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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

 

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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!

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To an old friend.

Photograph by Samihah Pargas

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

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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)

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

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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.

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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)

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Moonlit Love

Th Moon captured by Samihah Pargas

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. 

Th Moon captured by Samihah Pargas
Photo by Samihah Pargas


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

 

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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.

Purchase Tickets for Genre @Bowery Poetry

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

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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.

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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.

 

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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