In the Beginning

In the Beginning was the word, and the word was god
and the word was filtered through the tongues of man
blaming the fall of himself on a woman.
Now he fears his weakness for her.
Now she fears her strength may drive him out of her garden.
by Ghetto Girl Blue/Jessica Holter

Her Story

By: Natalie Stewart (formerly of Floetry)

Lady in Brown

Dark phrases of womanhood
of never havin been a girl
half-notes scattered
without rhythm/ no tune
distraught laughter fallin
over a black girl's shoulder
it's funny/it's hysterical
the melody-less-ness of her dance
don't tell nobody don't tell a soul
she's dancin on beer cans & shingles
by: Ntozake Shange

Is It Worth It?

Sure, I’ve lain with love.

I’ve enjoyed sweet moments and smiled with love.
Yes. Yes, I’ve snuggled up in the bed with love.
But is it worth it?
Come to find that soon – inevitably – after cuddling up with love you’ll one day find yourself sleeping
…with pain.

Pain.

Is it worth it?

(Question for you,)Love, are you worth it? Are you worth the tug in my chest? The sharp tug in my chest. Are you worth my tears. Are you worth the stress. Because I’ve yet to find my happy ending; my happily-ever –after, that which I keep reading in everyone else’s stories.

See
I’m stress-free
I’m bump-free
I’m happy
and smiling, all by my lonesome. But there’s something I keep witnessing in their eyes. A spark. A glimmer. A shine. And I’m jalou for it. Jealous. Envious. So when you come knocking, I open my door. And each time I say to myself, This is it. This is my happy ending.
No, never looking for a knight in shinning armor, but I’ve yet to find a MAN.

A man.
God-fearing, and unafraid of intimate affection. A man. Who is teaching, and loving, and giving.
Worth having.
No, instead, I keep attracting sorry-excuses. Seems I’m a magnet for brothahs who wanna Be. But never will. Because their own lack of true will. And my heart is tired.

Tired.
So tired of…happy beginnings and ugly endings. Weary of the introduction, climax, and the tragic endings. So perhaps I’ll remix it. Perhaps with the next, I’ll begin with the tragedy and work my way to a happy ending.

Perhaps…

By: Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Negro Folk song: Wild Negro Bill

I'se wild Nigger Bill
Frum Redpepper Hill.
I never did wo'k, an' I never will.

I'se done killed de Boss.
I'se knocked downde hoss.
I eats up raw goose widout apple sauce!

I'se Run-a-way Bill,
I knows dey mought kill;
But ole Mosser hain't cotch me, an' he never will

Part of an old folk song: Run, Nigger, Run!

Run, Nigger, run! De Patter-rollers'll ketch you.
Run, Nigger, run! It's almos day.

Dat Nigger run'd, dat Nigger flew,
Dat Nigger tore his shu't in two.

All over dem woods and frou de paster,
Dem Patter-rollers shot; but de Nigger git faster,

Oh, dat Nigger whirl'd, dat Nigger wheel'd,
Dat Nigger tore up de whole co'n field

Song: We Raise de Wheat

We raise de wheat,
Dey gib us de corn;
We bake de bread,
Dey bib us de crust;
We sif de meal,
Dey gib us de huss;
We peel de meat,
Dey gib us de skin;
And dat's de way
Dey take us in;
We skim de pot,
Dey gibusde liquor,
And say dat's good enough for nigger.


from Frederick Douglass'
My Bondage and My Freedom, 1853

I Am More Than My Hair

I am more than my desire; more than I even aspire to be
more than they told me I could be, I am me.
Magnificently Black and proud to be
A malignant cancer on their self esteem,
For in my natural mane they find crowns
of memorabilia of raped and drowned queens
who once won the respect of even the Asian,
who sells me hair in indoor flea markets
for gain through Barbie-styled caricatures
of what I am told to be, to be - American

Despite what they might perceive,
whether, or if, they care to care
I am more than the dollar defines,
more than the thick swells between my curvy lines
I am more than my thick lips, more than my skin, however dark or fair
I am more than a consumer, I don’t need a costumer
Why can’t they comprehend this? I am more than my hair!
I have my crown and my convictions, I don’t need extensions
Don’t give me horse hair. There is nothing synthetic about me.
I am human. I feel, I bleed, I shout, I cuss, I eat, I drink,
They doubt, I learn, I love and make love or even pay attention
to the mind games they play with distorted images of me on display
But I am more than what this capital scene is made of

Human hair? Human Hair? From a real live Asian gal?
Why you come in here to try to get me down about my kinky crown?
Oh Lord, the despair!
Who lied and told you we need to cover up our hair?
This Black girl finds no pride in hiding ‘neath a crown of fear!
You must be trying to sell me dead locks
‘Cause I ain’t seen no bald headed Asian gals running around here

by Jessica Holter

"I Was Born" by MC Lyte

Much Too Much

I haven’t even begun to live life and it’s already too hard for me
Tryna do good, be right, you know, hold on to my Christianity.
But sometimes I’m just ready to give up
Let up and rid the struggle(s) shut up
in my bones.
Dull, almost dead is my optimistic tone.
Seems to me that the harder I try
The more I wonder why?
Wanna do right, but the world keeps shutting my out
Separate yourself from the world, yeah but I’m ready to SHOUT
‘cause It. Ain’t. That. Easy.
Believe me.
A devoted Christian am I
But these last few months all I can do is break down and cry.
Trying to do so much while keeping in touch
With the spirit.
Can you hear it?
I’ve gone deaf, I think
‘Cause I haven’t heard a word and I’m on the brink
Of falling.
I’ve been calling
Hoping -
Knowing that He’s listening.
But receiving…nothing?
Hello? I’m in pain.
Surprised I’m still sane
Can’t keep up with this game
It’s turning me lame
And I’m forgetting my name
Righteous.
The world is much too much.
These are the times that I most desire my crutch
Strong when I’m weak
But where is He?
Thought You wanted to mold me.
Why should I suffer with such a silence.
Did I not give You my heart?
Did I not give it all up to You from the start?
I am tired, weak. I’m draining.
I wanna be for You but I can feel my spirit fainting.
So save me O Lord. Come to my rescue right away.
Rest; tranquility is all I ask. Please, give my spirit to lay
That I may worship you with an ease,
That you might take away my pain, and instead give me peace.
Your Servant, Your Image, D.

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

Something Wrong

Was

Running away from everyone in hopes of helping myself
Now lookin around, I've no one, so instead I've hurt myself
To become a diamond, a rock must endure the fire
So how could I have expected better
when I refused to go through the weather?
Family & friends now lost in hopes of emotional wealth
But perhaps I should have realized my error when I began to lose myself
Confused - my spiritual well-being now more derranged
Lonely and afraid, I no longer force my own corrections, but sit and wait for change...

by Dorlette Pierre-Louis

The Addiction

The addiction
does not
have hold of you
it has
no hands
no arms
no legs
it has not
ambition
delusion
confusion

The Addiction
does not need you
does not love you
it is not anxious
or
nervous
it is not some guy
or girl you met in a club
out
to possess you tonight

It does not want you

The Addiction does not feel

Addiction does not feel

That is you.
Projecting.
Embellishing.

Testing and pushing
your loved ones away...
You, locking the door
so you
so you can have privacy
so you can have your way with it.
Bind it
Bend it to your will

The Addiction does not have hold of you
it has no hands.

It is you
who will to not
let her go.

by Jessica Holter

The Psalm of Life

What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Dark Variation

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me -
That is my dream

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening...
A tall, slim tree...
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

by Langston Hughes

Suicide

First, suicide notes should be
(not long) but written
second,
all suicide notes
should be signed
in blood
by hand
and to the point -
that point being, perhaps,
that there is none.
Thirdly, if it is the thought
of rest that
fascinates
laziness should be admitted
in the clearest terms.
Then, all things done
ask those outraged
consider their happiest
summer
& tell if the days it
adds up to
is one

Alice Walker

"Nothing is for Nothing" by Jill Scott

Possum Crossing

Backing out the driveway
the car lights cast an eerie glow
in the morning fog centering
on movement in the rain slick street
Hitting brakes I anticipate a squirrel or a cat or sometimes
a little raccoon
I once braked for a blind little mole who try though he did
could not escape the cat toying with his life
Mother-to-be possum occasionally lopes home . . . being
naturally . . . slow her condition makes her even more ginger
We need a sign POSSUM CROSSING to warn coffee-gurgling neighbors:
we share the streets with more than trucks and vans and
railroad crossings
All birds being the living kin of dinosaurs
think themselves invincible and pay no heed
to the rolling wheels while they dine
on an unlucky rabbit
I hit brakes for the flutter of the lights hoping it's not a deer
or a skunk or a groundhog
coffee splashes over the cup which I quickly put away from me
and into the empty passenger seat
I look . . .
relieved and exasperated ...
to discover I have just missed a big wet leaf
struggling . . . to lift itself into the wind
and live

by Nikki Giovanni

Balances

in life
one is always
balancing

like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers

or one teacher
against another
(only to balance our grade average)

3 grains of salt
to one ounce truth

our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street

and lately i've begun wondering
if you're trying to tell me something

we used to talk all night
and do things alone together

and i've begun

(as a reaction to a feeling)
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain
of loving you

by Nikki Giovanni

Mouthin Off

My job is to devulge the feelings of the time
Through my incondescent rhymes
And fiery metaphors
I open up
Young mind doors
To the quiet tongue fo there inner souls
I say what the normal man wouldn't
What most people couldn't
I'm the tongue of the mute
Ear of the death
Sight of the blind
I'm the young word genuis
Trapped in a poetic mind.

by Jay Horne

Shafro

Now that my afro's as big as Shaft's
I feel a little better about myself.
How it warms my bullet-head in Winter,
black halo, frizzy hat of hair.
Shaft knew what a crown his was,
an orb compared to the bush
on the woman sleeping next to him.
(There was always a woman
sleeping next to him. I keep thinking,
If I'd only talk to strangers. . .
grow a more perfect head of hair.)
His afro was a crown.
Bullet after barreling bullet,
fist-fights & car chases,
three movies & a brief TV series,
never one muffled strand,
never dampened by sweat--
I sweat in even the least heroic of situations.
I'm sure you won't believe this,
but if a policeman walks behind me, I tremble:
What would Shaft do? What would Shaft do?
Bits of my courage flake away like dandruff.
I'm sweating even as I tell you this,
I'm not cool,
I keep the real me tucked beneath a wig,
I'm a small American frog.
I grow beautiful as the theatre dims.

by Terrence Hayes