#wetheblackpoets

[theblackpoets]

Hug!

Give me a hug that causes me to dream of nights I have never seen, Give me a hug that is fearful of the light of day and just wants to stay hidden away deep inside you every day! Give me a hug that has no bounds completely unapologetic and doesn’t give a damn who frowns. Give me that hug that you have always anticipated thinking that it was wrong an constantly debated. Give me that hug that comes with a Mmmmm, a WOW, a Lord Jesus Help Now, even a moan a groan it’s OK we all are grown! Give me that hug that comes with your sweat it really doesn’t matter I love it when you’re completely wet! Give me that hug and please don’t leave, don’t let it pass because that hug will be my Last! @n81960 [email protected]

[theblackpoets]

Say My Name

He called me The Poet

He called me Perfect

He called me Zora Neale

He often called me Interesting

And sometimes Zuwena

But with each name a different feel

  The Poet is artsy

Perfect is passionate

Zora Neale stands tall

Interesting is my fabric

Akilah is who I am

But I responded each and every time he called

  When I am The Poet I feel so free and yet I still hide

Under a veil of mystery and occasionally a wild sense of pride

  Perfection is the thing I am not, but that’s just what he saw

From the freckles in my eyes, to the wrinkle in my brow, right down to every flaw

  Zora Neale is who he fashioned me after with great delight and poise

He saw me as a woman with a voice and not one who just makes noise

  Interesting I was to him, Intriguing more than anything

When he learned something new about me, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen

  Akilah, Akilah, Akilah was what he’d say, he called out to me in a very special way

I can’t describe what it was, what it does, simply because it’s something I’ll treasure with no shame

But have no doubt I hear it in the wind whenever he says my name...

By: @ebonymagnolia

[theblackpoets]

What Happened to the Pulp in Politics?

What Happened to the Pulp in Politics?

I wasn’t raised on Orange Aid

My Jamaican mother was having none of it

“Eat an orange or if you want orange juice pour some Simply.”

No, I wasn’t raised on Orange Aid.

For those that don’t know, that is Orange flavored Kool-Aid.

Something about it was always strange.

No pulp, and left your lips stained.

And when you drain the cup, at the bottom are crystals that look more like detergent than food.

“It’s just sugar.”

But shouldn’t I see pulp?

A gentle reminder that the “Orange” in Orange Aid should refer to a fruit rather than an artificial color.

Seeded

And cultivated

And drawing on the minerals of each grain of soil.

In the pith, the soil has transformed into fibers that intertwine and piece together the segments and form a whole.

From that orange comes the sweetest juice full of comprehensive diversity

That’s what my mama raised me on

But it’s in his pores

Rather than aiding others, the Aid, sticky and unsavory, bleeds from his skin

He is not a victim;

He is the origin.

Under his nails, behind his ears, at the corners of his “shithole” mouth, lie sugar crystals concentrated enough to put you in a coma.

I wasn’t raised on Orange Aid

And I’ll never acquire the taste.

-Amber Emerald

@your-amber-emerald

What Happened to the Pulp in Politics?

I wasn’t raised on Orange Aid

My Jamaican mother was having none of it

“Eat an orange or if you want orange juice pour some Simply.”

No, I wasn’t raised on Orange Aid.

For those that don’t know, that is Orange flavored Kool-Aid.

Something about it was always strange.

No pulp, and left your lips stained.

And when you drain the cup, at the bottom are crystals that look more like detergent than food.

“It’s just sugar.”

But shouldn’t I see pulp?

A gentle reminder that the “Orange” in Orange Aid should refer to a fruit rather than an artificial color.

Seeded

And cultivated

And drawing on the minerals of each grain of soil.

In the pith, the soil has transformed into fibers that intertwine and piece together the segments and form a whole.

From that orange comes the sweetest juice full of comprehensive diversity

That’s what my mama raised me on

But it’s in his pores

Rather than aiding others, the Aid, sticky and unsavory, bleeds from his skin

He is not a victim;

He is the origin.

Under his nails, behind his ears, at the corners of his “shithole” mouth, lie sugar crystals concentrated enough to put you in a coma.

I wasn’t raised on Orange Aid

And I’ll never acquire the taste.

[theblackpoets]

For cishet black men 4:44 was a Godsend. For the rest of the black population, however, 4:44 a curse. Almost immediately, a man who presented himself as feminist and activist posted a tweet thread about the pain and restrictions black men experience growing up, and how black women needed to be patient with black men who are still learning. When multiple black women responded that black women grow up under the same conditions with equal or greater constraints on emotional display, he gaslit and dismissed them. This is exactly what I feared. This is The 4:44 Effect in action, cishet black men sobbing about the emotional/empathic growing pains while expecting grace that was never afforded to black women. All the while, these same black men continue to “learn” by harming and discarding black women. They continue to learn by ostracizing queer black men, but then want easy access to the emotional spaces queer black men were beaten for entering. Cishet black men want the applause for finally gaining emotional depth that the rest of the black community had to develop as children for our safety and their comfort. The 4:44 Effect, I fear, will be particularly toxic in spaces once considered safe for black women. Cishet black male allies can can now dodge accountability under the guise of “still learning”. They can berate black women for not being impressed or wooed by their juvenile grasp on emotional intelligence. They can berate queer black people for not graciously allowing their casual queerantagonism because that’s “how I was raised.” The bar wasn’t raised, it was just repainted. Jay-Z and the other men in the Footnotes, in all their blissful enlightened ignorance, don’t realize the pandora’s box they’ve opened on the people they claim to now care about.

The 4:44 Effect  by Saki Benibo (@mrbenibo)

[theblackpoets]

The BLACKMANifesto

The world won’t wait for you to become nothing, it’s expected.

Become more than what they tell you.

Go above the limits, and push boundaries,

make a difference, make a change.

Masculinity is just a theory.

Your sexuality isn’t taboo.

More than just a colour,

More than a statistic.

You’re not just a sex object,

size doesn’t matter.

Its all fantasy!

You’re amazing beyond measures.

Pressure is intimidation, mental slavery.

Don’t let it get to you, don’t be afraid.

Even Superman gets tired.

Depression is rife, it’s okay to show emotion.

So take charge,

And express yourself.

Cry audibly,

Smile more, and often.

Discuss what really matters to you.

Support your brothers, like your favourite artists

Judge less,

Accept more.

Say “I Love You”

To those that it rings true too.

be a voice,

and be the version of you

that you are,

when your alone.

[theblackpoets]

Mine and Ours

Mine and Ours

They call my people children of the night,

Because even bound hand and foot in misery,

Our blood is that of rivers,

Flowing freely from deep within,

And midnight shines in our eyes,

For we have seen our own worth,

Even when few would look upon our struggle.

They call us dark,

For they think our bodies offer no compromise:

We are many shades of identity,

But as deep as our souls may lie within,

Our secrets are not hidden.

And some are scared to admit that my people are the descendants of dawn.

Warm as sun baked earth,

With roots burrowed into the skin of the world,

We are the teak and ebony trees,

Keeping ourselves grounded while standing above the clouds.

My people are the spirits of illumination,

For even when we are held captive,

Hope is our minds' freedom,

Because we have always lived in the light,

Shining so brightly that some can only stand to look at our shadows and call us less.

Yes, these are my people,

And their blood flows in my veins:

Some ripped from a homeland I have never seen,

Some fleeing from that same land,

Home no longer,

And if I chose to,

I could make American the roots of Africa.

Through fire and poison,

I could uncurl the locks some dread,

And make them into a tame beast.

I could become domesticated,

Assimilated,

Controlled,

But how could I forget the legacy of my ancestors?

Determined to kill the plague that is ignorance,

They stood among King and Mandela,

Rose above discrimination,

And lifted their brothers and sisters!

I know the blood of teachers and diplomats is no “thing” to be forsaken,

And so I take up their mantle:

Arming myself with gentle weapons,

Clad in the scripture of a thousand souls,

I have but words to protect myself,

My history,

And though some have braved its injustice,

I am afraid not to ask:

Have we become so adulterated that even children can’t find peace?

Have we grown so far apart that we cannot hold hands?

Do we no longer understand that memory is a desert of the soul,

And time is the oasis?

If you can hear,

Please listen!

For though I use the voice of a woman,

I speak from the mouth of babes so that this truth may be remembered:

Whatever lines were drawn in the sand,

If we take the first step now,

After a thousand tomorrows they will be washed away,

And when that time comes,

Our people will not be forgotten.

[theblackpoets]

I am not a writer

I am not a writer…but I am writing. I am not a writer but I’m writing to express — nonetheless — what I cannot control but wish I could. my words breathe fire that my thoughts cannot usher into fruition spreading across the page, set ablaze this is my form of anarchy. a literal arsonist against carcinogenic comforted cozy thought nestled in tradition. catalytic in comment — kerocenic in movement this is my mechanism of motion, and my outcry. kinetic energy to electrify the souls and minds of go-getters, transgenders, “ne’erdoels” & rebels with reverence for what is right. — Auzi

[theblackpoets]

Slave to the ways

Forced to live in a land where we’re partly free; 

Racist cops so it’s always our blood running through the streets; 

Brown v. Board gave us a nice step forward, and since we have been moving slowly back; 

 Our part of the neighborhood flooded with flocks and crack; 

Every other corner there’s another dope boy and whore, drive down the street and it’s all liquor and gun stores; 

Perfect combination for oppression; 

Sex, liquor, drugs, and guns; 

They maintain separation by maintaining our depression; 

 All because our skin’s a little more adept to the sun. 

They’re trying to justify killing innocent black people; 

 Crooked cops taking lives just to boost their little egos; 

Killing us cause they can, Trayvon and Sandra Bland, It’s time to exchange this U.S. Currency for rands and head back to the motherland. 

Trying to kill us, 

 They got us by the neck and they’re squeezing harder, 

We scream “we can’t breathe! We can’t breathe! We can’t breathe!” 

But it falls on deaf ears, cause they won’t let go till we’re dead…

Rest In Peace to Eric Garner. 

 Every other week we see the same image of our people in distress, 

One of our brothers or sisters with their hands up and two holes in their chest;

Or laying in the streets with hand prints around their necks, 

 Vocal cords strained because they were yelling for help. 

 Used to be slaves to the cotton, tobacco, and sugar fields, 

Now we’re slaves to polo, Jordan’s, and Gucci heels; 

 We’re bombarded with images of our “idols” wasting money on name brands, “throwing bands,” 

so whenever we get a little money we put it right back in the white cashier’s hands. 

 And for what? 

To be the flyest nigga in the struggle? 

Why don’t we save a little so we can move up out of their rubble, 

Or at least invest in our communities, improve them a little. 

 In 2008, we had hopes of a better nation, 

One where niggas don’t gotta worry about getting shot in the back, unarmed, like 

Oscar Grant at fruitvale station, 

Unfortunately, there ain’t not escape from the oppression, 

Not even for the leader of our “great” nation; because even President Obama was subject to the white man’s limitations.