Artist Statement:
I write poetry because it is a way for me to come to terms with the many obstacles that I face daily as black woman. Poetry is my therapy. I like to compose in pencil because there is something about the sound of the lead scraping across the page that soothes me. I can only begin a piece when I am arrested by a thought. It’s like, when I set down to write, I am banging this thought out of my head like a washer off kilter. As the thought rattles around in my head, I compose lines under my breath, and it’s only through my writing that I can get it out. I know a piece is done when I am no longer arrested by the thought. After writing, I read my words aloud to hear how they sound sequentially, to ensure that they are the remedy to the thought that has rendered me static. I know that I’m done with my piece when I am no longer arrested. When others hear my work, because it works better when it is read aloud, I would like for them to gain a better understanding as to what I go through daily. I want them to work through, just as I have, the things that have arrested me, and see how I have banged the thoughts out of my head and onto the paper, so that they can hear them bouncing around in theirs.
this influences that which influences the Other
this was stolen from that
then (re)appropriated by the Other
who doesn’t want to give credit to that
like how African bodies were stolen from Africa and appropriated as slaves
and we hollered
and we sang
songs of sorrow
songs of worship
songs of rebellion
rejection
negation of society
of the culture that was superimposed on us
so that our culture would be lost
and theirs could persist
because
this influences that
and the Other appropriated this
and so they look down on us
our interpretation
of their appropriation
so that they could take it
dilute it
re-appropriate it
then take it again because the Other is what matters
not this or
that
like our bodies were stolen
and branded
and beaten
and raped
and degraded
and objectified
and down graded
and deflated
then trampled
trashed
put awayin a box
shoved in the back of a closet
light turned out
lock dead-bolted
key thrown to the wind
they raise their eyebrows at us in confusion
when we attempt to assert our voices
telling them that they can't have this
and that was never theirs
and the Other is a punked-put
pussy-whipped version of
what it used to be
songs of sorrow
voices thundered with soul
from the heart
from the gut
from deep down
way down in the pit of our stomachs
wit' some stank on it
a wail
that is heartfelt
that generated empathy in those who lived it
is now an autotuned reiteration
that is rotated
over and over again
on
every
single
station
amalgamated
adulterated
less than pure
because
this was stolen from that
and that was appropriated by the Other
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