Many of you know that I have pushed my two bigger projects back but I’ve been low-key working on another one and yesterday, I revealed the news to my email list.
I have wanted to publish many of the poems featured on this blog (by featured I am referring to my own poems) in a book for a long time. I tried it with my third collection but since then I’ve written a lot more poetry. To make a long story short, I’ve finally submitted the final copy of I AM SOUL in to be edited last week and we’re looking at a release date as early as December 20th, my mother’s birthday.
COVER REVEAL – I AM SOUL
Inspiration Behind the Title
“You have an old soul.”
I don’t particularly like this phrase and I cringe when people tell me this. But, it is a fact that I’ve heard this many times over the course of my life, disguised in many different ways.
“You act older than you are.”
“You’re mature for your age.”
Or as my big sister so elegantly put it: “You old.”
So, I decided to drop the “Old” (because I’m young shooo lol) and just go with Soul.
I read something once that said, “The best writing is vulnerable.” I kept rolling this around in my head. It’s so true. I am extremely shy when it comes to my own personal feelings and I admit I am embarrassed to reveal too much of myself because, well, I think it will be too much. I’m too much yall (lol tee hee). But, the person was right. We connect deeper with people who we can relate to. People who are just as human as we are. People who make mistakes and are dripping with flaws. They may not always be this way, but they help us to see there is still hope. Their testimonies make redemption real. They are not somewhere in heaven while the rest of us are here on Earth. Their mistakes are a bridge of commonality that connects them to the rest of mankind. It is why we connect with people who are real.
This book is also a compilation of the Black History poems published to this blog which is another inspiration for the title. We have always had a unique way about us from our rich history to our style of dress to the way that we speak. We are the salt of the Earth. We are flavoring. We are Soul Train and Soul Brothers. We are soul.
I AM SOUL is personal in more ways than one and seeks to tell the truth. To be honest. To be vulnerable. To be weak and in that weakness, to be strong. ( 2 Co 12:10) This book is all things personal. This book is all things, soul.
So, there you have it. I’ll have more details and developments as we get closer to release but I am excited and I hope you will enjoy this collection just as much as you enjoy the poetry on this blog.
What happens when the words
are carried on the backs of angels
and thread themselves like strings from your heart
to the edge of your fingertips
like consciousness translated into poetry
a spiritual essence poured out only to be confined
and restricted to the page that binds them
what happens when newness fills you to the brim
forcing you to walk into new beginnings
that this flesh has yet to verbalize properly
I have not the answers to these questions
just inklings of miracles
from black colored ink
and fire coated passion
on white paper.
That amazing future and glorious tomorrow. Always enticing us to move time forward so that we may rush what is now for a moment much more beautiful than this. A tomorrow much more gorgeous and radiant than the present. The present. What of this? What of now? What of our quest for some rare and perfect tomorrow when today is already a precious gift? Today is normal but it is here and living and present. We know not what the future holds. In fact, we know nothing but now. This moment. This treasure of breath in mouth. Today is good.
Good evening 💕
When the right poem is born it is all feeling. Taste and touch and nourishment. All heart and aching and lifting. Poetry is a revolution with a profound sense of strength. When the right poem arrives I notice it instantly. It is all moving like earthquakes so powerful that it breaks down mental barriers and knocks ignorance off Richer Scales. The right poem is not merely the ability to paint pictures with words. The right poem is a full manifestation of the heart. A complete contextualizing of the soul. The right poem is my entire body into words. Every piece of flesh, every tingling nerve. A spiritual essence poured out on the page.
Image Credit: Unsplash
We think and we feel and leak emotion in black ink in hopes to build bridges of commonality with others. Those who aren’t afraid to feel. To admit that last night had us hungover in our own feelings and that we sought to heal on paper. So, we sat there. Knee deep in tears from thoughts that marinated too long. The liquid-shaped hurt that rose from someplace we vowed to keep hidden for fear feeling wasn’t allowed. And still, we slipped up and let our thoughts hit the page where readers are left now to sit and mourn thoughts accidentally left on WordPress readers because someone left us a cracked smile. A “LOL” that came out just as twisted and crooked as reciting letters instead of coughing up a belly of laughter. You see, we don’t expect you to understand. You text in a language only your computer understands. For us? We cry out loud, dripping puddles of emotions we miracle into coherent sentences. For those of us who aren’t afraid to bleed real on the page. We feel.
I’ve grown an extra set of eyes just to catch the shadow in her walk. Micro-managed every detail of her smile, every light in her footsteps, and every scar in her heart. I stalk her intentions and pick out pieces of glass that may have found themselves in her thoughts when the levees poured over when the skies darkened and there was no light; when the glass broke. I scan her body with the intrigue of a man caught lusting for the first time. You see I need to make sure that her back is not bent, that her shoulders are sharp, and her head held high. I am intrigued with tasting her words before they exit her mouth, and I refuse to release my stare from the interior of her mind. I understand that my ways can be likened to that of a stalker but tell me, is it too much to zoom into her soul every morning to make sure that she smiles? Is it too much to hover over her sleeping eyes and find my way into her dreams? You see I have to make sure that she’s not distracted by destruction. I can never stop watching this woman’s ways and monitoring her heart. If I am to be of assistance to anyone it starts with her because she is me.
Who can regret the chill of the wind and the smell of the air in the spring when the sun sets? I love it when the heavens bleeds crimson with splashes of leftover daylight prophesying hints of yellow like screaming oracles; burnt orange clouds cementing inside the belly of the sky. The way that birds defy the darkness to find refuge in the path of light, soaring on the backs of colors like they were some tangible thing and beige highlights swinging low like sweet chariots. Even the wind rejoices in the shadows of the rest of the sunlight bouncing off the concrete, hoping to capture as much of its essence as possible before it retires into its chamber. Whether you’re driving home from work or sitting on the front porch mesmerized by the cool wind, the silence of nightfall and the sky, it’s the little things that bring calm. Let it fill your empty. Turn your distress into dancing, solemn into singing. Good night.