On Poetry IV...

part 1 - the destination
city of hopes & dreams
funneling it all like jell-o shots
or j.lo on the 6
speed racer city streets moving
quick as my mind
quick as this pen
speed & danger, moving all the time
lights camera action
runways & sidewalks
uptown & downtown
theaters shows & art

part 2 - the path
NYC-bound
DC-bred
Lex Vegas latest
Dakar, the nose of the Motherland
Sent sweet scents circling me
Sending me to streets north
Pine Ridge, my tiospaye held arms open
When tears of mountains shed
Watering these hopes of generations pushing north
Caribbean cuisine causes currents
Callous colonials creating conflict
Cleaning, carving, culture, coursing north
The world pushes past thoughts & plans
Laid straight through the curves of my mind & body
Every corner & word pulsing out, up, North

Copyright A. Davis

On Poetry III...

Shoutout to Gwendolyn Brooks (whose style I'm imitating in this poem...)

New Progress

And still we march in all black, progressing
Against the music of generations
Fed on the prejudice of mothers who
Keep pain warm like breast milk for dark infants.
Still we don the colors red black and green.
Still we salute the flag red, white, and blue,
Revere the stripes, look longingly, pray
For safety as those who also prayed, sang.
But inward boils a new power, an awe.
No fear, a growing fulfillment burns hot.
For even if we end up losing out
How shall they deny, back stepping; and how
Close the doors? Push, push. The sound
Of echoed chains remain. And again free.

Copyright A. Davis

On Poetry II...

attraction is something both sweet and true
looking and touching, the voice harbors sin
je sais que je ne veux pas être la foule
comme la belle voix, je ne regrette rien
shadows close tight around our grasped hands
because doubt shatters now what love could do
et, maintenant, tu me donne ta main
je pense que tu me dit bienvenue
holding fast to thoughts that now seem so vain
slipping through your smooth fingers, nevermind
mais, entre l’amour et vous, vit la haine
and end we sought, you could never find
jamais ou toujours, vous pensez de moi
mais, j’oublie la voix, la promesse que toi

copyright A. Davis

On Poetry...

I’d like to take time and space to think,
Of the things we love to regard as fair,
Of the thin pale skin that blushes pink,
The cold color blue your proud eyes may wear.
You whose face that marks gold and silver coins,
Whose pale and callous hands rinse red with war,
Hatred sprang then and now from fertile loins,
Beckoning to us now as done before.
The brilliant whiteness of face and teeth
Reflecting golden sunlight all too well,
Harshly turned down to those lying beneath
Becomes for us bright, rich, glorious hell.
Keeping close and dear your father’s fair laws,
Keeping copper and brown skin in your jaws.

Copyright A.Davis

On Creativity...

Show and tell time...

So, I have a confession to make: I have a huge regret... I never pursued the creative side of me.

Don't get me wrong, I get my read/listen/view/taste/write on, but there's something of a performer that was never let out in the way she could have. I actually cannot remember the last time I put pen to paper in a creative manner.

When I was younger, I had desires of a bohemian life, full of colors, sounds, harmonies, galleries, studios, roadtrips, 8-hour conversations, and knowing the band. I was going to do it all, and then become president. My talent would be words, and I would give them to audiences every night relentlessly and with passion.

And then I was taught the five paragraph essay, the lyric poem, and the book review. I was forced to compartmentalize the very form that seemed to breathe freely and with ease within my mind.

And now, I'm afraid that it's gone. My head is too much like something from The Container Store: all sterile and clean, transparent and cold. It feels like science in my head, and it makes every essay feel like a ball bouncing hollowly through rooms that used to be alive and move with syllables that flowed on rivers of rhythm and groove.

I need a release.