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i made a poem, and now it’s gone,  and now i’m confused, because of how everything went wrong. amen.

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@champagnepoet
@blkjoy_

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@morganharpernichols

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@yrsadaleyward

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A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world's most sensitive cargo
but he's not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy's dream
deep inside him.

We're not going to be able
to live in this world
if we're not willing to do what he's doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

Naomi Shihab Nye, "Shoulders" from Red Suitcase. Copyright © 1994 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of BOA Editions, Ltd., www.boaeditions.org.

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Shoulders - A man crosses the street in rain

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A student shared this poem with me a few years back.

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"For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet" by Joy Harjo

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"For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet" by Joy Harjo

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For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet

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Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.

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"A Small Needful Fact" by Ross Gay

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Throwback to 2017. Shannon was 18 when she performed this on Def Poetry Jam.

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"If I Could Write One Million Love Poems (A Love Letter To Trans Kids)* by Cleo Wade

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"If I Could Write One Million Love Poems (A Love Letter To Trans Kids)* by Cleo Wade

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The artist, activist, and poet Cleo Wade shared this poem for the first time at the Teen Vogue x Urban Outfitters Poetry Slam in NYC, which she and Editor of Teen Vogue Elaine Welteroth hosted in celebration of the launch of our Young Love issue. Longer than her typical Instagram-post format, this poem finds its exclusive home on TeenVogue.com, along with a note from Cleo on the recent actions by the current administration against the Trans community.
I am never surprised by the actions of the Trump administration. Outraged? Yes. Frustrated? Definitely. Angry? Oh, let me count the ways. But surprised? Not really. When I see the Trump administration focus on trying to defund Planned Parenthood, I am not surprised. When I see the Trump administration put in place a bigoted and illegal travel ban against our Muslim brothers and sisters, I am not surprised. And when I read that the Trump administration has decided to walk back protections for the beautiful and incredibly brave folks in our country's transgender community, I was not surprised by that either. Trump is a bully and these are the types of things that bullies do. Bullies prey on the most vulnerable. Bullies do not care about right or wrong; they only care about power. We don't need to waste our time being surprised when bullies act like bullies. As Maya Angelou said, "When someone tells you who they are, believe them the first time." Instead, let us focus on who we need to be in the face of tyranny. This is not a time for silence and inaction. This is a time for us to see each other, give love to each other and use our voices to stand up for each other. I wrote this love letter for trans kids because I want them to know that I see them, I am here for them, and I will fight for their protection. May we all find a way to show up and be lighthouses for those in dark places. Love, Cleo
If I Could Write One Million Love Poems (A Love Letter To Transkids)
If I could write one million love poems

I would use them all to keep you safe

I would write

one million lines

that

connect us,

one million words

that weave our stories

and one million letters linking

one to another

and

me to you

If I could write one million love poems

I would expose the lies

of separation

If I could write one million love poems

I would tell you that

What happens to you...

Happens to me

I would grab one million stars and shine their light

on

our oneness

If I could write one million love poems

I would

Rejoice in you

Celebrate you

and I would tell you

One million times that

I

Am

Here

For

You

If I could write one million love poems

The words would run across the page

and in this race:

Love would beat hate

Justice would beat bigotry

Engagement would beat apathy

And faith would

Always

Always

Always

Beat doubt

If I could write one million love poems

I would write them with

One million hugs

One millions tears

One million thank yous

One million actions

and I would tell you

One million times that

You are worthy

You belong

and

You are loved

One million times,

My brother,

My sister,

My friend,

You

Are

Loved

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Cleo Wade's New Poem is a "Love Letter To Trans Kids"

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The artist, activist, and poet Cleo Wade shared this poem for the first time at the Teen Vogue x Urban Outfitters Poetry Slam in NYC, which she and Editor of Teen Vogue Elaine Welteroth hosted in celebration of the launch of our Young Love issue.

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"This Is Not a Small Voice" by Sonia Sanchez

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"This Is Not a Small Voice" by Sonia Sanchez

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For President Václav Havel

It is essential that Summer be grafted to
bones marrow earth clouds blood the
eyes of our ancestors.
It is essential to smell the beginning
words where Washington, Madison, Hamilton,
Adams, Jefferson assembled amid cries of:

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This Is Not a Small Voice - This is not a small voice

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"The Book of Genesis According to St. Miguelito" by Miguel Piñero

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"The Book of Genesis According to St. Miguelito" by Miguel Piñero

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The Book of Genesis According to St. Miguelito by Miguel Pinero

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Comments & analysis: Before the beginning / God created God

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"The Period Poem" by Dominique Christina

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"The Period Poem" by Dominique Christina

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LISTEN to SlamFind 30's on Spotify: http://spoti.fi/1Y1Jtrq -and- BUY the album on iTunes: http://apple.co/1q4NO2N & Amazon: http://amzn.to/1VUPnfp -and- DOWNLOAD SlamFind app for iPhone: http://bit.ly/1oRaW0k & Android: http://bit.ly/WPAdOa For more Dominique Christina, check out: www.dominiquechristina.com https://www.facebook.com/dominiquechristina https://twitter.com/nyarloka Her book, The Bones, The Breaking, The Balm: A Colored Girl's Hymnal, is available now through Penmanship Books: http://penmanshipbooks.com/shop/the-bones-the-breaking-the-balm/ SlamFind is a free performance poetry mobile app that allows you to easily find every poetry slam & poetry-friendly open mic in North America.

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"Old Jim Crow Got to Go" by Amanda Gorman

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"Old Jim Crow Got to Go" by Amanda Gorman

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I was super lucky & was at the live Zoom event when Inaugural Poet Amanda Gorman shared these poems. She read a Langston Hughes poem and then her own poem "Old Jim Crow Got to Go". She share her writing (and research) process for writing this powerful poem. It inspired me to plan to use her method in class later this semester.

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January 28, 2021 - As part of the Library Foundation of Los Angeles online program "Lift Every Voice: Why African American Poetry Matters," Amanda Gorman reads the Langston Hughes classic "The Negro Speaks of Rivers" and her own poem "Old Jim Crow Got to Go."

Discussing "Old Jim Crow Got to Go" with the New York Times in 2018, Gorman said, "I created this poem entirely from textual protest media (protesters, fliers, buttons, headlines) from the mid- to late-20th century, inspired heavily by the National Museum of African American History and Culture's digital archives. Phrases remain in their original form with amended punctuation and line breaks."

Coming a week after Gorman's appearance at the presidential inauguration in Washington on January 20, the Los Angeles event was part of the nationwide celebration of 250 years of African American poetry centered on the release of the Library of America anthology African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle & Song, edited by Kevin Young.

‍ Click here to watch the complete January 28 Library Foundation of Los Angeles program.

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Amanda Gorman: "Old Jim Crow Got to Go" and "The Negro Speaks of Rivers"

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January 28, 2021 - As part of the Library Foundation of Los Angeles online program "Lift Every Voice: Why African American Poetry Matters," Amanda Gorman reads the Langston Hughes classic "The Negro Speaks of Rivers" and her own poem "Old Jim Crow Got to Go."

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"Louder Than a Bomb" by the Steinmenauts  

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"Louder Than a Bomb" by the Steinmenauts  

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This is their 2012 high school poetry slam competition performance. There is a full length documentary film about the team preparing for the competition.

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1.
that day began with a shower
of darkness, calling lightning rains
home to stone language
of thunderclaps, shattering, the high
blue, elegance, of space & time
where a broken-down, riderless, horse
with frayed wings
rode a sheer bone, sunbeam
road, down into the clouds

2.
spoke wheels of lightning jagged
around the hours, & spun high up
above those clouds, duke wheeled
his chariot of piano keys
his spirit, now, levitated from flesh
& hovering over the music of most high
spoke to the silence
of a griot-shaman-man
who knew the wisdom of God

3.
at high noon, the sun cracked
through the darkness, like a rifle shot
grew a beard of clouds on its livid, bald
face, hung down, noon, sky high
pivotal time of the flood-deep hours
as duke was pivotal, being a five in the nine
numbers of numerology
as his music was one of the crossroads
a cosmic mirror of rhythmic gri-gri

4.
so get on up & fly away duke, bebop
slant & fade on in, strut, dance swing, riff
& float & stroke those tickling, gri-gri keys
those satin ladies taking the A train  up
to harlem, those gri-gri keys
of birmingham, breakdown
sophisticated ladies, mood indigo
get on up & strut across, gri-gri
raise on up, your band's waiting

5.
thunderclapping music, somersaulting
clouds, racing across the deep, blue wisdom
of God, listen, it is time for your intro, duke
into that other place, where the all-time great
band is waiting for your intro, duke
it is time for the Sacred Concert, duke
it is time to make the music of God, duke
we are listening for your intro, duke
so let the sacred music, begin

-for Edouard Glissant

I.
the mind wanders as a line of poetry taking flight meanders
in the way birds spreading wings lift into space knowing
skies are full of surprises like errançities encountering restless
journeys as in the edgy solos of miles davis or jimi hendrix

listen to night-song of sea waves crashing in foaming with voices
carrying liquid histories splashing there on rock or sandy shores
after traveling across time space & distance it resembles a keening
language of music heard at the tip of a sharp blade of steel

cutting through air singing as it slices a head clean from its neck
& you watch it drop heavy as a rock landing on earth & rolling
like a bowling ball the head leaving a snaking trail of blood reminding
our brains of errançities wandering through our lives every day

as metaphors for restless movement bring sudden change
surprise in the way you hear errançities of double meaning
layered in music springing from secret memories as echoes
resounding through sea & blue space is what our ears know

& remember hearing voices speaking in tongues carrying history
blooming as iridescent colors of flowers multifarious as rainbows
arching across skies multilingual as joy or sorrow evoked inside
our own lives when poetic errançities know their own forms

2.
what is history but constant recitations of flawed people pushed
over edges of boundaries of morality pursuing wars pillage
enslavement of spirits is what most nations do posing as governing
throughout cycles of world imagination plunder means profit

everywhere religion is practiced on topography as weapons used
as tools written in typography to conquer minds to slaughter for gold
where entire civilizations become flotsam floating across memory seas
heirloom trees cut down as men loot the planet without remorse

their minds absent of empathy they remember/know only greed
these nomadic avatars of gizzard-hearted darth vaders who celebrate
"shock-doctrines" everywhere ballooning earnings-sheet bottom lines
their only creed for being on earth until death cuts them down

3.
but poetry still lives somewhere in airstreams evoking creative breath
lives in the restless sea speaking a miscegenation of musical tongues
lives within the holy miracle of birds elevating flight into dreams & song
as errançities of spirits create holy inside accumulation of daybreaks

raise everyday miraculous voices collaborating underneath star-nailed
clear black skies & the milky eye of a full moon over guadeloupe
listen to the mélange of tongues compelling in nature's lungs in new york
city tongues flung out as invitations for sharing wondrous songs

which nature is a summons to recognize improvisation as a surprising path
to divergence through the sound of scolopendra rooted somewhere here
in wonder when humans explode rhythms inside thickets of words/puns
celebrating the human spirit of imagination is what poets seek

listen for cries of birds lifting off for somewhere above the magical
pulse of sea waves swirling language immense with the winds sound
serenading us through leaves full of ripe fruit sweet as fresh water
knowing love might be deeper than greed & is itself a memory

a miracle always there might bring us closer to reconciliation inside
restless métisse commingling voices of errançities wandering within
magic the mystery of creation pulling us forward to wonder to know
human possibility is always a miraculous gift is always a conundrum

the hours fly quick on wings of clipped winds
like nonsense blown from mouths of hot air-
people-including my own-form syllables, suds,
words shot through pursed lips like greased sleaze
& bloom inside all these rooms dominated by television's
babble sluicing idiot images invented in modern test tubes-
clones-blinking, slathering all over controlled airwaves
of an up-for-sale world, blinking a paucity of spirit,
so dance you leering ventriloquists, marionettes,
you greedy counterfeits, dance, dance, dance

dedicated to my 30/30 crew

praise daily poems in my inbox
how they make me laugh in one stanza,
then break my heart the next
praise how poets hold onto our first loves,
and scent of mama, now gone
praise how we nurture our child self,
gently wrap her around stanzas,
baby girl is resilient
praise our spunk and our sadness,
let our writing heal
at home, at work, in cafés, even in the ICU
praise how we hold our memories up to light,
gentle and cupped in palm of hands
praise our rough and sexy poems,
sometimes that's all we need
fiyah in the sheets
praise bebop and jazz
how my foot taps when i
speak your poems out loud
praise power of music and mama
who played Nancy Wilson all night long,
crying behind a closed door.
praise how i wrote a new poem this week,
while my sick child laid on my lap,
because everyone needs to heal, especially mamas.

Jupiter means anger. Sun Ra does not. Sun Ra dances the Cake Walk on Saturn's pulpy eyes. If you believe that, I'll tell you another one. The first is 13 and the next is 20. They were not good boys but they were boys. They were boys who died for this thing or that. The next was 16 and the last was 18. One had a cell phone. One had a gun. On earth, a goose opens its chest to a sound. The goose takes the bullet this way. A sacrifice denied to the wind since there is no such thing as sacrifice anymore having succumbed to fever and the millennium. The bullet is all consequence. Sun Ra refuses red-long and high, low and deep. His arms are long enough to embrace them.

The trouble is, you can never take
that flower from Billie's hair.
She is always walking too fast
and try as we might,

there's no talking her into slowing.
Don't go down into that basement,
we'd like to scream. What will it take
to bargain her blues,

to retire that term when it comes
to her? But the grain and the cigarettes,
the narcs and the fancy-dressed boys,
the sediment in her throat.

That's the soil those petals spring from,
like a fist, if a fist could sing.

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1. that day began with a shower of darkness, calling lightning rains home to stone language of thunderclaps, shattering, the high blue, elegance, of space & time where a broken-down, riderless, horse with frayed wings rode a sheer bone, sunbeam road, down into the clouds 2.

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"3 Ways to Speak English" by Dr. Jamila Lyiscott

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"3 Ways to Speak English" by Dr. Jamila Lyiscott

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Jamila Lyiscott: 3 ways to speak English

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Jamila Lyiscott is a "tri-tongued orator;" in her powerful spoken-word essay "Broken English," she celebrates - and challenges - the three distinct flavors of English she speaks with her friends, in the classroom and with her parents. As she explores the complicated history and present-day identity that each language represents, she unpacks what it means to be "articulate."