Aja Monet at the Women's March (Rev.4)

[RC James]

 

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.

[Erthona]

Aja Monet Bacquie (born August 21, 1987) is an American contemporary poet, writer, lyricist and activist of Cuban-Jamaican descent from Brooklyn, New York. She is known to be the youngest poet to have ever become the Nuyorican Poets Café Grand Slam Champion at the age of 19 in 2007 and is the last woman to have won this title since. Wiki
________________________________________________________________________________________
“My mother was a freedom fighter”  (This is confusing as it seem untied from the next of the line, making the "she read" seem to be describing the way she looked, not that she had just read the preceding quote.)

She read like a blues veteran (period)
dressed in a midnight suit, at a White House (why "a" White House (instead of "the"), if this is suppose to be commentary, there needs to be more explication, there seems to be some conflict here and at other places throughout. The title confirms this is about the women's march and about "Trump's" attitude toward women, so the focus was "women" not "racism", although there is plenty of that to go around. For me anyway, it creates a bit of confusion about where the focus of the poem is.)
gathering, arms extended, palms out,
displaying the bedraggled truth.

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,
flutttered(sic, fluttered?) her fingers, called the sky to hold these words.

Aja's slashing, sinewy phrases testified to the strength (nice alliteration)
of the first activists, standing off a pack of bullies,
who didn’t understand the poetry, but couldn’t deny (no need for enjambment, pull everything starting from "but..." down to the next line. As it stands it slows down the tempo and lessens the energy of the poem, plus it does not accomplish anything.)
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.
She was a freight train of rapid fire explosive words, testimony (very nice imagery)
unheard with this force and vast audience before; a woman
speaking what has been ignored, distorted,
about the every day battles fought by her ancestors. (ancestors? Not really a correct word usage here)

Defiant, she attacks, lessons for racists,
the earth spins, upside down, awakening. (Could use better punctuation)

Her mother, lonely, yearning, had fast friends    (why was she lonely if she had fast friends - punctuation)
together in a consensus of one mind, vision, action,

within her the heart of a hurricane.(cliche)

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Probably your best poem, of those I've read.

dale

[RC James]

deleted

[tectak]

deleted

What does this mean? If it means what it says....then why?

[RC James]

deleted

What does this mean? If it means what it says....then why?

I have no idea how this got deleted, RC

[RC James]

I'm back to this after several months - trying to make it more direct and losing extraneous
descriptions and inaccuracies. - RC

[Knot]

Hi RC,
Had to google/youtube this so bear that in mind.

In a midnight voice, arms extended,
Not a strong start, for me (and I didn't notice
her 'arms extended' - one hand always seemed
to be holding open the book)
she reads blues that lays the soul to dust.
not sure about 'lays' or indeed the whole phrase,
is it a version of 'turns' the soul to dust?

Hands reaching upwards,
a white woman moves her fingers
most of the audience seemed to be white women,
so how is this one significant?
calling the sky to hold these words.
excellent line.

The poet stands at the crossroads
if you're going with 'blues' then there should,
I think be more of it throughout.
where her art and family meet.
I think this strong couplet should be the opening
(though either way, two 'stands' is one too many).
Her mother stands in the ruins
holding a bouquet of bloody music.
good line.

Slashing, sinewy phrases celebrate
the first activists who fought for freedom
wonder about 'celebrate', was she not
reminding/educating (as well)?
- see your earlier versions.
with the strength that simmered
Not convinced by 'simmered' (does strength simmer?)
and the alliteration weakens the line I think.
in shotgun houses next to the picking fields.
Is 'picking fields' the right term? (Genuinely curious)

A freight train of rapid fire explosive words,
If a freight train explodes then surely it's a disaster?
Finish the train metaphor, don't switch it
to something else.
intellect the weapon, now unconcealed,
reads like a rap line, and not a good one.
she quashes the howling and leers
from blue-veined, tobacco-stained faces.
This is very misleading, I think, as there
didn't seem to be any at this event.

Bloodroot and mimosa sway
to the sound of her voice.
Same objection as before,
though if you prefixed it with
'a hundred miles away...' (or similar)
then objection withdrawn.

I like the kernel of this, but it still seems to be rather
confused/confusing. Perhaps trying to do too much
at once. Is it about Monet or about 'My Mother was...'
(or both) and does where this performance occurred
matter? (What does the 'women's march' have to do
with this piece?)
I think that the 'family history' element in the earlier
versions would provide a strong spine on which to
hang this, and sticking with the 'blues' imagery
would also help.


Best, Knot.

[RC James]

Hi Knot - You've made some excellent points - I appreciate your even-handedness in that.
I made some changes - I especially like your suggestion for the new beginning.  
The Blues seem prominent in this, I think, only because they're a preoccupation of mine,
not so much that they featured strongly in her delivery or content, though the Blues
has always been an integral part of the situation. My use of cultural allusions I realize
was misleading - I especially like your suggestion of placing the bloodroot and mimosa 
in a specific context.  Thanks very much - RC

[Knot]

Hey RC,
this is a big improvement, so much more coherent
and it flows smoothly. The added detail to the final
verse works very well.

The poet pauses at the crossroads
where her art and family meet.
Her mother stands in the ruins
holding a bouquet of bloody music.
Two small points.
The proximity of two 'hers' (L2/L3)
- would reordering lines 3-4 work?
Could the mother be doing something
more interesting that simply standing?

She reads in a midnight voice,
raising ancient souls from dust.
Similarly, 'in the ruins' then
'in a midnight voice'.
Again reorder;
'In a midnight voice she reads,
raises...' - maybe?
Would also suggest going straight to S4

Hands reaching upwards,
a white woman moves her fingers
calling the sky to hold these words.
This verse rather interrupts the flow, I think.
(Still not sure about 'white').
It would, I think, make a strong final verse
(particularly given the last line)

Slashing, sinewy phrases invoke
the first activists who fought
'activists' is still a bit clunky (for me).
Perhaps simplify to something like
Slashing, sinewy phrases invoke
those who fought
(slashing and sinew might also
evoke cane cutting)
with the strength that welled forth
might the 'strength' not simply be 'found'?
from shotgun houses next to the fields.
Could you swap 'next to the fields' for
something else (given S6)?

With unabashed delivery, she embodies
'unabashed' and 'embodies' are more tell
than show, and consequently a little flat.
defiance and recovery from the howling,
the leering, that once occupied dim minds
Do you need 'dim minds', let the reader judge?
and shrill voices on sweltering sidewalks.
Like the Jim Crow 'sidewalks' here.
('Giving whites the wall'? - thanks be to google)
Maybe a little more of this?

In plantation fields,
bloodroot and mimosa sway
to the sound of her voice.


Best, Knot.

[RC James]

Knot - We'll get it - comin' close now - Great help! - Best RC

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Not sure how to bring this formatting monster under control - changes spacing fonts etc at its metallic digital will - RC