, and content, being able to write about more than, say, the pain and struggle of our history and present. it seems whenever some of us traverse this, and our writing becomes about nature or the investigation of language (ie Harryette Mullen-esque), it is impossible to do this objectively. in writing to these, it's not just about the trees, the seas, or the ABC's, per se; it still gets woven into the threads of ourselves, our histories, and the stories that aren't being told. in a similar vein, i was talking with barbara jane reyes about this, and about the writing of objects, inanimate (ie, a t-shirt), or living (nature) and its importance to us as writers. it to me is a privilege to be able to write about a shirt objectively, as just being a shirt, and not have it conjure something from underneath it that's more pressing (a shirt that my mother gave me, shirt from my first concert, you know, random sentimental memories that are still pressing on my brain).

clearly, this is still representative of a culture shock of sorts that i've encountered coming into mills and reading/absorbing the poetry we're reading in class, and that of my peers. everyday, i am reminded of a question of purpose, and remembering what that is, and the beautiful differences abound in writing. this purpose lucille was still pondering on into her later years, which were carved out into this poem. it's as if someone just asked her a question about writing about nature, seeing its colors with her first, second, and third eye, and why her writing is so entrenched in blackness, womanness, history, slavery, family, the body, etc. first off, she throws it back that it's not that she can't write these poems, surely she is able to! but clearly, these things are not separate from nature; we just have a different relationship to nature. and, it's getting at what's underneath it in order to love and appreciate it, as we can love and appreciate ourselves, our ancestors, our culture, past and present. i love lucille especially for her "both/and" understanding of life, instead of "either/or", recognizing the intersections and the beauty of our experiences, and the numerous intersections of our own identities, with all of its influences on our writing. this poem gets to the heart of that.

even in poems like "the river between us", this belief shines through; it is not a divisive poem, instead recognizing the varying lineages that brought two men to the same river (one for fishing, the other being baptized), with "their hunger that defined them":

one, a man who knew he could 
feed himself if it all came down, 
the other a man who knew he needed help.

this is about more than color. it is
about how we learn to see ourselves.
it is about geography and memory.

it is about being poor people
in america.

though she starts at their respective differences, she creates a thread of survival through the poem for poor folks, a testament to the collective desire and necessity of fathers looking out for their family, protecting them on the outside (this way, through food). she juxtaposes him with her father, in a desire to cleanse his spirit, who thus sets the tone of love, rejuvenation, and redemption for himself and his family.

i found a quote from lucille, discussing language, that i think applies to this poem as well:
"all understandings of language involve more than the dictionary definition of a word. So the more one knows about who is using the word, the more the reader brings to a fuller understanding of what is meant." 

with this in mind, she multiplies the meaning of hunger to describe a literal and spiritual place in this poem, thus connecting the two paths.

also, the line "how we learn to see ourselves", rings another meaning: does this black child in particular, in this part of the country, get to ever see the water as a source of actual food, ie, fish? or will it be etched into their memories/consciousness as purely baptismal? this brings so much history with it, given the importance of water as cleansing/"washing us white as snow" as a Christian ritual for black folks. still, lucille sees the collective struggle of the poor in amerikkka, having to get by, live, and love by any and all means.

so glad we get to read her this semester! this work is truly, truly comfort to my soul.

i believe etheridge can move stones...

i don't wanna say too much, because i'm gonna say a helluva lot on tuesday for the graaaaand presentation. but, i wish to share how deeply in love with etheridge's words i am, as well as am marveled by his life. as all great artists are, they have their triumphant moments, where the word saves them, and those demons that haunt them for most of their life -- the "monkey on the back", my folks call it. but i can safely say, up until now, no other artist we've read has moved me like etheridge. many have put me in spells, no doubt; but i hadn't felt that soul grip, reading on the bus (or even on the way to the club. i know. what the hell. *NERD*)

one particular poem that stood out to me in its music, and its longing for stillness and peace of the soul, is "a poem for myself (or, blues for a mississippi black boy)." it resonated for me, in its brief story of etheridge that he allows us to see (leaving home at 12, ie, 1943, his father, an alcoholic, so "irreverent" as to be piss drunk on a Sunday morning - damn). his opening the poem with "i was born in mississippi; / i walked barefooted thru the mud.  / born Black in mississippi; i walked barefooted thru the mud" seeks to remind readers that he has roots in the deep south that cannot be undone, no matter where his feet land in the world. the repetition drives this point home. this is where his blues began, his pain. he sought out what most Black folks in the south sought out during that time period: the desires of the North, the "better life" ahead. but, why would a 12 year old leave home to seek this out? i am told on one hand by his bio that his family moved to indianapolis, but etheridge reveals that his father did not come with him. from the "my daddy chopped cotton" line, he reveals that they were sharecroppers as well, doing the grueling work to maintain the land they rented.

what sticks out for me most, though, are these lines:

I been to Detroit & Chicago

Been to New York City too,

I been to Detroit & Chicago

Been to New York City too.

Said I done strolled all those funky avenues

I’m still the same old black boy with the same old blues.

Etheridge recognizes the privilege he had to venture to these big cities, but the act of moving away never fully cured the pain that he carried with him since childhood.  All these funky avenues, full of entertainment, art, music, distractions, drugs. Moreover, in these cities he maintained his drug habit to escape from it, which only numbed it.This line struck a chord for me, as having been "the one" to move away and see many cities and towns across the US and Cuba, but how as a poet, we are constantly writing for (or against) our childhoods, consciously or subconsciously. I don't have the same old blues per se, but home never leaves my veins, no matter how far I go. The title "A Poem For Myself" appears an attempt to heal from that pain through writing, as we all must write for self-therapy now and again; if we don't, how will we ever focus to lend these words to something or someone else?

Nevertheless, Etheridge knew that going back was an option after all. The ending is chilling -- "Going back to Mississippi/this time to stay for good/Gonna be free in Mississippi/or die in the Mississippi mud." (I wonder how long he stayed...not long, it seems, even though he says "to stay for good".) Mississippi hasn't exactly cuddled up next to the word "free" for Black folks in the 20th century (Nina Simone standing out, namely), but something about being home for him had the possibility of being free. Perhaps he imagined being free from his own demons, after all this time, or having time to reflect and move forward. He was also aware of the strong possibility of not being free, at all, and ending up dead on the same mud he placed his footprints as a child. Either he'd die the hands of white supremacists, or, from his own self  -- "Poem for Me (after recovering from an OD)" showed that he had been given a second chance at life already. 

Dammit, I've said too much. Oh, well. I just love this man's work. I'll end Tuesday's teaser here! AHAHA. Hearts!

"for I am the keeper of our words"...

"i birth them and care for them, and when these words grow strong,/a bridge"

Barbara Jane Reyes' book Diwata is a riveting and remastering account of the power of Filipino/a folk tales of creation, spirits, and the weaving in and out of history that they entail. I am struck by her telling, and retelling, and re-retelling, of these important indigenous tales that shape so much of The Phillipines, and also the colonization that has sought to destroy much of this. What, really, is the power inherent in placing "A Genesis of We, Cleaved", in the same thread as "Eve Speaks", or telling the story of "Diwata" and later, "Again, She Tells the First Story"?

SO much of history has been lost, literally carved out of our brains through the history of colonization and war, that some folks in the 21st century don't even acknowledge the legitimacy of these stories. Barbara's tales are rife with the shapeshifting nature of these tales, and also the power of the women who created them. In "The Fire, Around Which We All Gather", I imagine in part two that she gives voice to the Diwata herself, labeled as "a strange deity...because few strove to know her", to tell her own story (Reyes 14):

Poet, yes. A conjurer of words, some have said, for I am the keeper of our
words. I birth them and care for them, and when these words grow strong,
a bridge       [...]    Those who come to listen to my stories, 
they fall into a waking dream, hovering between the very earth upon which
they stand, and the place where the spirits dwell. (Reyes 42)

I was most struck by this poem, and its retelling of the power of the Diwata, how "she is the first woman, baring her breasts to feed a poisoned land." She is also a wolf, a shark. These animals who have been revered as sacred for so long, all encompassed in the deity.

When she calls forth Eve in "Eve Speaks", a nod to the Spanish Catholic colonization of the Phillipines, the story is nevertheless as powerful as the Diwata. To give Eve voice is inherently revolutionary -- she is only, in our minds, cut from the flesh of Adam, and mankind was formed. Not here. Eve takes matters into her own hands, and speaks this tale, which made me "MMMM" out loud without shame because of its beauty and fearlessness:

Let this be the natural law -- Lover, I will break you and compose a symphony
with your bones. Of what remains, I shall grind into dust and mix with 
rain. Lover, do not come near, for I see story in your broken parts. Lover,
do not promise, for when you do, I come to loathe words. Lover, do not 
speak, for what you say is vapor.

And finally, this last line. Collapse.

...Lover, did you not know I wrote my own creation story? Did you not know we all do. (Reyes 47)

BEAUTIFUUUUULLLLLL.

To address "Adam" directly, especially pertaining to the power he thinks he holds, by stating she will BREAK  him??? What???? There's no truer tale to the power that we have, that has been beaten down successfully only by conquering and colonizing our bodies and lands. Hence, Reyes also vividly paints tales of the "pale faces" who came to do just this, and takes us through the history of The Phillipines without the markers of years per se; still, their presence is forceful and painful to receive, and she inserts them strategically into the book to conjure this emotion in the reader. My idea is this is what emotions also took place for Filipinos upon their arrival. In "Duyong 3", Reyes outlines the onslaught of white men to to the island:

I hear of men who love the sea cow. Pale skinned men, long delirious upon
the balmy sea, they crawl ashore hungry, engorged. At the sight of them,
she cries, and they think this is a siren song.

They ravish her stinking skin, her fleshy teats, with so many groping man
hands and wet, open man mouths. One by one, they enter her body and 
spill so much seed. (Reyes 31)

Yeah, I'm gonna stop there. It's just...so hard for me to read again. But nevertheless, so necessary of a story to tell. Each and every time white men appear in the book, t'is no good news. Her continuous weaving in, however, of tales of the Diwata's arrival, and folk tales telling of her spirit surrounding them ("Crossing" is a notable example), calls forth the reverence and beauty of her, despite the reputation she still has to some as evil or strange.

I love that she ends with poems such as "Why Girls Do Not Speak" and "Aswang", after an entire retelling of women's power throughout herstory. She brings us back to the present, the unspoken pain inherent in being born only because the fathers wanted sons, repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly, and being passed onto white men to marry, and the wives who "could no longer sing" (Reyes 71). I would not have known what Aswang was referring to (which is perfectly fine), but then, the notes were an eye-opener into more stories of Filipino history, and the dealings with Spanish colonization, deeming Aswang demonic, a god of evil. Surely, this is not the place the story started, but this is where it ends. I also love Reyes' decision to not translate the Tagalog into English -- what is English anyway but the oppressor's language? Why does it need to be the authority to make readers comfortable?

With that said, I need to reiterate this line:

Lover, did you not know I wrote my own creation story? Did you not know we all do.

...as it speaks to the power of this book, and the power of Reyes as a writer, who understands that if we do not tell our stories, some one else will, and it will most likely be grossly inaccurate. This is the people's history of The Phillipines, before it was even known as "The Phillipines", courtesy of King Phillip II. More importantly, this is the herstory of it, told from the perspective of the women and female embodied spirits. SO much love for the crafting of such beautiful words, forms, and tales!

thanks to dempster, there's a sour taste in my mouth

what i loved about this week's poets is their choice to discuss identity, not necessarily declaring who they are now, but moreso snapshots of moments that shaped all they would become. i love their zeroing in on these moments, these nights, that "Autumn chill" in Sequoia Mercier's poem, the night Tito Trinidad KO'ed Fernando Vargas in Kevin Gonzalez' poem, the two girls from Juarez in Sheryl Luna's poem. All of us have portraits of moments in our lives that swim amongst each other in that sea we call a brain, but we as artists and creators were blessed with this ability to extract them, and magnify just how crucial these moments were in creating our identities. The beauty of these poets too is that the identity is not static; we can be transformed by something, or someone, at any given time.

To place them in a 2nd generation context, for example, Brian Komei Dempster has the liberty to write himself FREE of the moments that have troubled him for much of his life, or so it seems. I'll preface this by saying it's hard at times for me to not assume that the person at the center of these poems is not Dempster himself, given the tremendous amount of pain seeping from "The Pink House in Four Variations", and "The Burning". The fact that he was able to tell this from four points of view is astonishing, as he brings into light how everyone bears responsibility for his (and others') molestation. The Babysitter's mother "thread[s] their silence, needle sealing the holes" arrested me, as did every last line in each stanza (my stubble blossoming over them like thorns//my brother strangles in their throats//riveting. The throat shreds the heart into songbirds.) I must say, I wasn't at ALL ready for the topics Dempster engaged us in, and found it difficult to read, although the poems were so short; that's the beauty of amazing poetry though, right? You become so locked into the poem, and its sensory appraisal (or in this case, affliction).

I can see and feel that babysitter in "The Burning" using tabasco sauce, and the uncertainty of what sauce is even being used as the punishment continues. It also is the anchor to address the pain of molestation and silence accompanying it that's endured yet again, this time from the babysitter, and the haunting echo of "Come closer" from another male. This pink house has truly shaped Dempster's identity, everything from its "peeling white trim" to the "radiator...on its side". We all can attest, in dealing with trauma, to the things we do and don't remember; where is the line drawn? Does it matter what is fully truth and what isn't? Isn't the feeling, the sight, the miniature sounds, the harrowing taste, enough to shape you? You don't remember every moment play-by-play, but what stays with you are those objects, that burning of the sauce on your taste buds, pick a sauce, any sauce; the tomato quilts, and lastly, the songbird, wishing you could escape this. Not to mention, there is inherent beauty in the pain of "Measure", where he contrarily remembers every concrete detail. I was awestruck at his placement of numbers/figures throughout, and honestly haven't seen a poem yet that's able to incorporate these figures without it reading like a math problem. It is interesting that these are the poems anthologized for Dempster, ones working through traumatic experiences, whose short lines and form, even with the occasional space between, hold you captive. Between him and Kevin A. Gonzalez (who I'll elaborate further on in class), I am laid OUT to dry, honey. I need a moment.

ruth forman said my prayers for me today, so for that i thank her

...after much needed rest and laying horizontal, i am feeling much better today. with that being said, i was literally transformed by ruth forman's work. i hunted around the internet for more of her poetry, and have a list of books that i now need to buy when i get some expendable income.

i have never in my life seen or felt a poem so succinct, beautiful, and oozing of truth than "i wear prayers like shoes". to hear her read it is even more beautiful than reading it. as cheesy as it is, i'm typing this to go on my wall.

this resonated with me so much because my mother's exact words that follow me are the same as her's:

"girl you go to God 
and get you some good shoes
cause this life ain't steady ground

literally. literally. every time i talk to my mother, faith becomes a part of the conversation. i was raised pentecostal, and its foundation began to unravel as i got older and needed to find my own footing (pun intended). her faith continues to inspire me, given how i see her transform her trials into inner triumph; "they the only ones keep her/standing". for me, the shoes are what are at the center of spiritual faith. it doesn't mean i love or believe in god/goddess/universal energy any less, doesn't matter what i call it. but had to find a practice that spoke to me, and from within me, directly. ruth sums this experience perfectly for me:

"now i don't wear hers
you take em with you you know
but i suspect they made by the same company"

they ARE made by the same company. trying to get this through to my mother has been, well, like herding cats, as she suspects that i'm worshipping the big guy sitting with his legs crossed -- not fully engulfing that buddha and jesus are pretty much guiding the same water through different fountains. i was so moved by her metaphor of shoes, using prayer/meditation/chanting as a means to ground you when all else around you works, and especially when all else fails. i've been having so many of these conversations and have, at the heart of me, a pull to maintain a spiritual foundation. the older i get, finding the time and space to nourish this footing is more necessary than ever, given how i just transformed physical place once more to here. so, this poem was right on time. it was the word i didn't get in church yesterday, cuz i didn't go. haha.

in relation to space and beat, her words are carefully placed and focused, like prayers, as they leave her body and are sent out into the earth. when speaking, she knows that each word has a ripple effect and vibration on the many living things that they touch. moreover, these vibrations have a transformative energy that speaks to the depth of each living spirit. it made me think, do the words that we share and write affirm life, or destroy it? she is into the preservation of life, and even when sharing tales of darkness, uses this darkness as a means to illuminate the light and life force with in it, and overall, heal. the same goes for "may peace come". THIS POEM. WOW.

to personify peace, successfully, is no easy task -- it's been done for centuries, and often in opposition to war and destruction. she's calling forth peace as a means to heal all of those life forces that have suffered, have been beaten down, silenced:

"each falling body never to raise up
each mouth that will not close
each child calling a parent that will never come home
each broken heart
each Bible clutched each Torah each Koran each holy book in every land
eye water spilled in pain
each blossoming belly despite us all
each you
each me reaching
to be better for our own self"

i can't tell you how powerful each one of these lines were. not to mention, the refrain of "each". this calls forth  a lessening of the "loneliness" and self-centeredness we all experience. in "each", it is remembered that there are billions of these moments occurring on the earth simultaneously. it brings heart to the interconnectedness of us all. if peace swept in from every angle, at each of these moments, this world would truly be a different place. i love her ending the poem, and rooting it, really, in the possibility of this happening. rather than being consistently reactionary, on the defense, as so many of us leftists have become (the goliath monsters of evil don't really give us much of a choice), what attempts do we make at going beyond the anger and rage, and healing ourselves to heal each other?

no matter what community activist circles we choose to operate in, what issues we stand for and with, no matter how much jargon is regurgitated, the soul and energy of each person speaks louder -- we can scream revolution all we want, but love and healing is an essential part of this. what does affirmation look like? are we so engulfed in the fight that it seems insurmountable to even give peace a chance to awaken from her slumber? would she "fall in love with us all" knowing the transformative energy she has, or because we've been transformed by her already? so many thoughts. i hope i'm not coming off too new-agey -- that shit's fleeting. these are ever present thoughts in my brain, teeter-tottering between "fight or take flight" mode, wanting to seep possibility out of every crack in the pavement, beyond anti-anti-anti bumper stickers. ruth stirred my soul with her language, and put me at ease (even during coffee). listening to alice coltrane's transcendence all the while got me in this zone for real.

also, the end line from suheir hammad's poem, "what i will", did the same thing for me:

your wardrum ain't louder than this breath.

again, back to the people, back to the living; "that skin you are hitting/was alive once". back to an affirming energy that breeds life, in the midst of the chaos...a true definition of beauty. it made me revisit her "first writing since" poem, to remember how powerful and transcendent the energy of this poem was during 9/11, filled with de jure hatred; how she managed to bring it all back to LIFE in the end is a testament to her power to slice through the war path. endlessly wonderful.

chile, i needa pray again.

mmwomp.

hello my dearest lovelies, and elmaz...

the top half of my body feels like it's severed from the second half. graphic, i know. *tmi spoiler* mother crimson is here, and she ain't bein nice to me this month. everything hurts. this unfortunately means i haven't had a chance to look at the wondrous readings we have, but will do so tomorrow. my apologies!!

love to u all,
uniQ.

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

like a ton of bricks...

Many of the writers this go-round have sought to use their poetry as a way of communicating their neck of the woods directly, and for that I am utmost thankful. I swear to you, I would have probably never known near a thing about the Inuit people, and the lush descriptions of their life, if it weren't for dg nanouk okpik. (much, much more on her in class, but I just had to start off by saying that)

...Nor would I have gotten literally walked through the Benigno Aquino Jr. International Airport, if it weren't for Nick Carbo. His writing gripped me, in that he packs every line with a cinematic experience of place and voice -- in the instance of the poem "The Bronze Dove", he tells the tale of a Filipino-American visiting The Phillipines. In three parts, the ride gets increasingly intense, in both detail and what is shown.

"you scratch your neck, feel the grime and sweat
from San Francisco or L.A. on your nape,
you look out your window seat
search for a plaque or a stain of blood--
this is the tarmac where he was shot."

He truly wastes no time giving the Disneyfied (hey!) tour of The Phillipines, but instead uses it as a platform to address several wounds that have yet to heal for the country. I also appreciate his chillng, somewhat tongue-in-cheek directions in parenthesis to truly witness Bengino Aquino's assassination. In the second portion, he makes a pit stop to display the class difference at hand, with "barbed-wire hiding the luxury homes/of Dasmarinas Village", schools, and in the next stanza, a sharp insight into children with amputated arms asking for money, on the corner of Edsa and Buendia. It is unclear as to how or why this happens to me, but nonetheless displays what occurs everyday. Each line is literally a snapshot out the window of a car, that doesn't allow room for the artificial distance between the people in the streets, and the driver. Finally, Carbo wrenches my esophagus (yeah, that deep) with the third portion, as Filipino folks "fought for freedom,/sang songs to each other around bonfires,/made love by candlelight." While the stanza begins in a dictatorial landscape, he ends it with possibility, as he brings it back to the ground level of people who manage to live, love, and fight everyday, even under restrictive conditions.

Carbo's voice unflinchingly identifies and anchors his Filipino identity. He uses it as a tool to communicate the complex lives and stories of the homeland country, and Filipinos in the US. Even the person in "The Bronze Dove" feels compelled to go pay homage to the leaders of the nation, as if these are markers he should know and hold close. Though this could also be because the poems are male-centered, I didn't feel excluded from zeroing in on the piece. Likewise, in the series of poems "Ang Tunay Na Lalaki Stalks the Streets of New York", "Ang Tunay Na Lalaki Is Baffled by Cryptic Messages", and "Ang Tunay Na Lalaki Visits His Favorite Painting", he equally trails the experience of an up-and-coming Filipino actor in New York.

Truthfully, I am gagging at the "PLEASE/MAKE ME TASTE LIKE/A MAN" overall, but also at Carbo's allowing us inside the head of Ang Tunay Na Lalaki, whose identity is shoved up against a reflection, causing a collision with absurd American advertising that immediately makes you question yourself, and is drenched in sex. The reader can smell and taste everything from the food he's nostalgic for, as well as the musk in his armpits, that surely must show what a "Filipino man taste like to American women". The poem ends rooted in his body, the grotesque things we all (sub)consciously do to prove a point to ourselves, but nonetheless creates a tone of pride and acceptance for going after his passion. I'll be honest, the end reminded me of the Olympics, but I know it was a nod to the Statue of Liberty.

Overall, I'm in love Carbo's ability to just knock at our brains with his language...for reals!