Mine


The way my “no” used to get scraped
off the plate
like it didn’t belong there.

I used to think saying no was dangerous.
That my voice
was optional.
That my boundaries
could be bent
by someone else’s appetite.

So I chewed and I swallowed
society’s thoughts of what I should be.
It lingered in the bite I didn’t want to take
but did anyway.

Because saying no felt like breaking a law
I never agreed to.

I learned to shrink
before I even grew.
To please
before I even spoke
To disappear
before I was ever seen.

But I’m done swallowing silence.
I’m done seasoning my discomfort
to make others more comfortable.

My “no” is full-bodied now.
My “yes” wears boundaries like armor.

And I don’t eat guilt.
And I don’t eat shame served cold
on expectation’s plate.

I eat truth.

I eat meals made of my own choosing.
And this voice?

This voice is seasoned.
Bold.
Loud.

This voice is mine.


Let No One Censor You

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio

Your written content
your voice
copy
blog posts
texts, captions
the way you capture feeling on the page
contextualize thought
empower us through emotion
breathe life into the human experience
remind us what it feels like to live
to remember
minister to our memory
and most sacred truths
the way you poet
your words, spoken or written is, power.

A historical document your grandchildren
will one day cherish
resist the urge to withhold words
hold them like you once held your babies
precious and true
their bodies snug in the crook of your arm
and the warmth of your chest
Wrap your arms around this text:
Your intellectual scholarship has merit.

Let it be a legacy for the next generation
Gift them this birthright.
So we may have a right to a better future.
Let no one censor you into silence.

Not even yourself.


Listen to this poem (and others) on TikTok @yecheilyah.

Let the Words Be Seasoned

Photo by DapurMelodi from Pexels

There are times when Black authors find themselves fighting against those who wish them to edit their soul. Take the salt out the meat. Take the voice out the work, and leave it seasonless. To quote Honorée Fanonne Jeffers, “People still have a white, western idea of how intellect is ‘spose to walk in the world.” 

Let it not be lost that how Black people speak, including how we write, has been under fire since the days they forbade us to read and write. Considering us fools (and hoping we’d believe we were), they told us our language was broken. Told us massa was some jumbled version of master to justify our alleged stupidity and inhumanness. (Note: Massah is a Hebrew word meaning burden or oppressor. We called them what they were.)

The audacity to dilute language rich in culture by “correcting” it is just as brutal as stripping away someone’s name and replacing it with your own. What does your Ph.D. in poetry have to do with my grandmother’s tongue?

The way our slang terms do not always mirror what is heard or written within collegiate circles.

The way proverbs and parables roll off the tongue only to be shackled to some white scholars’ standards of brilliance. He think it’s nonsense how Jay Jay and Man Man ‘nem talk about how they be chillin. Or how Aunt Lou tells one of her grandchiren to go wrench off this spoon. She puts her hands on her hips, waves and says ‘How you?’ (She means it the way she says it, leaving out the ‘are.’) 

The way the world attempted to tuck knowledge away from us, hide from us its secrets. (Though, we already knew them.) 

Black writers do not need to sacrifice their soul or shapeshift into white standards of intellect to create something beautiful. They need only to be who they are and let the words be seasoned.

Your Blog

A platform. A podium. A stage. A virtual loudspeaker in every corner of the world. A map. A tour guide. A historical document. An ear. A hug. A friend. A translator of every language. A light. A dictionary. A notebook and pen. A portrait on the wall. A wall. A spreadsheet of feeling. A prayer. A song. An instrument. A melody for the broken. A doctor. A midwife. A counselor. A teacher. A healer. Your blog is so much more than a blog. Your blog is a voice.

YouTube: New Poem Added! Listen to “The Colors of Poetry” #Poetry #SpokenWord

Listen to The Colors of Poetry below. Be sure to subscribe to this blog by clicking on the button in the sidebar and my YouTube page HERE for notification of new poems.

I Was Not There

I do not entirely agree

with the actions of my ancestors

cannot say with a straight face that I would have stood there

In the crossfire of oppression, falling

while being bit by dogs

smiling

while being spit on

not with a straight face will I say

that I would have been there

to ask my oppressors their permission

to walk down the street

but I was not there

and me not being there leads me to do nothing

but honor their legacy in humility

I do not know the taste of their humiliation

as closely as they experienced it

my young palate is a prejudiced mixture

of what I’ve seen in footage and read in books

I did not feel the lash

or salt in-between their wounds

know nothing of the seasoning

of stripped identity

of throats closing in on tongues

I know only of gentle waters

the kind that bathes, and cooks and quenches the thirst

I know nothing of the kind that pierces

the skin on contact

I do not know because I was not there

but I can write

like Baldwin did

as a witness

I can write the stories

and un-fairy tale the tragedy

of being colored

to make alive again

a history left virtually unknown

because I was not there

not when Moses died or Malcolm slain

but I can write

articulating the suffering

of the now silent

 

Copyright©2017 by Yecheilyah Ysrayl. All rights reserved.


Yecheilyah (e-see-lee-yah) is an Author, Blogger, and Poet of nine published works including her soon-to-be released short inspirational guide “Keep Yourself Full.” Learn more by exploring Yecheilyah’s writing on this blog and her website at yecheilyahysrayl.com. Renaissance: The Nora White Story (Book One) is her latest novel and is available now on Amazon.com.

Voice for Radio

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They said she had a voice for radio. That her voice had been blessed. And that angels played on the strings of her vocal chords. That her mind had the ability to cough up words from other dimensions that she, danced on the streets of clouds. Somewhere in the storage rooms they said she danced somewhere beyond where beyond is. Maybe, they guessed, maybe the source of her strength is where the secret of the wind is. Maybe it’s where forever is. They said she had a voice for radio. What they didn’t know was that similes were first scattered to the four corners of the earth. Racing to the back room to see who would get to the bed first, or the floor, hardwood, chair, you see life for her ain’t been no crystal stair. Plastic bags with all her stuff they stared cause, she didn’t know what a home was. She had to tell them that though beautiful, this voice was first pregnant and had to go through labor pains before it gave birth.