Wanted to jump into memory
and photograph pieces
of your smile
the only cracks worth seeing
on someone’s face
Didn’t know dimples ran deeper than wells
but every time you chuckled
my nerves melted underneath my skin
Is this
Is it real?
Could the pull of the wind
be the yearning for your laughter?
That always fell like diamonds at the base of my feet
Could someone tell me how a poor woman
becomes rich again?
For I knelt before history
and shackled your existence to my future
and when you laughed
The moon was missing that night
cuz I held it in your gaze
And the sun dripped hot from the gaps in my fingers
Cupped your chin gently against my palms
And when we kissed
Heaven cracked open its skies
and thunder praised our union
Tag: poetry
Murder She Wrote
No, it wasn’t suicide
the freedom in her chest
the genuine in her throat
and the explosion of awareness
she didn’t try to hide
packing a strap
never hesitating to open fire
leaving trails of Earthquakes lingering at your side
pen to paper
creating a new world of gun smoke
white dope
and fienes who didn’t mind dropping the dime
even if sudden truth made em choke
you see she killed ignorance with her words
dropping bombs
and cracking open minds
that refused to otherwise
oblige
she ate books with the speed of speech
and digested their integrity for breakfast each morning
but she wasn’t a good girl
or rather
a good woman
for she would spit tsunamis later that night
a raging storm
were her words when she blessed the mic
a collection of seas
to wash away the broken
and a ringing silence afterwards
like screaming death was her audience
jaws scattering somewhere across the floor
tongues unfolded
like red carpets
and eyes found a home in her face
it was clear
she’d destroyed the room
overturned tables
and left bodies in a state of ruin
for they all sat unmoved
like statues
feared her voice like blank pages
and empty books
silence dragging their minds to ponder
a new birth place for their thoughts
and no this wasn’t suicide
for she killed ignorance with her words
and the detectives concluded that yes
indeed
it was murder she wrote
Why I Write Black
Because flowers grow in strange places
like tattered pieces of wood and recycled paper
Because history is frost bitten
and winter refuses to be comforted by the sun
bluish-white and numbed pain
cold skin
and prickling feeling
Because the sky don’t stay dark forever
but light ain’t taught in history class
Because some skirts
are too heavy
to lift without permission
Because Dust Tracks on The Road
was subtracted 3 chapters
Because some truths
are too big to sacrifice
on American alters
Because Zora died broke
and Nina died sad
Because their voices still sing
Because strange fruit still swings
Because ignorance is worth more than rubies
and diamond gems
Because no one has picked up the pieces
of truth
underneath the ruble
of bombed out churches
on 16th streets
Because little girls ain’t little girls no more
but crushed bones
and melted skin
a strike of disobedience
against premeditated sin
Because hope is stronger than despair
Because freedom is worth more
than all the
raisins in the sun
I’ll Carry It With Me
From the bowels of the deep south
To the place of the rising sun
She’ll stretch her roots to the ends of the Earth
And her scent to the universe edge
From the Nile
To the Euphrates
Her soul is Langston
And has grown deep like the rivers
On her bark
Are the names whipped out of her ancestors skin
Pocketbook scriptures ripped out from underneath their tongues
And she stands there
Towering over the people who pass her by
Singing their song in the wind
She remembers the scratchy fiber
It was course and woolly
Like Nyongo’s hair
When they tied her arms
Around the Magnolia
She was there when Moses died
They buried his bones under the shadow of her roof
Tied bright yellow ribbons to her branches like shackles on her arms
So that Tubman can tell that she was a slave
And carry her falling leaves to freedom
She sings her song
From the bowels of the deep south
And the deep North
clean across the Atlantic
And on up to Spain
Where the ships of Tarshish came first
But you will never know of it
Not when you see her standing there
All tall
And full of pride
her petals are soft and delicate
and burning passion like the sun
But I won’t forget
I’ll bottle her scent and carry it with me
The history of her children
The memory of the hanging tree
Brown Skin
Mississippi lips
Lousiana tongue
West African shaped nose
Skin kissed by the sun
Israelite Culture
American Captive
Egyptian Color
russet brown
seal
dark puce
blue black eastern man
blue black woman
symbols of authority over her head
natural beauty no longer dead
hair like sisal rope
braided
coiled
nappy
strong
prayer hands that crack open the sky
from the place of the rising sun
to a land that sought to shackle their tongues
run aways
slave ships
cotton fields
those days
share
croppin
jim crowing
freedom ridin
no more hidin
Mississippi lips
Lousiana tongue
West African shaped nose
Skin kissed by the sun
brown skin
Author Spotlight: Yecheilyah Ysrayl
My Author Interview with Dottie Daniels.
Hey.
Here’s another author (she’s a poet as well) who also has a page here on WordPress. I consider myself and anyone else aware of her to be pretty lucky already as this author has a pretty powerful perspective and is more than capable of articulating her experiences and thought processes as it relates to the cultural upbringing of the African American experience. Her name is Yecheilyah Ysrayl and I had the pleasure of doing a Q&A session with her a few weeks ago. Below is the interview along with her social media contact info.
- I’ve read you were born in the South side of Chicago (so was I!), what were some of your earliest memories?
Hi Dottie. First, I want to thank you for taking the time to meet with me today. Yes, I am from Chi-Town indeed. Since I’ve been in Chicago for the better part of my…
View original post 953 more words
Writing 101 – Assignment #12: Critique a Piece of Work – “We Real Cool”
Today I will be critiquing Gwendolyn Brooks’ poem “We Real Cool” for today’s Blogging U assignment:
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
Gwendolyn Brooks is the renowned poet from Chicago that we have grown to love. In her own words, Brooks explains her inspiration behind this poem, which began while walking passed a pool hall in a Chicago neighborhood. She saw there a group of young men and pondered to herself how they felt about themselves. “I wrote [‘We Real Cool’] because I was passing by a pool hall in my community one afternoon during school time, and I saw, therein, a little bunch of boys – I say here in this poem, seven – and they were shooting pool. But instead of asking myself, ‘Why aren’t they in school?’ I asked myself, ‘I wonder how they feel about themselves?” Gwendolyn Brooks
I think when people read this poem they are put in the mind that these boys are too cool for school and when I first read it, years ago, I have to say I summed it up to pretty much mean that. Here are a group of young men who would rather partake in other activities rather than an education and as a result they die living the life they have chosen. However, with maturity came a different understanding of this poem.
“We Real Cool” is a poem that speaks from the point of view of these seven young men and it is why Brooks recites it the way that she does. The “We” is to carry lightness. Not so much to be pronounced harshly, but it is a slang that is carried in a kind of whisper and you’ll hear this if you’ve ever heard Brooks recite it. So it is indication that this is not Gwendolyn Brooks who speaks, but it is the young men speaking and they are expressing a feeling about themselves that has been brought on due their interaction with a certain establishment.
“We
Jazz June.”
June is a symbol of an establishment. Typically, Americans adore June as a month. It is the time of summer; a time where school ends and the sun is out, and children play. June is in short a fun time. A time where people are married, and children have birthday parties. Traditionally, people cannot wait for June to come because it represents that transition into the summer months where things are happy and vibrant and lively and fun. For these young men however they “Jazz June” meaning they do not like it. They are not looking forward to June but they “Jazz” June. Jazz is a slang word meaning that the young men are willing to do anything that would annoy June; anything that would rebel against June. And so June is a symbol for an establishment. It is to say that these young men feel left out of it. They do not feel part of the system and so they leave school, they stay out late, they sin (which is not so much a transgression of biblical law in this sense but more so a transgression of the laws of the land. It is a symbol of their rebellion) and they do anything in general that will contradict June.
“We
Die soon.”
The final line, “We die soon” is a result of the life that they live. Not so much how fast living leads to death (which it does) but more deeply it is the treatment of their lives by the institutions in which they are rebelling against itself. Because they are locked out of it, their lives are not as valid, valued, or cherished and so eventually they die. The young men are expressing, in this poem, their low self-esteem and low self-worth inside of the communities in which they live.
In an interview, Brooks discussed an experience she had at a University where she’d done some reading. She spoke concerning a young black woman who stood up and said, “Why do you keep talking about blackness? We all know that the time for that is over. We are now merely American’s”. Brooks’s response, in brief, was that she’d like for blacks to be proud of where they come from.”
They say that youth is wasted on the young; that their minds have not fully developed into the capacity to appreciate certain things, particularly a sense of pride in heritage and identity. As I listened to that interview about the young woman I think back to this poem. What strikes me as important to note in regard to “We Real Cool” is its focus on manhood, or rather boyhood. The experience of a black boy in America is different than that of a black girl. And this is a fact that is often gone under the radar. We talk a lot about black women, particularly in regard to a focus on feminism and gender identity and double discrimination far as being both black and woman is concerned. I think this is in many ways a trap because it can easily develop into hatred for our men and if not hatred, blindness to the struggles that they endure and their discrimination’s as well as our own. I think we spend a lot of time focusing on doing it ourselves that we miss the purpose. The purpose being that the strength of black family life is directly tied into the respect and honor that we either have or don’t have for black men as black women. Gwendolyn said it best, “If we don’t pull together then we won’t be here to pull at all.”
I say this to say that there’s a lot of focus on black women and not so much black men. It is not to say that the black experience in America is limited to gender, of course we know that we have all experienced psychological trauma especially the black woman. But we do have to admit that there is not as much attention toward the same kind of trauma exposed to black men. It is a fact that to be a black man is quite different in many ways than to be a black woman. One of these ways is a black man’s treatment in America by its varying institutions be that employment, or simply his struggle to lead his own family. Being unlawfully pulled over by the police is another example, even the calculation of prison beds against the reading scores of black males in the public schools. And so this poem is a reminder, at least to me that black men in America are, in the words of Toni Morrison, criminalized more than any other man or woman for that matter in America, and they are in constant dread for their lives, be that spiritual or physical.
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.







