01-30-2017, 10:02 AM
The poet pauses at the crossroads
where art and family meet.
Her mother, holding a bouquet
of bloody music, circles the ruins.
She reads in a midnight voice,
raising ancient souls from dust.
Slashing, sinewy phrases invoke
the first freedom fighters,
their strength found
in shotgun houses
next to the fields.
Her resolute delivery expresses
defiance and recovery from the howling,
the leering, that once occupied minds
and shrill voices on sweltering sidewalks.
In plantation fields,
bloodroot and mimosa sway
to the sound of her voice.
Hands reaching upwards,
a woman moves her fingers,
calling the sky
to hold these words.
(rev. 4)
The poet pauses at the crossroads
where her art and family meet.
Her mother stands in the ruins
holding a bouquet of bloody music.
She reads in a midnight voice,
raising ancient souls from dust.
Hands reaching upwards,
a white woman moves her fingers
calling the sky to hold these words.
Slashing, sinewy phrases invoke
the first activists who fought
with the strength that welled forth
from shotgun houses next to the fields.
With unabashed delivery, she embodies
defiance and recovery from the howling,
the leering, that once occupied dim minds
and shrill voices on sweltering sidewalks.
In plantation fields,
bloodroot and mimosa sway
to the sound of her voice.
(3rd rev.)
In a midnight voice, arms extended,
she reads blues that lays the soul to dust.
Hands reaching upwards,
a white woman moves her fingers
calling the sky to hold these words.
The poet stands at the crossroads
where her art and family meet.
Her mother stands in the ruins
holding a bouquet of bloody music.
Slashing, sinewy phrases celebrate
the first activists who fought for freedom
with the strength that simmered
in shotgun houses next to the picking fields.
A freight train of rapid fire explosive words,
intellect the weapon, now unconcealed,
she quashes the howling and leers
from blue-veined, tobacco-stained faces.
Bloodroot and mimosa sway
to the sound of her voice.
(2nd Rev.)
In a midnight voice, arms extended,
she reads blues that lay the soul to dust.
Hands reaching upwards,
a white woman moves her fingers
calling the sky to hold these words.
The poet stands at the crossroads
where her art and family past meet.
Her mother stands in the ruins
holding a bouquet of bloody music
and a spear she carved from her lover’s bones.
Slashing, sinewy phrases celebrate
the first activists. Her mother fought for freedom
with the strength that simmered in shotgun houses
next to the picking fields.
A freight train of rapid fire explosive words,
intellect the weapon, now unconcealed,
she quashes the howling and leers
from blue veined faces in tobacco stained t-shirts.
Bloodroot and mimosa sway
to the sound of her voice.
(1st rev.)
In a midnight voice, arms extended,
she read blues that laid the soul to dust.
She testified to the barbarity, and battles fought by her family,
she gave us her mother, standing in the ruins, holding a bouquet
of bloody music and a spear she’d carved out of her lover's bones.
The slashing, sinewy phrases testified to the stamina
of the first activists; her mother fought with the strength
that came from shotgun houses next to the picking fields.
Her poem was a freight train of rapid fire explosive words.
Intellect the weapon, unconcealed now, quashed the howling
and leers from blue veined faces in tobacco stained t-shirts;
bloodroot and mimosa swayed to the sound of her voice.
A white woman in the audience, hands extended upwards,
moved her fingers, calling the sky to hold these words.
“My mother was a freedom fighter”
(Aja Monet at the Women’s March)
She read like a blues veteran.
Dressed in a midnight suit,
arms extended, palms out,
displaying the bedraggled truth
of racism toward women.
She gave us her mother, standing in the ruins,
holding a “bouquet of bloody music in her hand,”
after she had carved a spear out of her lover’s bones.
A white woman in the audience, hands extended upwards,
moved her fingers, called the sky to hold these words.
Aja's slashing, sinewy phrases testified to the strength
of the first activists, she could have been standing off
a pack of bullies, who didn’t understand the poetry,
but couldn’t deny the force of the words.
Her mother fought with the strength that came
from shotgun houses next to the picking fields,
grace earned through knowledge and the mission at hand.
Aja, reading, was a freight train of rapid fire explosive words,
testimony unheard with this force and vast audience before;
a woman speaking what has been ignored, distorted,
about the every day battles fought by her family.
Defiant, she attacks with lessons for racists,
the earth spins upside down, awakening.
Her mother, though she had fast friends
together in a consensus of one mind, one action,
was, at her center, lonely, yearning.
Her daughter summons her often for advice,
when the turns of street and field converge.