New Poetry

I live my life in happy mediums
My paint and pen transcend any reasoning your science has founded
I, The Artist, have a depth so deep it can't be reached through light years of space travel
And while you're solving probabilities
For the sake of some possibilities
I'm turning the typical 9 to 5 into 4 words:
I need to write.
Need to breathe life into words that would otherwise go unspoken
Need to recite the rhymes that might save the lives that only needed a few kind words to turn those frowns upside down
Turn those square perspectives round
You exist within those boxes
But me, The Artist?
I get out
And when I'm lost in the world
I can't be found
Not in your textbooks or your histories
Or your paradoxes or mysteries
I am as obvious as the light of day
Yet you still don't get me
Come plant your feet in the sands of my soul
Feel my spirit take over you like tidal waves
Let me tell you a story
Of Kush and Mansa and Eve
Michelangelo, Zeus
Let me be louder than deafening silence
Darker than nights without stars
Let me live in your subconscious
And surface only when you're asleep
The only way you can reach me
Baby girl, is in your dreams
My ink is rich as eel oil
My canvas is as wide as the world
You can't rinse me or outrun me
It might not make sense
Because you're thinking too hard
Always becoming, creating, reinventing, getting fine like wine and remaining classic like a picture of your grandma in black and white
All these things simultaneously
that's me
The one with the wisdom beyond her years
The one with charcoil on her cheeks, in place of tears
I am the one who built pyramids from the sweat off my back
I am dance and song and shout and thunder and clap
I am language and love and abstract and subjective
I am opinion and trivial and petty and free
I am as endless, unpredictable and timeless as the sea
Bohemian goddess of light and wonder
Let me be your horizon
Bright
I am the Artist
Starving, thirsting
And I need to write

Day 5: Write a Letter to Your Dreams

Dear Dreams,

For the last 21 years you've been my alternate reality. You've been my truth, my perception, the dictating force behind my crazy, inexplicable actions.

Sometimes I believe our relationship is three-dimensional. Always so vividly and precisely do I see you. Always lurid, I sense you. I feel you in my heart but need to see you conceptualize outside that realm. I need to see the aspirations and premonitions develop beyond what I envision. I need the ability to map out the road to my success.

Looking back, I can barely remember what I dreamed of freshman year. I feel as if I've fallen short of the sights on which I first set my eyes.

Becoming a mother and fiancée in a matter of months shifted my energy towards different things. Postpartum depression clouded my judgment and I lost touch with you all and reality for a second. Realizing the gift that motherhood is has helped new dreams manifest.

Sometimes I feel like my fiancé doesn't understand this, this wishing-washing-jagged in my brain. He doesn't get that my reality has always existed in my head. With his help, however, I've learned to write and let the world hear what I have to say. I've found a voice. I will use it to teach others to find the voices inside themselves.

In many ways, I am like you dreams. Patient, wishful, full of hope and never-ending.

I am waiting to see what happens with us. We've always made beautiful things.

-Court

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Day 4: Write a Letter to Your Sibling

Dear Cercilyn,

What I imagined would never happen did just a few months ago, when I saw our father again for the first time in years and-to even greater surprise-I got in contact with you and Trell. Guess dreams really do come true.

For years I wondered if we would ever speak again, if I would ever see your face before I had passed on to the other side of life. You were only a year old when our dad and your mom divorced. I was nine and I had no control over what happened to our relationship. Heck, I didn't know they were divorced until I was 12. It was a really rough time-those few years they were married-and I was sheltered from the repercussions as much as possible.

Since you can't remember any of it, I won't bother explaining to you the things I witnessed on the outskirts of your parents' tumultuous marriage. You're still young and although very gifted, you'll have a hard time understanding why things fell apart and why circumstances are as they are. I want you to remain innocent, unfazed by all that has happened. I can tell from our sporadic conversations that your childlike wonder has already been spoiled, but I feel it's my obligation as your sister to protect you.

Instead of sifting through certain details, I'll give you the one gift I'm sure no one else can give-a piece of our father. His absence can't be filled with my words but there's a certain peace in knowing. Well, to start, you are a spitting image of our father. Granted you're light-skinned (lol) but you've got his looks from head to toe. Your posture and physical presence (from what photos I've seen) are identical to his. You are smart, you possess this intelligent trait that most of us Glenn folks have. You are gifted with speech and can draw your little butt off. That's Dad all the way. You play basketball, and from what my mom has told me you get that from Daddy, too.

I know life hasn't been easy without him. I know that firsthand. I also know you'll grow up to be a wonderful woman, because you are an awesome girl. Don't let life tell you how to be; make the world bend to fit who you are. Know who you are, and let that definition-your thoughts, goals, talents-determine what successes you'll have. The statistics say that Black girls who are reared without their fathers turn to the wrong men to complete them. You are already complete, you have everything you need (two sets of chromosomes) to be complete. Don't let his addiction define you.

I know it feels as if we're strangers, and in so many ways we are. Regardless of what DNA tests and nonbelievers say, we are family. I miss you and I love you too.

Sincerely,

Your big sis

Day 3: Write a Letter to Your Parents

"Ain't no way I can pay ya back, but my plan is to show you that I understand. You are appreciated." -Tupac

Dear Ma,

There are a million things I can write about you, but to you - not many. We talk almost every day, and when we aren't on the phone we're texting. I love that we've kept an open connection despite my move away to college. Even when I moved further away, we kept our lines open because we knew that if we didn't, it would be our demise.

From day one it's been just us two; Daddy was never there and even Anthony is like a roommate. I loved the fact that you never had anymore children, and grateful when I notice that you never spoke one bad word about my father. We've grown up -and out- together. I couldn't have asked for a better mother. Everything I've been through, you were right there by my side.

At times I've worried about you, about your anxiety and inability to deal with stress effectively. You hold it all in. You aren't emotional in the way that I am. You wear your strength differently, and it's befitting of you. Beautiful. I never thought anyone was prettier than you, btw. Because I know that you are capable of handling whatever life throws your way, I know you'll attain true happiness. You are wisdom and strength, from head to toe. (Get the help you need. Don't feel like you owe anyone anything.)

My biggest concern is not paying you the respect that you deserve. I was oftentimes a disrespectful and talkative child, saying what came to mind first and considering your reaction second. Now that I am able to provide more for myself, I want to give you the world. I know that no matter what I do, you are proud and supportive of me. I want to show you that no matter what you decide to pursue, I'm behind you all the way, 100%.

Thank you for being my comfort person. Thank you for giving me attention and unconditional love, whether or not you felt you got enough from your mother. Thank you for loving Isaiah and Tosin as if they are your own. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving yourself.

With all my heart and then some,

Tweety Bird

It doesn't have a name. I call it 01/10/2011.

Mind you, it's unfinished. Someone remind me to work on it.

Praying to the alter of 20,000 gods
Each body a sacred temple that you've entered through and through
Letting the spirits speak to you and run their ideologies, through and through
As you trekked the labyrinth of their satin, pink soft walls
Do you count the lives you've taken?
Are you akin to human nature?
Were you a Christian crusader, pillaging and stripping the Muslim women of their virtues?
As-salam alaikum
No alaikum as-salum
For strangers
Tell me, can you taste the tears that they have cried for you?
[Can you] speak the words they held so closely to the hearts you broke so mercilessly?
Fear that you would scar them
Knowing you'd escape from them unscathed
I have walked the city streets of Sodom and Gomorrah with you
I have fed on the flesh you massacred
With syrup tongue and teddy bear eyes
I tell you, my friend,
There is no country for old men
Who spent their young boy days
Running through daughters the way a river
Runs over boulders in its stream
There is no room for the cycle of hate and misogyny that men perpetuate to their sons
No room for women in a world that believes corrective rape and genital mutilation will keep their gardens fertile and weed-free
There is no dignity for those men
Now tell me, dear friend
Can you count the number of curtains you've pulled over their gazing faces?
Do you remember the dip of each set of lips you've softly kissed?

Day 2: Write a Letter to Your Crush

This is an engaging task. When I like, I like hard, I get hurt and it seems like forever before I let go. I'm an Empath, a romantic, one with such a nostalgic flair but -what can I say?- I'm a passionate person.

If it were supposed to feel good, they wouldn't call it a crush. - Author Unknown

Dear Friend,

For much of our relationship, you've seemed most like a foe, this evil thing inside of me or perched on my left shoulder waiting for me to make a wrong turn. I hurt for you, an unyielding, smoldering hurt for you like a child who knows all the answers but was instructed by the teacher to sit still and say nothing. Maybe it's frustration, but it's useless in the end because it won't lead to instant gratification. I think that's what you meant.

Don't ask me to remember how it started, or where. What matters is that we were in college. My feelings for you came as quickly as a 16-year-old boy who had sex for the first time. Like me, they were innocent, naive. You were handsome and charming and intriguing. Even when I met the real you, you were handsome and charming and intriguing.

As the semesters rolled on you became beautiful and lucent and almost blinding to me. We spent a semester avoiding what I knew would happen anyway. You wanted to get in my panties, you wanted to feel the very thing that made me female and somehow claim it as your own. I will never understand conquests. Try as you might to convince me otherwise, I know that's what it was. But it's okay to admit that because I wanted to be conquered. Here I stood, all of 5'1" and here you were, 6'3" and stunningly slim. I wanted to be your Jane, your America, your prize.

I won't get too personal. This is not the time, nor the space, where I wish to air out my feelings. Like you said, we both have too much at stake to pursue the wavering promise of loving each other. Rather than say goodbye, we have always let the connection ebb and flow like a tide. It's best that way, although dissatisfying.

I also won't let this letter form the way all my writing does, with some altruistic stance and sentimental tug at the heartstrings. I think I felt for you stronger than you felt for me, but you also said that my perception of reality is skewed.

Thank you for physically being with me when you were. Thank you for being honest, being available, being yourself when you were.

Always,

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