Turner, Nahal, Darby-Newton, and Rodgers ignite Day 6: aaduna's National Poetry Month
Army
of Artists
(For My Friend
Horace)
Harmony of a hug,
Rhythm of a rose,
Melody in the mirror
We are an army of
artists
Merchants of life,
Beauty's our bomb,
Love its shrapnel…
We are an army of
artists
Infantry on feet of
celebration,
Toes polishing
Hardwood floors with
perspiration
We are an army of
artists
Brandishing sticks and
brushes,
Softening up enemies
with
Strokes and notes,
Partisans wielding pastels,
Oils and acrylics—
Connecting dots, hitting
spots
On canvas and paper
We are an army of
artists
Foreign fighters,
formerly known
As Dukes, Counts, Birds
and Pops—
Militant magi weaving
dreams in
Azure skies, etching
prayers
In mirrors with our acid
tears
We are an army of
artists
Asymmetrical warriors,
Mopping up murals
Gracing broken-down
buildings—
Enemy combatants crying
clear
Lacquer
on contrabasses,
Snipers shooting
sunlight into
Hearts held hostage by
the 1%
Ellingtonia is our
tonic…
For
subdominant dreams
We are an army of
artists
Dangerously unselfish,
Enemies of ignorance
Drumming to different
dancers—
Staging attacks in
theaters
Exploding in applause!
©
2010 Raymond Nat Turner
Harlem,
New York
 | ||
| Raymond Nat Turner (Photo credit: Mary Ann d'Urso) |
<><><>
 |
| Graphic created by poet, Anita Nahal for her work, "Minimalist Immigrants" |
Minimalist Immigrants
Our
way of surviving none came to seriously believe. Living in America, after all,
the land of honey, milk, and plenty… freedoms of the myriad. Should have been a
cake walk. Freedom does not come without sacrifice. And sacrifice is not without
a pound, or more, of flesh. Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice lurks in most of
us…
We
taught ourselves there was no use of crying over spilt milk and reverberated
with Somerset Maugham “…because all the forces in the universe were bent on
spilling it.” Aftermaths are usually
dirty, smelly, dried up, and shriveled like a body submerged in water far too
long. Clocks are mono-directional… and minimalism seemed warm… accepting…
peaceful… an exercise…a yogic mantra...
We can
breathe deeply now… meditate in the streets of minimal harassment and maximum
strength.
©
2017 Anita Nahal
Princeton,
New Jersey
 |
| Anita Nahal, (photo provided) |
<><><>
The Lesson
Won't use his name,
But he changed me.
Montgomery, Alabama
Not exactly an incubator
Of tolerance
They were just "sissies"
To us.
Undeserving of any scorn,
Noticeably different
But just there
With us.
Everything
Would have probably stayed same
But he changed me.
Montgomery, Alabama
Not exactly an incubator
Of tolerance
They were just "sissies"
To us.
Undeserving of any scorn,
Noticeably different
But just there
With us.
Everything
Would have probably stayed same
If
not for him.
Most handsome man met.
Liquid eyes, spilling
Sweet, funny, tender
We bonded over
Snark and humor and smart.
I Crushed harder
Than unknown elements
Until, I said the "word"
One day
Tossed blithely, proving cool
Saw liquid eyes dulled, by friends’ betrayal
Considerate enough
To spare my feelings
For hurting HIS feelings
He let the night end genially
But I was savvy enough to know
What I'd thrown away!
Self styled rebel.
Carried my MAMA’s
Black Panther card
In a secret place
Since given with admonition that
It wasn't for everyone
To see,
But to remember
"PEACE, UNTIL PUSHED TOO FAR!"
Uncles, "first black"
Everything in Montgomery
Raised to call
My brothers and sisters
“brothers and sisters!”
From birth
Talking about HURT!
SHAME WERE ROCKS
Cracked in half
By the oceans of tears
I shed
For what was unthinkingly done
Would have drank them
All if there had been room
Enough inside me.
Simple, ignorant
Wayward tongue
Lashed someone
I loved
Whose only crime
Which wasn't one at all
Was in not being able
To love me
The way I loved him.
Life, being black and woman,
Had already
Proffered pointers
The good white lunching ladies
Who’d breathlessly waited
To smirk
If I wrongly used a fork;
Teachers who praised to face,
Still whispering
“She’ll never make it!”
White friends who’d
Drink with me
But wouldn't consider
Inviting me
To their homes
During school breaks
And never accompanied ME
When I’d ask.
“F” became my scarlet letter!
Fraudulent
Failure
Foolish
False
Fake
I tried to make it up to him
But things weren't the same
We passed the next year
In uneasy silences
When “please forgive”
Couldn't be held in
Any longer
He just smiled and asked
"KIM, WHY WOULD ANYONE
CHOOSE A LIFESTYLE LIKE THIS
IF IT HURT SO MUCH?"
I have a picture of him
Sitting in a high place
In my grandmother's
House
There's still a hint in the
Eyes of how we started out
Full of ourselves, sniggling
Over a southern professor's pronouncement
Of the word "Nietzsche."
That girl, smiling with mortarboard,
Next to the man she still loved, but differently,
Has changed even more.
I am an intolerance tyrant.
One of my gay students told me once
That my defense of him
Had saved him.
I have a reputation
For detesting prejudice that borders on
Violent.
I teach about the ravages of hate over time;
I am different because of him, and
I can't tell you how much it would
Mean to me to hug him
And whisper
My thanks
For changing me.
Most handsome man met.
Liquid eyes, spilling
Sweet, funny, tender
We bonded over
Snark and humor and smart.
I Crushed harder
Than unknown elements
Until, I said the "word"
One day
Tossed blithely, proving cool
Saw liquid eyes dulled, by friends’ betrayal
Considerate enough
To spare my feelings
For hurting HIS feelings
He let the night end genially
But I was savvy enough to know
What I'd thrown away!
Self styled rebel.
Carried my MAMA’s
Black Panther card
In a secret place
Since given with admonition that
It wasn't for everyone
To see,
But to remember
"PEACE, UNTIL PUSHED TOO FAR!"
Uncles, "first black"
Everything in Montgomery
Raised to call
My brothers and sisters
“brothers and sisters!”
From birth
Talking about HURT!
SHAME WERE ROCKS
Cracked in half
By the oceans of tears
I shed
For what was unthinkingly done
Would have drank them
All if there had been room
Enough inside me.
Simple, ignorant
Wayward tongue
Lashed someone
I loved
Whose only crime
Which wasn't one at all
Was in not being able
To love me
The way I loved him.
Life, being black and woman,
Had already
Proffered pointers
The good white lunching ladies
Who’d breathlessly waited
To smirk
If I wrongly used a fork;
Teachers who praised to face,
Still whispering
“She’ll never make it!”
White friends who’d
Drink with me
But wouldn't consider
Inviting me
To their homes
During school breaks
And never accompanied ME
When I’d ask.
“F” became my scarlet letter!
Fraudulent
Failure
Foolish
False
Fake
I tried to make it up to him
But things weren't the same
We passed the next year
In uneasy silences
When “please forgive”
Couldn't be held in
Any longer
He just smiled and asked
"KIM, WHY WOULD ANYONE
CHOOSE A LIFESTYLE LIKE THIS
IF IT HURT SO MUCH?"
I have a picture of him
Sitting in a high place
In my grandmother's
House
There's still a hint in the
Eyes of how we started out
Full of ourselves, sniggling
Over a southern professor's pronouncement
Of the word "Nietzsche."
That girl, smiling with mortarboard,
Next to the man she still loved, but differently,
Has changed even more.
I am an intolerance tyrant.
One of my gay students told me once
That my defense of him
Had saved him.
I have a reputation
For detesting prejudice that borders on
Violent.
I teach about the ravages of hate over time;
I am different because of him, and
I can't tell you how much it would
Mean to me to hug him
And whisper
My thanks
For changing me.
©
2012 Kimberlynne Darby Newton
Montgomery,
Alabama
 |
| Kimberlynne Darby Newton, (photo provided) |
<><><>
Li Po
Li
Po
talked in his sleep
beside me and said
passion so intense
like green grass
hitting our fence
in a storm
like little oceans
we painted long ago
like the faint hardness
of the tender mountains
my heart trembles at
5 in the afternoon
and the tree outside
my window has
no birds.
talked in his sleep
beside me and said
passion so intense
like green grass
hitting our fence
in a storm
like little oceans
we painted long ago
like the faint hardness
of the tender mountains
my heart trembles at
5 in the afternoon
and the tree outside
my window has
no birds.
©
2013 Matthew Rodgers
San
Francisco, California
* * *
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