Robert Frost and an Original– Two Poems

josh-calabrese-527813-unsplash.jpg

Photo by Josh Calabrese on Unsplash

As I head back to SLO today, I’m thinking that sometimes transparency can be a good thing. I wrote the second poem here a little bit ago to play with a new style and in honor of World Suicide Prevention Day which is September 10th; for the love of poetry, I’ve included one of my favorite Robert Frost poems too.

Remember to treat yourself like someone you love this week, happy Tuesday everyone. Here’s what I’ve got for you.


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening– Robert Frost

lilian-velet-692482-unsplash

Photo by Lilian Velet on Unsplash

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Transparency

The sadness can’t even
ache anymore;
it just sits
and stays
and holds
and hurts.

annie-spratt-1048363-unsplash.jpg

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

It leaves me empty and desperate
for someone
to help me up
or out
or away
or through
or within.

For the loneliness, it’s cruel
to want ignorance
so soon
so badly
so achingly…
So please.

Tell me why broken
dreams make a home
out of me,
leave me lonely
and too tired
to keep this up
on my own;

I can’t bear
this weight
any longer–
The ache,
it never stopped,
did it?


If there’s anything you like or anything you would like to see more of from me, feel free to hop over to the Contact Me section; I would love to hear from you. See you all on Friday.

 

Two Poem Tuesday

Another Tuesday, another poem– and I’ve got two for you today. I was playing with a little imagery along with the last style I tried out, let me know what you think!


One

With every step this world

winds me up.

Twist and twist

and twist

the dial;

one more time

until it stops.

Now

let go.

Watch me walk,

watch me work,

watch me live my

life like it’s my job.

I will keep going

until that dial

untwists me

all the way back.

For then I will stop,

I will freeze,

I will be stuck

in my own ways,

until the next person

decides

to wind me up

again.

Two

My life has become a play

with missing pieces

and empty parts

of actors

who can no longer fill

their roles.

Must the show go on,

as the cogs

in the machine

always do,

or does a new one

begin,

not so fresh faced

but ready

in good time

nonetheless?

Is it possible

to be

both?


I hope you all are having a great week, see you Friday.

Marionette— A Poem

New poem for you today, this one is a little different but it’s a good time for trying out new styles. Feel free to let me know what you think about it.


Marionette

This world,

it handles me like

a play toy;

A tug this way,

a thought that way, 

suddenly

it makes me do

whatever it wants.

And all I can manage

is to nod, then move,

let it control me like

a marionette.

All of the strings tie

back to my heart

pulsing with every beat–

as even more hold close

to my body– pulling 

on me so tightly–

yet, I have not a say,

not a care,

not a want.

Not a breath my own.

Because

not a single one

of those

damn strings 

seem

to belong

to me.

Penny For My Poems

thought-catalog-470876-unsplash.jpgAnother day of poetry for you, here’s something new— short and sweet. I’ve been doing a whole lot of writing in the past few months, trying out new styles and working through what I can. What I’ve got for you today is a lot more recent, partially because my old writing is on my old phone, but also because this has been my headspace for a while now.

Though they may seem self-explanatory, I’d like to think there’s a lot of meaning in each line. Poem number one is a mirror of another poem I’ve written (shout out to you if you recognize that first line), but I changed the angles a bit. And that second one was written while not paying attention in English class– I’d like to think it was more important at the moment, but my professor may not agree. So give these a quick read and let me know what you think. Maybe you can figure out the full meaning along the way.


One

hernan-sanchez-160709-unsplashAs I lay my head to rest

I wonder if

you’re resting too.

I wonder if that rest is what

you needed, what

you knew

was coming. I have questions now

too many…

If only you

could come back home and answer them…

one thing I know

you can’t do.

Two

lucas-sankey-365365-unsplashCreep around my edges, careful that you be

around the glass, sharpened pieces

that have become of me.

Let your fingers ‘bout each door, who’s locks are

never shut, never hinged, confirmation

of which you may be sure.

I’ll let you in, let you close though

our fingers never touch, call to question

of your purpose here to show.

ornella-binni-148189-unsplash (1)For you are here, a lie to hold

within the brokenness I know; for your

beauty may never grow old.

But let your presence hold me steady,

bring me peace until you go; hold me up

till on my own, I can be ready.


Have a beautiful rest of the week everyone, see you Friday.

 

Poetry in Modern Antiquity

aaron-burden-272517-unsplash.jpgHappy Poetry Place day! Sorry again for missing the last one due to technical difficulties, if you want to know the poem I was going to share with you, take a look at Tyler Ford’s “Too Much” here. In my AP Lit class senior year, we had a poetry unit where we wrote one poem and chose to perform another. For the performance, I was torn between this poem and Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise.”

Though in the end, I chose Angelou, this poem still holds a special place in my heart. So go ahead and check it out and if you’re interested, Ford’s Twitter is here too! Otherwise, just to make up for last month, I have two of my own works to share with you today.

I’ll keep it short and sweet, but these two are a new style I’ve been playing with.

My English class has been getting into a lot of sonnets and Renaissance poetry lately so I wanted to see how I could use that influence in my own writing. Though I may have steered clear of true sonnet forms, as I have a major midterm to focus on rather than counting syllables and rhyme patterns, take a look at these and tell me what you think— they’re a little different, the question is if that’s a good thing or not.


One

barby-dalbosco-20629-unsplash.jpgTell me how long our voices lie

too quiet, for we no longer see

the truth behind these actions, I

see nothing changing, for we long to be

stronger in the stances we take

and louder in solidarity.

We are breaking down the walls you make;

Now hath our voices set us free.

As a poem of power, this one comes from not only the issues I see on my own campus but those around the world. People are beginning to really stand up and say what they need to say. That’s what this is. And it’s never been more important.

Two

‘Tis no less of poetry, but

spilled feeling that you make of me;

in time, in youth, in chastes unknown,

here be love I hath not been shown.

eli-defaria-124757-unsplashFor I suppose if maybe we

may come upon a day when we

hath break our chains and all restraint

our lusts and hopes not far or faint

but strong and loud, power in divine

love, to leave our cold bondage behind.

Now this one was a real experiment, to play with the words we have left behind in a concept that will never really fade from poetry and art— love. I wanted to see what I could do with it and, though I may be biased, I kind of like how it sounds. Short and sweet just like I promised, but I’d appreciate some feedback and commentary, so let me know what you thought of these in the comments below!


That’s all I’ve got for you today 🙂 Have a great rest of your week, see you Friday.

A Black Woman’s Battle Cry

priscilla-du-preez-172598-unsplashJust like I promised last week, here is my piece that was performed in the Original Women’s Narratives Saturday night. Fair warning, there is explicit content in this and it’s a bit longer/stronger than what I usually write.

For good reason.

Growing up, I feel like the conscious stares whenever my classed talked about MLK in elementary school or the mumbled apologies when I walked past someone saying the n word in high school always showed up in my peripherals. Not because I wasn’t ready to notice them– I was– but because I was tired of having to notice them.

Did I ignore the stares? Yes.

Did I accept those apologies with a nod before moving on? Yes.

Should I have? I don’t know. That’s the thing, I don’t quite know where I stand on what it means to stand up for myself without seeming like the angry black woman in my own head.

That doesn’t mean I never said anything.

Sometimes I might stay quiet, but that doesn’t mean I plan to. I let my writing say what I usually won’t. So this is me, my definition and what I know I need to fight for in my own life. What we all need to fight for– not only equality, but equity.


Here is my spoken word poem, A Black Woman’s Battle Cry.

A Black Woman’s Battle Cry

eye-for-ebony-399310-unsplash.jpgWhen I was thirteen, I realized my hair was not like the other girls.

It didn’t swish and sway, shining as I walked.

It didn’t grow past my ass in less than a year.

No, it was different, it was curly, messy, kinky as they say.

All I knew was what it felt like, that I was different.

Then my mother called it one word: nappy.

That is the lifestyle of a black girl living around so many others who look nothing like her;

Standards get confused, unspoken boundaries get crossed

and people might ask me if I get “tanner in the summer”

or “did your hair grow 10 inches overnight?”

All I could ever reply was “sure.”

I let it go.

Because it’s not their fault they were ignorant, that they didn’t know…

Except maybe it was.

In youth, those words are a mistake.

In adulthood, this becomes ignorance.

etty-fidele-407371-unsplash.jpgBecause when the ignorant boys believe in that mistake,

they grown into ignorant men; they belittle me.

Whispers here and there, as I see a nudge and hear the words

“I ain’t never tasted chocolate before.”

As if I am some commodity to be consumed and disposed of.

That is not what I am.

Yet it makes me question exactly what defines that; what defines me beyond my skin color or my hair texture?

My athletic ability or my home life?

My academic record or my grammar usage?

What about my skin color makes it seem like it’s okay to overstep the bounds of being treated like a human being?

No, you may not touch my hair.

No, I do not play basketball.

No, I do not come from a one parent household.

And no, I am not someone you can throw the word “nigga” around with because you think the color of my skin is some invitation to violate the simple rules of morality.

Just because you know someone who looks like me, just because you’re friends with people “like me”

does not mean you know anything about who I am.brannon-naito-414362-unsplash

You do not know me unless I allow you to.

You do not touch me until you hear the word “yes.”

Am I a black girl, born and raised in a nice town, who acts a little more white than black?

Am I an achieving, dedicated student, with brains overlooked for color and assumed to be less than I am?

And am I a minority at one of the most prestigious CSU’S, representing women of my color while holding onto my own identity?

Because I am a scholar, I am an African American, I am a second generation college student, I am a minority,

and I am a woman.

Not a single one of these things alone can define who I am, yet we live in a world where people act like any one of them does.

Where pay is determined by chromosomes.

Where equality is determined by color.

And where opportunity is determined by causation.

So my question is, does society determine my purpose too?

Is it my nappy hair that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the girls;

camila-damasio-2720-unsplash.jpgNo easy “5 minute hairstyles” or “elegant updos done easy” that applies to me in doctors office magazines.

Or maybe the way they see me as a commodity, an opportunity, before tossing me around and treating me like a toy;

Not because my skirt was too short, because I was “asking for it.”

No, because they wanted to try out a darker shade for once.

Or maybe it’s the difference between a man and a women when I do everything I can and yet, my “womanhood” takes away from my proficiency.

Just enough to get paid twenty percent less, take out another dollar for the unprofessionality of my “nappy” hair.

How do we define purpose, define being, without looking past what we see?

How do we make change when so many people do not seem to want to see it at all?

I want to walk into a room and not be judged by my skin or by my body, no. Judge me by my mind.

By my intelligence.

By my character.

For it is believed that being born into different circumstance automatically puts you three steps back from the rest.

As we live in a world where it is assumed that the color of our skin and identified gender are constraints of our being.aman-bhargava-282998-unsplash

But they are not, if anything at all, they are simply boundaries to push,

lines to cross,

and glass ceilings to keep breaking down again and again

until they can exist no longer.

Because I am an African American, nappy haired, powerful woman who wants the equality I deserve.

And I’m ready to break this shit down.

The Resilient and the Risen– Black History Month

Just like that, the first month of the year has flown by. Maybe it was the three day weekend Cal Poly students had or just a lot going on for the new year, but here we are folks. Welcome to February, or as I like to say…

Welcome to Black History Month.guilherme-stecanella-371624

Since this blog started with my writing after all, today I want to talk about one of my favorite African American women— Maya Angelou. As a voice of many, Angelou was involved with the Southern Christian Leadership Conference in 1959 as well as the Arab Observer in 1964, the only weekly news set that used the English Language in the Middle East. In the 50’s, she joined the Harlem Writers’ Guild in which she met the likes of James Baldwin who became a mentor and friend later on.

After traveling in Egypt and working in Ghana, she came back to the US and became a professor at Wake Forest University in Winston Salem in 1982, also accepting an appointment of Commission for the International Woman of the Year by Jimmy Carter. Though I wasn’t alive yet, some of you may remember her deliverance of On the Pulse of the Morning at Bill Clinton’s Inauguration in 1993, later meeting former President Obama in 2010 for the Presidential medal of Freedom.

As if that wasn’t enough, she was also the first black woman director in Hollywood. Angelou found herself becoming a bigger part of history than I think she could have ever imagined, as she worked her way across several industries and platforms, sharing her perspective and her voice at every single one. She died in May 4 years ago at the age of eighty six— her words now live on through the pages we keep on our shelves. I know that I’ve got a few.sandrachile-483700.jpg

Speaking of pages, there is one poem I have of hers taped to my wall: Still I Rise. Back in my senior year of high school (back in my day), I performed this poem for my class during our poetry unit. It wasn’t hard to choose. The way her personality exudes throughout the poem, her words of resilience unwavering and incredibly smooth, this was one poem I didn’t mind standing in front of the class to perform. It holds one of my best high school memories and one of the writers who helped pave the way for African American achievement along the path to where we are now. Tonight I want to honor what she has done and the words she left behind.


So without further ado, Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

noah-silliman-163561.jpgDoes my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

samantha-sophia-374229.jpgOut of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


Whatever challenges you currently face and anything that stands in your way of success, I hope you can find your way to rise above it. Happy February everyone, have a wonderful weekend. And Welcome to Black History Month.daniela-cuevas-21263.jpg