Cop a copy of Genre: Urban Arts No. 5 Print that will begin being shipped out on September 24th. We have a host of contemporary visual art and writing that needs to be in your hands. Our cover artist for No. 5 is Nadine Mbaka. Read more about her in an article written by Vianca Fuster.
We are a small print magazine. Copies are limited. Purchase your copy now! Continue reading No. 5 GUA Print
NYC born- raised by the streets of Harlem & The Bronx. I am an experience-collector with a focus on POP-ART. I am also an OUT and PROUD African-American Lesbian Woman. I feel that all individuals regardless of color, sex, creed, sexual orientation or religion should be appreciated and heard on any spectrum. I just live life to the fullest with NO LABELS, and allow my experiences speak for me! My LOVE for art is sometimes impalpable like Warhol.Continue reading Shanta (Tae) King
Arthur Jackson V is a Queer Afro American poet, and painter from San Francisco California, with an interest in redefining language in poetry. Arthur wants to challenge the reader to think outside of their comfort zone, making the reading an interactive experience. Jackson is currently working on his first collection of poetry To Boys With Green Hair. Seeking to bring a voice/perspective to the LGBTQI+ POC community. Jackson wants to spread understanding to those who haven’t lived the same experience, and, also for other Queer POC identifying to read and know that they are not alone (that someone out
Social Media: Instagram- @Afro_pup
I’m Marcus Williams, known to some as Marcus Emel. I am a creative based in Brooklyn. I write poetry and dance. I also dabble in video editing and songwriting. I love the fluidity of art and creativity, it transcends barriers. It is important to support people of color in the LGBTQ+ community because we are doing important work for the next generation. In order for it to be the best, we have to be supportive.Continue reading Marcus Emel: Queer PoC Anthology Editor
|Just Duléa is an author, songwriter, educator, and spoken word artist from the East Coast. She is the Founder/CEO/Creative Director of Conviction 2 Change LLC, a publishing company devoted to helping those in under-represented communities be heard. Being an African-American, queer, woman, Just Duléa understands the importance of writing at the intersection point to create compelling, thought-provoking pieces. Her publications include “What Happened to Cyrano?: The Untold Story of Cyrano de Bergerac” (2015), “A Poetic Expression of Change” (2015), “S.W.A.G. – Saved With Amazing Grace” (2016), “Sex, Love, and Other Emotions” (2018). Her work has also appeared in Genre: Urban Arts No. 5 and Bay Area Generations #61. She is presently pursuing her M.F.A. in Poetry, with an Africana/Diaspora focus from San Francisco State University.
Taylor D. DuckettPoet. Author.
Disrupting the status quo one issue at a time. Our No. 6 Print wants to come out to plaaaayyyy.
You’re able to order a copy today. Head to GenreUrbanArts.com. Orders will be shipped on Jan 15th.
Genre: Urban Arts is a platform where artists can become published digitally and in print. Genre: Urban Arts also provides exhibiting and performing opportunities for visual and performance artists via pop-up galleries.
Calling all QueerPOC Creatives! Genre: Urban Arts seeks to give you a space to be vocal with your artistic medium, wherever it falls on the spectrum. Our goal is to highlight voices of the LGBTQ+ community that often go unheard or are misunderstood. Come join us in illuminating the readers’ experience in an artful way! We want to hear what YOU have to say! Spread the word. Submissions open January 2019!
A portion of the proceeds from this project will be donated to organizations that support LBGTQ communities in Milwaukee, WI and New York City.
We will also be celebrating this issue during Pride month at Bowery Poetry in NYC. Keep an eye out for our call for performances!
PART 3: Headlights
It is maddening. Why now? After all the emotional outpouring. Why is now the time he’s come to collect the sex? He’s smooth…slick as an oiled railing. Now is the moment he chooses to ignore our awkward behavior and immaturity? We are in an endless cycle of us reacting to each other’s reactions and trying to then process how to react to that. If this is what he needs in order to cope with the gravity of our connection, then sure, I’ll buy in. Not that it’s ever been just fucking, and we both know that. But he works so hard to deny the connection, and to be honest, I let him. Because, after all, I’m horny. I have needs. And before any judgment is passed, I am not using him. This neediness and craving is not just for anyone, but for his particular brand of tortured love. I need him; a heady thirst.
PART 2: Supermarket
I struggle with tasks that I must participate in, in order to function as a respected adult, that is. I know, I know…we all feel that way when stress and the atrophy of time plagues us. I know I am not alone in feeling like I cannot keep up with the errands and appointments or making sure the smoke detectors have new batteries so that the ear-splitting, incessant beeping doesn’t push me to completely lose it in the middle of the night. But you see, with me…it is beyond a 9-volt or managing to get to the dentist twice a year.
Dating is hard.
Finding someone that is just the same shade of broken as me, or at least accepts the quirky things that make me, me, is (Can you guess?) awkward. It’s like an intricate social experiment where I am trying to, at the very least, survive the undertow. At the most? Find a human I connect with and can actually tolerate beyond a couple of months. A human who will eventually know all of me, weaknesses exalted, and who still wants to grab me and hold me despite of it all.Continue reading Awkward Girl: Day 4
she has been crying for
a long time now
weeping for her children
her children burning in flames
My mother is now shrieking
and screaming with pain
her skin being ripped off
her bones breaking
she’s crumbling, disintegrating.
My mother’s crying
her body tore apart,
she’s being raped openly
bombed, she’s in flames.
She;s being torn apart
The whole world is seeing her being
and they’re all pretending to be blind
And she’s being torn apart
But yet the world pretends to be blind.
My mother’s tears have created their own ocean
And I the child, have found shelter
We’re safe in my mother’s tears
The world is too cruel
The world is deaf to our screams
The world is blind to our wounds
The world is dumb
My mother, my mother’s name is
They march today
Carry signs above their heads
Ignore burning arms
Tap into fury and shout
We know you love our print. We have a limited number of our No. 4 and No. 5 prints left. In these gorgeous high-quality prints, we have art and writing from creatives all over the globe. If you’re affiliated with us on our site our through social media, we know you appreciate good reads and beautiful things. Well, that all we have. Come decorate the interior of your brain with brilliance by reading the great art we have organized, selected and designed for you.
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Who are you?
That’s the wrong question.
Who am I?
The one who threw
the rock in the pond.
What do you want from me?
The stone is thrown
I am light
and I’m leaving behind
Chi sei tu?
E’ la domanda sbagliata.
Chi sono io?
Quella che ha gettato
il sasso nello stagno.
Cosa vuoi da me?
Il sasso è gettato
e mi lascio alle spalle
le tue domande.
written by Nakeysha Roberts Washington
First Published in Wisconsin’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Nonfiction
It is his blackness. He stops at the tables. His deep voice lifts slightly above a whisper, “Sir, do you have some change?” At another table, “Spare change?”
A woman, whose face Time has yet to fissure, poignantly sits. She is regal. Her skin is a creamy caramel. Her hair is a perfectly couiffured pepper gray fro. As he approaches her and presents his request, she stops and grips her face with her left hand, takes a deep sigh while she drags her hand down the length of her face. She opens her momentarily closed eyes as her hand passes them. She turns to him as irritated as I am with his requests. She felt it too. She utters something inaudible. He turns away sans receipt of that which is to deliver his salvation.
Holiday Lights takes place on W 125th Street in Harlem, New York. Special programming includes the TD Bank Community Stage on 125th and Morningside, an Interactive Tree from Limbic Media, a Parade of Lights, Children’s Village, (3) Health Villages by HealthFirst and Ugly Sweater Contest & much more.
Holiday Lights is an annual event, download the Harlem Happenings app to keep up to date on our latest events and programming.
I’m often the brunt
Of your misguided rage toward
I root you on while you
Constantly grind me down
Until little bits of me
Are spread in air
No one can put me back together not even
Disheartening is not even the word I would use to describe
How you make me feel.
Oh. How many times I’ve heard, “I wish we could take you home with us” while swaddling a newborn, positioning a lactating breast, counting pushes, and smelling the scent of new life. By the way…it is an earthy smell; a muted sweet scent of all outdoors (quite interesting when you think about it). Oh. How many times I’ve thought, “I am my own home. I’ve always had to make a home in me. You should learn to do the same. And have the courage to inhabit it. Without. Help.”
Besides, the man of my choosing is coming to paint my kitchen a vibrant shade of green in the morning and I wouldn’t dare miss him (and I’ve been considering a mauve for the bedroom – whatcha think?). Furthermore, I only lie my head down under roofs that motion to all the places where the guns are hidden.
We’ll talk later. The lesson must continue at some other time. I can smell that the Cornish-hen is ready. I can feel the clock approaching quitting time. And I can hear my own baby start to stir in her crib. I left her walls nude. Perhaps her first word will be blue. Again, I will call the man of my choosing and he will oblige to pigment yet another one of my walls with the color of oceans.
I have so much to do. In my own home. Perhaps I should thank you for reminding me?