I Promise You a Woman

black_love_art~~element1272

I promise you
a woman.
You see I know what kind of girls you’re used to
I know that
little black girls can’t appreciate you like I can
see
I know that
those little girls you’re used to
doesn’t know what you’ve been through cause
kindergarten fingers on small hands don’t know how to hold you
like I do
see
she pushes buttons on your heart like that
cause she’s not hip to the fact that a man
can lose focus too
but see she’s just a little girl so
she plays catch with your emotions
cause she feels that if she hits you hard enough
you’ll start coughing up tokens for her to play games with
see
I know that your body to these little girls is merely a myth
and every trip to your mouth is a quiz enveloped in living water
that she ain’t learned how to swim in yet
so she apologizes for getting lost in your kiss
and every vibration of your body simply doesn’t make sense to her
and every word of truth coming from your lips
is like a puzzle that she ain’t figured out yet
you see she’s insecure because what she’s selling has failed
and its cause the way you love to her is reminiscent of fairy tales
see
they mistake my trust for you as some kind of façade
don’t know what a real man is so they think you’re a God
to me
mistaking the heavenly embrace of your arms for wings
cause I told ‘em I’m willing to fly away with you
mistakenly discerning that you grant me wishes like milky ways & stars cause
they see me praying for you
but that’s because I’m not a little girl
so wishing upon stars we don’t have to
but your mind they can’t dissect
and your ways are hidden from them like the life of insects so
she dismisses you as too perfect & she ain’t ready for all that yet
you see I know
what kind of girls you’re used to
but what I promise you
is a woman

I promise you support sweeter than any tea you could fathom
you see I promise you words of love
not temper tantrums
I know what kind of girls you’re used to
so I promise to appreciate every inch of you
Because what I promise you
is a woman
I promise to be strong so when it comes to bearing my burdens
sweetie you don’t have to
because I promise to help and not hinder you
I promise to cry tears on your shoulders
so I can properly communicate with you
And I promise to bear soldiers and little soliderettes for you
And I promise that temptation won’t attempt to temp you
cause aint no way little girls gonna love you the way that I do
you see I promise
not to walk in your shoes
cause I’m woman enough to know that you’re the head of me
but like the neck I support you
I promise not to distrust you like they do but we gonna talk about it
and when were done
I’m gonna feed you
cause I know that I can be satisfied by the same living bread
that satisfies you
So I’m gonna love you
Beause what I promise you
I promise you
not a little girl,
but I promise you
a Woman

The Written / Spoken Word

Man Reading Book and Sitting on Bookshelf in Library

OK, so you’re sitting down somewhere and you decide to read a book. Everything is going well and you’re sure that if given the chance you’ll win “The Best Reader Ever” award. You sit there and you think to yourself: “Wow, I am such a great reader!” All smiles as you professionally turn the pages. Then you decide, at a different time, to read a book. Only this time you decided to read it out loud instead of to yourself. It may even be the same book but somehow it doesn’t seem to be going as well as it did the first time. The same words that flowed smoothly in your head seem to have added more syllables. It’s to the point now that you stumble over words that were hard back in third grade. “Huh? Now I know I can read.” You say to yourself, you cannot understand it and for a second you even close the book and look at the cover. Yes, it’s the same book.

What is the correlation between reading in our heads (silently) and reading out loud? Does speaking guide us deeper into the conversation? What kind of power is there to a voice pumping out words? As I think about this, I wonder how this would sound if I was to record it for you. If instead of a blog post I sent a memo instead, do you think you would understand it better? After all, in this age of technology it is not always easy to discern the intent of text. I wonder if the tone of my voice, my mood, and my pronunciation would change the context in any way.

education-rap-microphoneIn my opinion, I think both the written and spoken word is important. And as I write, I do not believe every poem should be spoken. Some of the poems I write are structured in a way that must be read, while others are structured in a way that must be heard. In this way, I believe the difference in the way we react to the written and spoken word is in the differences in structure and style. For instance, in a letter I may write: “I ponder this as I prepare to release…” But if I was verbally speaking to you I would probably say something like: “I thought about this since I’m about to come out with…” It is not that I cannot write how I would speak; it’s just that we tend to speak in a less formal way when we’re talking than when we are writing. It is much more spontaneous, there is no preparation; we use the slang of our upbringing, and neglect complete sentences.

This is what I like most about the spoken word. There are so many additional elements available to help understand the meaning. You don’t just have words to work with, but there is also body language, facial expression, and tone of voice. A speaker is capable of both giving and receiving feedback instantly. Right away he or she is able to determine whether or not their way of dress, hair style, or accent influences the information in any way.

man-writing-booksOn the other hand when we write, it tends to present itself in a way far more grammatically correct (I use grammatically correct loosely and really for lack of a better word since my writing is not exactly grammatically correct in the English sense of the word but you get the point) than if we were to say it out loud; perhaps a symbolic way of representing things like pauses or tone of voice in speaking. While speaking is straight forward, writing must take on a form of speech in a way that demonstrates the moving of lips without physically seeing which is perhaps the implementation of a more proper usage. You can see my facial expression when I’m talking to you but to write it I must use words to create that image. That is what I love most about the written word, a portrait of something painted not by images but by words. A sound heard not because it is audible, but because it was etched into paper in a way that is loud.

LERONE_BENNETT,_WELL_KNOWN_BLACK_WRITER_WHO_IS_SENIOR_EDITOR_AT_EBONY_MAGAZINE,_IN_HIS_OFFICE_AT_JOHNSON_PUBLISHING..._-_NARA_-_556250Additionally, the most important, and also the most fun, thing about writing vs. speaking to me is also that it tends to live on longer. This can be a good and a bad thing. It can be a good thing because it gives us the chance to record beautiful words like poetry and stories to live on for as long as they need to. Our books can be passed down to our children and grandchildren like pictures. But it can be a bad thing because if you recorded something wrong or irrelevant that can also live on! I think this is one of the reasons writing has been associated with being a kind of skill. Perhaps it is because we learn to speak before we learn to write. We pick up the language of those around us and attach to them the context of our environment. Before you know it we’re “Mama” and “Dada” all over the place! Now, because we have understood this language and associated it with the people around, this does not mean we know at that moment how to write it which will come much later.

But today is a new day, and with technology the power of speech has taken on new meaning and it too is also considered a skill. Not only can you record permanent versions of speech such as poetry, memos, speeches, lessons, etch, but today writing is not alone but “Public Speaking” has also evolved into a skill.

Dear Hip Hop…

Who Willie Lynched your mentality?
Who put you under a spell?
Why you let them teleport you back to slavery?
They could have at least made it look good
didn’t have to hang you on the block
in your own hood
from your own trees
could have bridged the gap
between the souls you “sold” for rap
could have at least duct taped pieces of the truth
so you didn’t look like the signs of the times
didn’t have to trade your crown
for nursery rhymes
spill your blood on the ground
like wasted time
look how intoxicated you are
don’t know the difference between what truth and being real is
Is we being real?
There’s a reason that last line ain’t grammatically correct
gotta spit truth a lot truthful than that
since when did speaking the Kings English
ever define being black?
since when did we become something called Black?
what is that?
if you gonna spit truth
you gotta come much harder than that
and much deeper than black
you see even your conscious rappers
ain’t wrapped tight enough
can’t baptize deception in muddy waters and call it clean
can’t metaphysical the spiritual
and call it revolutionizing the struggle
can’t call it consciousness if you still sleeping
but rebellion the only thing around here get played
and you the only people around here being played
why I still hear rappers remixing they own graves?
who put yall under a spell?
don’t know why prison statistics don’t start with the prisons
outside of jails
but then again
I guess we can’t all spit truth
the records will never sell

We Trust

Born into the ticking clock of innocence
a hurrying forth of second hands
to match the inhale and exhale of lung
we sing truth against the fragile voice of newness
and taste of the refreshing sound of belief
Trust
it is the automatic gift life births us with
against the cold relentless winds of the skies
of experience
of living
we lose sight of this gift like we age
the only circumstance in which increasing numbers
is representative of loss
a slippery lyric of experience snatching away
our inherent decision to bend
a revelation sung to the instrumentals
of life
not as gentle
not as soft
not as giving as naiveté in childhood
we learn not the automatic taste
of confidence
but the wisdom of serpents
to discern the shady tongues
the coated lips of deceit
against the cold relentless winds of life
of experience
that teaches
that we cannot trust every breathing entity
for these winds are not so trustworthy any longer
for they have grown old
and have known lies
these lungs do not sing the song of genuine
for that we trust now like serpents
and wrap ourselves
inside the delicateness of the dove

I Wonder

notebook-pen-writing-style

I wonder what would happen
if I threw my pen into yesterday
let it scribble up the past
and teleport those memories
to the edge of my fingertips
If I splashed this page with infinity
so that you remember forever
where you came from.
Or what if I just thought about it
wirelessly sent messages across dimensions
bringing back roots
and read your thoughts before they reached you
replace futility with the integrity of substance
create worlds out of nothing
create soldiers out of nobody’s
a ghetto child that’s restored to his place as a King
I wonder
If I could.
Would you let me
transcribe history
staple its pages to the roof of your mouth
let your tongue unfold like ancient scrolls
saliva running like living water
and dripping like liquid foundation
stand in the backyard of Eden
and hide no longer between rocks and hard places
find your place here
inside the body of this pen
along the lines of this page
I give you permission to bleed
all the crazy reasons why
you matter.

Mama Put a Curse on Me, by Stella May

StellaMay

Mama put a curse on me

When she gave me that name

Attaching history to my skin

When she knew it had stains on it

Though her eyes were green

She acted like her skin was brown

And teleported her daughter back to slavery

What kind of name is Stella anyway?

It don’t hardly go with my skin

And mama’s either.

But she tryna be something she ain’t

And I’m just tryna be something I am

You see, there’s a stigma that comes

With the color of history

Being white

And yet being colored

Race wars always concerned these two groups of people

and there ain’t seemed to be much room for a mulatto

So you see

Mama put a curse on me

When she named me Stella

After my great-grandmother

A slave on Paul Saddlers plantation

And his daughter too

So as to escape slavery

I think I’ll just opt out this race

And considers myself white

Maybe even change my name

And pitch my tent somewhere

Beyond the Colored Line

 

Stella Book #2: Beyond The Colored Line. Now Avail.

Those Who Love

It’s their presence alone that
lifts the floor and
commands the clouds to unclench their fist
cause
love wraps its garment around
their bodies
like insane prisoners to compassion
confined and restricted
to the affection that binds them
stitched and knitted
like a fresh garment,
like fresh skin
to the beautiful body of genuine
call them
the mentally insane cause
they got to be crazy
to be binding themselves like this