i am participating in a black history month exhibit. the theme of the show is "we speak [for] ourselves", and this is where the theme led me. hope you enjoy...
fast and furious
slow and slurr’d
dropping consonants
and smooshing vowels
Understand?
drawling and dragging
screaming and hollering
singing and shouting
tsking and sighing
You dig?
hands on hips
eyes rolling
neck cocked
head whipping
fingers snap
I heard that!
feet stomping
legs hopping
hips swishing
waist rocking
I know that’s right!
weeping, wailing,
praying, moaning,
chanting, resisting…
Testify!
ancestors and babies
speak to each other
sisters and brothers,
what’s the news?
Funwa L’alafia--
Ashe! Ashe!
Word.
so the poet in me, perhaps she is not dead. but she sure as hell is good at playing possum.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
remember back in dr. chenzira's class when you said "i am just getting the ability to call myself a poet"?
that day made me really take caution with how quickly i place a label on myself. honoring crafts.
i've missed your words.
and you have always been a poet.
a humble one.
i do remember that day. how could it be that it was so long ago? labels are words. words have power. guess that's why i try to be careful of what i say. maybe that's why i haven't said much lately. as always, many thanks for your kind encouragement.
if the poet in you ever died, i would be only one of hundreds at her funeral. it would be a sad, sad day in the world.
Post a Comment