Favourite Pomes

[Tift]

Some verses by Patricia Smith from her 2021 book
Crowns: My Hair, My Soul, My Freedom

(It’s art upon our heads, a glory spill)

Nap Unleashed (a few chosen verses)
by Patricia Smith
.
.

Once we were slaves. Our hair was furious,
forever springing loose from plaits and bows,
rejecting homemade greases meant to tame
the wild and wiry bloom that snapped its bands
and leapt alive at every chance. At least
some part of us was running free, like flame
that hungers for a sky, like praying fixed
on someplace we knew heaven was. We sang
our songs but didn’t move our mouths, we burned
to black inside ourselves. With rivers as
our mirrors, we began to build a wall
between our stolen air and us. We snapped
our dresses to our throats, made sure our hair
was braided thick against the spit of men.

Hair braided thick against the spit of men,
we hurtled forth—for years, we mystified
the whisper-tressed, but listened when they said
that we were wrong, not white or silk enough,
and that we’d never be unless we walked
into the fire, succumbing to a hate
we’d hoarded for ourselves. Because they loved
their blemished daughters, mamas twisted knobs
on cranky ovens, conjured flame, and made
us sit on rusted, wobbling kitchen chairs
beneath the ironing comb that charred our necks,
beneath the lye that chewed at scalp and root,
and we endured that hurt, forgot the days
our chaos crown had bellowed, nap unleashed.
.
.
When we explode, we know ourselves again,
we shake our funky, liberated heads,
and raise our voices to the rafters—Do
not dare touch these crowns. And we are Accra,
and we are Alabama, Brooklyn, Watts,
and we are middle finger lifted toward
the seething witnesses to all this joy,
and we are Trinidad and Harlem, we
are bopping straight into the yesterday
we were, and straight into the history
we’ve made and straight into tomorrow with
our rampant naps so gleefully unchecked,
so unrestrained, entwined ’til we become
a single soul, yet none of us the same.

A single soul, yet none of us the same,
we are the only government we need—
our vivid, cocky crowns stunned in their tilt
and swirl, they devastate and irritate,
they be our gospel, be our calling card,
they be our halo, be the way we reach
for sky. The crown is ours to snip or dye
a hundred awkward hues, it’s ours to tuck
beneath a Sunday hat, to crimp and twist,
to scissor down to air, much like a man’s.
This hair is all our other breath. It’s art
upon our heads, a glory spill. It’s wild,
bewildering and sexy in its snarl,
it’s neon, razored, locked and knotted, looped

and razored, locked and neon, looped and not
the business of just anyone, our hair
is blatantly political, a staunch
and blaring tangle, glory in our names,
the gospel on our bobbing heads, it’s fierce—
and yes, still furious, still springing loose
from any peril set on silencing
its roar. You’ve underestimated us,
you didn’t know the muscularity of kink
was busily rebirthing us—it taught
us all the ways to mouth our names
with Serengeti tongues, it’s quarrelsome
and coiled, it’s all the things but always black

and coiled. This hair is all the things. But, black
and wily goddesses, we’ve always known
the powerfulness of wearing our own sky,
the lyric of the scar, we’ve always known
that even though they dared to call us slaves,
we never were. If only they had heard
the freedom on our heads, the jubilant
triumphant wail of all that hair, its rude
unbridled verb, they would have left us free
to rule our own damned selves, to live our sweet
and colored lives. Our hair is throat, is knife
against the throat, is song within the throat,
it’s how we rock and conquer every room,
our hair’s the funk, the scorch, Aretha’s growl
…
.

[Tift]

My Lover Is a Woman
Patricia Parker
.
.

I.

my lover is a woman
& when i hold her
feel her warmth
i feel good
feel safe

then—i never think of
my family’s voices
never hear my sisters say
bulldaggers, queers, funny
come see us, but don’t
bring your friends
it’s ok with us,
but don’t tell mama
it’d break her heart
never feel my father
turn in his grave
never hear my mother cry
Lord, what kind of child is this?
.
.

II.

my lover’s hair is blonde
& when it rubs across my face
it feels soft
feels like a thousand fingers
touch my skin & hold me
and i feel good

then—i never think of the little boy
who spat & called me nigger
never think of the policemen
who kicked my body & said crawl
never think of Black bodies
hanging in trees or filled
with bullet holes
never hear my sisters say
white folks hair stinks
don’t trust any of them
never feel my father
turn in his grave
never hear my mother talk
of her backache after scrubbing floors
never hear her cry
Lord, what kind of child is this?
.
.

III.

my lover’s eyes are blue
& when she looks at me
i float in a warm lake
feel my muscles go weak with want
feel good
feel safe

then—i never think of the blue
eyes that have glared at me
moved three stools away from me
in a bar
never hear my sisters rage
of syphilitic Black men as
guinea pigs
rage of sterilized children
watch them just stop in an
intersection to scare the old
white bitch
never feel my father turn
in his grave
never remember my mother
teaching me the yes sirs & ma’ams
to keep me alive
never hear my mother cry
Lord, what kind of child is this?
.
.

IV.

& when we go to a gay bar
& my people shun me because i crossed
the line
& her people look to see what’s
wrong with her
what defect
drove her to me

& when we walk the streets
of this city
forget and touch
or hold hands
& the people
stare, glare, frown, & taunt
at those queers

i remember
every word taught me
every word said to me
every deed done to me
& then i hate
i look at my lover
& for an instant
doubt

then—i hold her hand tighter
& i can hear my mother cry.
Lord, what kind of child is this?

[Tift]

Natalka Bilotserkivets is a Ukrainian poet, editor, and translator.
.
.

Love in Kyiv
by Natalka Bilotserkivets

More terrible is love in Kyiv than
Magnificent Venetian passions. Butterflies
Fly light and maculate into bright tapers –
Dead caterpillars’ brilliant wings aflame!
And spring has lit the chestnuts’ candles!
Cheap lipstick’s tender taste,
The daring innocence of miniskirts,
And these coiffures, that are not cut quite right –
Yet image, memory, and signs still move us…
Tragically obvious, like the latest hit.
You’ll die here by a scoundrel’s knife,
Your blood will spread like rust inside a brand
New Audi in an alley in Tartarka.
You’ll plunge here from a balcony, the sky,
Down headlong to your dirty little Paris
Dressed in a blouse of secretarial white.
You can’t discern the weddings from the deaths…
For love in Kyiv is more terrible than
Ideas of New Communism: specters
Emerge in the intoxicated nights
Out of Bald Mountain, bearing in their hands
Red flags and pots of red geraniums.
You’ll die here by a scoundrel’s knife,
You’ll plunge here from a balcony, the sky, in
A brand-new Audi from an alley in Tartarka
Down headlong to your dirty little Paris
Your blood will spread like rust
upon a blouse of secretarial white.
.
.
.
translated by Andrew Sorokowsky

[Tift]

Insomnia – Elizabeth Bishop

The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she’s a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she’d tell it to go to hell,
and she’d find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.

[Vaughan]

If you’ve lost a pet, chances are you’ve heard of the Rainbow Bridge.
This bridge is a mythical overpass said to connect heaven and Earth — and, more to the point, a spot where grieving pet owners reunite for good with their departed furry friends.

The Rainbow Bridge by Paul C Dahm

By the edge of the woods, at the foot of the hill
Is a lush, green meadow where time stands still
Where the friends of man and woman do run
When their time on earth is over and done

For here, between this world and next
Is a place where each beloved creature find rest
On this golden land, they wait and they play
Till the Rainbow Bridge they cross over one day

No more do they suffer, in pain or in sadness
For here they are whole, their lives filled with gladness
Their limbs are restored, their health renewed
Their bodies have healed, with strength imbued

They romp through the grass, without even a care
Until one day they start and sniff at the air
All ears prick forward, eyes dart front and back
Then all of a sudden, one breaks from the pack

For just in that instant their eyes have met
Together again, both person and pet
So they run to each other, these friends from long past
The time of their parting is over at last

The sadness they felt while they were apart
Has turned into joy once more in each heart
They embrace with a love that will last forever
And then side-by-side. they cross over together

[Vaughan]

My Faithful Valentine
by Kelly Roper

You’re a little unkempt,
And you snore like a log.
When I give you your dinner,
You gobble it like a hog.
You’re hard to keep up with
When we go for a jog,
But you’re the one I love
More than Paris or Prague.
So my Valentine is you,
My dear faithful dog!

[JessiCapri]

The path set by yesterday’s ground, is gone
And that of tomorrow, is uncertain
All that is certain is that which is under your feet
Now
One step, in front of the other

Standing still is an option, but that does not mean that the world around you will stand with you
Because it won’t

The walls may fall away
and all the people leave
and change
but the homefire will still burn
bright in your heart
and in your minds eye
’til the time comes
for its light to guide you home

And you’ll know it at once
for all who gather
will greet you

and know you
by name

~Tara Shannon 2021

[Author]

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