In a large group setting,
the talented background player
begins a foray into melody
that results in frustration
to those unaccustomed
to such liberal motifs. Continue reading The Revolutionary
The Revolutionary
Tag: poetry
Marble
I’ve always wondered why
white peoples gods’ chiseled
them out of cold hard marble.
Shaped and sculpted their
fragile skin into being.
My god didn’t mold me.
She met me
halfway between hell and earth.
She asked my name
and wiped my tears.
She gave me a gentle kiss Continue reading Marble
Adrift
Swimming through the waters
Both deep and cold
Guided by the current
So swift and bold
Will I just drown on my own,
Or will I find a new home?
While the sea is bigger
Than the lake at hand
I can find new worlds here
Floating away from the sand
Can you find your way to me,
Or are you cast adrift at sea?
– B. Alan Hart
The Billy Conahan Experience Live video at Bowery Poetry Club
If you’re looking to quail your creative fix, here is video from our partners over at Bowery Poetry. If you are in the NYC area, stop over and visit this classy venue. The drinks are great! The talent never fails to impress, and the staff is DOPE. Big ups Heath and Julius.
In the area? View their calendar below.
Bowery Poetry Calendar
Enjoy!
Inside Out
It took a lot to get me here
I suffered the reign of you
For many years
You broke me down
Opened me up
Dissected my soul
And still couldn’t find
A way to love me…
To an old friend.
I wrote your name on an empty page and
suddenly it seemed full.
Our memories fill in the blank spaces when my words aren’t enough.
They never are.
Yet you hold onto them the way you held my heart
when it was too heavy for me to carry.
You are home. You are
tear stained ink on pages of poetry for quiet nights.
You are the words I seek but never find.
You made us beautiful to read about.
– Samihah Pargas
– IG: Shadesofherink
my mouth has been looking for you
my mouth is full of words
that wish to fall into someone’s lap
to burrow into a chest and root
they wish to coil and dig
into marrow and blood
so deeply that only god could
pull them from that someone
my mouth is full of wanting
of sweetness that wishes to
erase the bitterness from lips
that have searched too long
for an ocean of woman to drown in
my mouth is full of stars
awaiting a constellation
that will turn this love into
mythology to be mimed by
our children when they grow up
my mouth is full of forever
infinity tucked against my ribs
nestled against the curve of you
and our names are no longer
two separate worlds but one sound
(image by George Coletrain via unsplash)
Why?
Why do you hate us?
Perhaps it’s the way we become one with the sun.
The way Spanish dances on our tongues,
a language not native to your blood.
Our skin embellished with invisible scars.
Roadmaps our ancestors left us to conquer
your vile hearts.
Is it not enough that you’ve deemed us the
unwanted guest of our homes?
You ban us from the soil where
we’ve planted seeds,
then harvest the fruit
and determine whose worthy of eating.
You feed off our pain and make a mockery
of our plights.
Steal our children, like a thief In the night.
Break up families, like we break bread.
A force of evil so grotesque
That demon’s themselves
look at you with admiration.
You were never deserving.
My ancestors were too kind.
The day you got off that ship
The devil laughed in delight.
Do..or
The kitchen cabinets.
The bathroom upon entering
and exiting.
The dryer. And the washer.
The back door. Closed but unlocked.
Overnight.
Even once, the car door
after retrieving our sleeping baby.
Then there was that time
in the new house
when we christened it loudly.
The bedroom door –
a forgotten necessity.
And our first guest in the living room –
also forgotten.
Cheeks red; body a seated statue.
Maybe he thought we’d done it on purpose?
That’s what I would have thought.
Forgotten doors
left open
on purpose.
You always forgot to close the fucking door!
Always!
And I…I sat with my legs open
then. Still.
Middle Aisles
How am I supposed to rid myself
Of this gnawing in my belly?
The lies that sit there
Will surely eat me from the inside out
The gut is a funny place
It does not like to be empty
Refusing to wait on the truths
That grow slowly in our gardens
Overly full of the easily accessible
Packaged lies
All up ‘n down
The middle aisles
I believe I’ll walk on. See what the end will be.
Untitled
I try to swallow the pain
Before it eats me up.
The sharpness of it cuts my throat
Its bitterness makes me gag and choke
It digs deeper into my body
And attempts to venture into the depths of my soul.
But it hits my intestines,
Comes back up forcefully and
I projectile vomit it across the room.
My body rejects its presence,
But my mind welcomes it.
And I try to swallow the pain again.
Deep in the Pockets of the Past.
She often indulges in
the usual nighttime banes,
and has rejected,
several times, to obtain
a peaceful physique–
a hushed brain. Continue reading Deep in the Pockets of the Past.
sing, unburied, sing
the truth crawls up my throat
my mouth shapes around it.
i taste the ashes of blk bodies,
they’ve blown in on the wind—
made my eyes milky with ghosts
who cannot rest with so much violence
floating underneath their skin.
i steel my tongue on their sorrowful song,
uncurl my spine, and wet my lips—
the truth comes pushing out,
its body small and blk.
too small to have seen a prison,
but life has a way of peeling blk bodies
away from their mother’s breast
to throw to the wild—
their only record of life left to the
tongues of old men and women.
(image by Nathaniel Tetteh via unsplash)
Moonlit Love
Love me the way the moon is loved
whether full or half full, or a whisper in the night sky
the kind you can’t see, yet its presence is deeply felt.
Love me
whether I
covet you with light or
struggle through my own darkness
show you how beautiful skin can look in dimly lit places or
dim the atmosphere and feel cold to the touch
Love me still
when my tears pull the sky down and
leave hollows in loving hearts where homes should’ve been
when stars fall from my lips while I ask for those homes to be rebuilt
again and
again Love me
as if I am faraway, when really I’m near.
Pull me close with your prayers when I am distant
hold me with your eyes
love me the way the moon is loved.
I hope you are in love with the moon.
– Samihah Pargas
– IG : @shadesofherink
my skin.
My skin.
Milky brown.
Cocoa colored.
Soft to the touch,
Salty to taste.
Enchanting to see,
The melanin is perfection. Continue reading my skin.
Genre: Urban Arts @Bowery Poetry – Romain Thiery
Genre: Urban Arts will be at Bowery Poetry in NYC where we are having our No. 4 Print launch on June 24th, 3:30- 5pm. We will have spoken-word, live music, and other performance arts.
French photographer, Romain Thiery, has been transforming abandoned places into his own personal playgrounds. As a trained pianist, he placed his passion for the instrument at the center of his photography series, ” Requiem pour Pianos”. In this project Romain beautifully crafted melancholic images that evoke powerful pensive thoughts among many who see them.
His “Requiem for pianos” series is a proof of his attachment to piano, and photography. About fifty of his photographs are focused on a central object: the piano. Sometimes with some of its keys missing, sometimes completely dismantled but always sitting imposingly. “As a pianist myself, emotion takes over when I discover a neglected piano. This is the culmination of my art: my two passions are then united in one and the same feeling. It’s an exaltation of my artist’s life.
To achieve his “Requiem pour pianos” series, he explored several countries including France, Italy, Belgium, Ukraine, Germany, Bulgaria, Spain, and Poland. “Through my images, the musical notes of these abandoned pianos reason again in these buildings in ruins, giving free rein to our imagination”.
Website: www.romainthiery.fr
Dawn
Clouds of unwavering doubt,
once casting her sky in muted tones of grey, had dissipated.
Relinquishing her dreams, leaving her open to brilliancy,
like a buried chest filled with treasures, when the sky opened
a golden light was cast; adorning her
with a glow, pulling out inspiration
like jewels, and shining her up
like a diamond.
Let’s get out of here, Scoob
Daddy’s Toolbox
The one you’ve chosen to spend your life with is an engineer kind of dude. He likes to build things. But baby, when he met you, you were already a stallion. An edifice. And so, he deconstructed you bit by bit…to see what in fact you were made of. It’s the only way he knew how to love. The problem is, he tired out. Too lazy or too preoccupied to put you back together again. So, here I am doing the work I did years ago. Building you up…again…as only I know how. As only I can.
A woman cannot fight a man. She will never win. He will hide parts of her in far off lands. He will place pieces of her soul into glass bottles and drift you off to sea. And in a fit of rage you can find him breaking the tools required for reconstruction.
This time you need to pay close attention. I will not be here forever. Putting a Queen back together is a lost art. Grab my toolbox – top shelf, right corner.
Genre: Urban Arts @Bowery Poetry featuring Trixi Rosa
Genre: Urban Arts will be at Bowery Poetry in NYC where we are having our No. 4 Print launch on June 
24th, 3:30- 5pm. We will have visual arts, spoken-word, live music, and other performance arts.
Purchase Tickets for Genre @Bowery Poetry
Trixi Rosa has surrendered to a tender unraveling and a restless joy that just can’t be held. Originally from Punakaiki, Aotearoa (NZ), her art carves an awkward inquiry into the intersections of identity and the endless pursuit of place. She shares stories of struggle and survival, resilience, and resistance. Stories of family, love, and sexuality. Trixi Rosa’s poetry bleeds personal experience, both lived and perceived.
We have loads of great talent for you. Here is featured spoken word artist Trixi Rosa.
In our No. 4 Print, Trixi Rosa has two poems featured “A Letter to My Little Sister in Prison” and “Maracas”. Continue reading Genre: Urban Arts @Bowery Poetry featuring Trixi Rosa