I learned to be honest
the way I learned to swim
dropped into the inevitable
my father’s thumbs in my hairless armpits
about to give way
I am trying
to surface   carefully
remembering
the water’s shadow-legged musk
cannons of salt   exploding
my nostrils’ rage
and for years
my powerful breast stroke
was a declaration of war.

Audre Lorde
”Our Dead Behind Us: Poems”
p. 39

luminousmk:

i dreamt i was tangoing with
you, you held me so close
we were like the singing coming off the drums.
you made me squeeze muscles
lean back on the sound
of corpuscles sliding in blood.
i heard my thighs singing.

- Sonia Sanchez

(via malomematome)

lazygoddess:

“They say we were meant to lose something in order to find that which is truer. And that which we find may well be that which we have lost but which is found on a different day, when we have changed. And that which we have lost and found differently may well now be the magic stone with which we can, in greater readiness, continue our unending journey.”

~ Ben Okri, Starbook

warsanshire:

-

the year of letting go, of understanding loss. grace. of the word ‘no’ and also being able to say ‘you are not kind’. the year of humanity/humility. when the whole world couldn’t get out of bed. everyone i’ve met this year, says the same thing ‘you are so easy to be around, how do you do that?’. the year i broke open and dug out all the rot with own hands. the year i learnt small talk. and how to smile at strangers. the year i understood that i am my best when i reach out and ask ‘do you want to be my friend?’. the year of sugar, everywhere. softness. sweetness. honey honey. the year of being alone, and learning how much i like it. the year of hugging people i don’t know, because i want to know them. the year i made peace and love, right here.

“…we assume a musical solo is a personal statement/ we
think the poet is speakin for the world. there’s
something wrong there, a writer’s first commitment is
to the piece, itself. how the words fall & leap/ or if
they dawdle & sit down fannin themselves. writers are
dealin with language/ not politics. that comes later. so
much later. to think abt the politics of a poem/ before
we think abt the poem/ is to put what is correct before
the moment. if the moment waz not correct/ it still
waz. we dont castigate ornette coleman of ‘lonely
woman’/ nor do we chastise the del-vikings for singing
abt love all the time. we accept what they gave us/ cuz
that’s what they had & it waz good. when i take my
voice into a poem or a story/ I am trying desperately 
to give you that. i am not trying to give you a history
of my family/ the struggle of black people all over the
world or the fight goin on upstairs tween susie & matt.
i am givin you a moment/ like something that isnt
coming back/ something particularly itself/ like an
alto solo in decemeber in nashville in 1937.

 as we demand to be heard/ we want you to hear us. we
come to you the way leroi jenkins comes or cecil taylor/
or b. b. king.  we come to you alone/ in the theater/ in
the story/ & the poem. like with billie holiday or betty
carter/ we shd give you a moment that cannot be
re-created/ a specificity that cannot be confused. our
language shd let you know who’s talkin, what we’re
talkin abt & how we cant stop sayin this to you. some
urgency accompanies the text. something important
is going on. we are speakin. reachin for yr person/ we
cannot hold it/ we don’t wanna sell it/ we give you
ourselves/ if you listen.”

- ntozake shange
excerpt from “takin a solo/ a poetic possibility/ a poetic imperative”
found in “nappy edges“ 
pp. 11- 12 

by all rites i shd be writin
right to left/ upside down
or backwards/
speech/ shd run garbled & dyslexic thru my
brain/ til i hear yr voice
clearly/ again/

in some other/ life were you a mandala?
are you “OM”?
is shakti-pat/ yr regular metabolic status/
under ordinary circumstances?
oh/ there I go again
admirin myself/ unwittingly/
invitin some terribly/ lush mot palabra son syllable/
to flail
abt my bangs & lashes
so moist/ you smile/ i remember/ this is arrogance
& it’s over

this/ chastening with honey
is nothing/ like the Passion of Christ/
which brought us Lent & we give up meat/
quit our lust/ for blood & bonbons/
Mohammed’s trials brought Ramadan/ & we may only
quench our thirst for life from dawn to dusk/
& Buddah/ neath the bo tree/ spread joy abt our
ankles
so long as we rid ourselves of resentment &
impatience/ now Krishna/ is another kind of story/
but goatherds & goatherdesses/ sheperds &
sheperdesses/
all come with chastening.
you may/ sheer this wool/ wet it
braid it til you can wrap it round/ two or three
parallel/ cosmic strings/
just don’t/ disrupt the ritual
the leap from maya to nirvana/ overwhelms
unwitting/ arrogance
& je ne sais que ton insouciance/ we
can’t handle passion/ with the detness
we associate with civil servants/ in Ibadan or
Bogata/
i am so lucky
this is the essence of life/ you
present yrself/ with the warmth of the Goddess/
the ferocity of Yahweh/ the glee of Shiva/ the
cunning of Coyote/ the de-groovi-licious breath of
Obatala/ like
there was some difference between yr voice/ this
honey/ fallin off
my body/ & wild hummingbirds from the rain forest
appear
by the A train/ imaginin you some/ tropical flower
pollen
hoverin over Manhattan/ like the Muslin brother’s
incense/
maybe/ if i burn you up/ i’d calm down
the endorphin crazed
birds/ cd go back to the Amazon/             think abt it/
fire/ is a great rite of passage/                 the pollen &
the honey & the
flyin birds by my cheek/ oh oh/ i understand/
this is the fall from the Garden.

ntozake shange
”The Love Space Demands: A Continuing Saga”
pp. 20 - 21