YoU May DriNk FroM It Writings From The Digging Deep, Facing Self Online Course, June 2015
T A B L E of C O N T E N T S
You May Drink From It // Ee’da Brahim
Love Letter to Self // Ee’da Brahim
Idiopathic S curve // Gabriela Garcia Haunting // Gabriela Garcia
Haunting // Angela Silva Vega
Letter to Self // Angela Silva Vega
Black Don't Crack // Randie Henderson
I am here on purpose // Randie Henderson Untitled // Pippa Lukin
Mikaila // Pippa Lukin
Bounty // Yahaira Carrillo
Colibrí // Yahaira Carrillo
Family Lines // Whitley Jackson
Soak // Judith Sharkey
crossing oceans // Libby Walkup
Letter to Self // Yenedit Valencia
The way my tongue twists and turns in its own unique way // Yenedit Valencia Like We Used to Do // Nia Hampton
Black Out Day // Nia Hampton
A Realitea Party // Megan Skelly
INTRODUCTION
This crew of Digging Deep, Facing Self exhibited nothing short of the following adjectives: patience, divinity, helpfulness, humble, open, vulnerable, fierce, radiant, gorgeous. Even through the difficult prompts, they wiped the mud from their cheeks and grinned into the sun. Maybe not that easily, but the point is, they trudged onward through the deep muck of self. The thick skin/softened heart combo is what we were after in designing our front cover, lifting the title from Ee’da Brahim’s poem and adding a little danger. Recently, while teaching high school aged young women, we discussed how it is often difficult or discouraged for women to claim their power in our society. Why did Nikki Giovanni brag outlandishly about herself in the 1972 poem Ego Trippin'? Their specific answers: to show other black women they were powerful, to make a radical statement of self love, to recognize our own strengths so we can support others in recognizing theirs. Their answers remind us that poetry allows us the opportunity to play with scale, mythologizing ourselves into unapologetic creatures that are anything but shy about their skills, talents and 360 degree inside-out beauty. Their answers reminded me of each of you, dear writers. Isn't it amazing how much shifting and changing can occur in a mere 30 day span? Watching each of you grow and claim your power has been essential and life giving to my own experience in this world. Looking at these poems, quickly penned and in rough draft form — there is massive energy captured these pages, among you all! I hope you carry this self knowledge throughout your many journeys to come. This anthology has taken us a little bit of time to sputter out, amidst a technology hack that rendered us building from the ground up (and we’re still building!), and we can’t thank our writers enough for their incredible love through our twists and turns. Special thanks to Sabina Ibarrola, who lovingly guides our ship towards the lighthouse. She is the frosting to our cake. To our readers, enjoy. I don’t think there is anyway you won’t. Thank you women. Thank you reader. Thank you poetry lovers worldwide! With humility & joy, Caits Meissner Creator of Digging Deep, Facing Self
Visit www.growfierce.com to learn more about our course & community.
You May Drink From It Ee’da Brahim My body is not your dumping ground, not your place of release Not your trophy or your jumping off point For your new slate Not a landing pad for your pornographic reenactments Not your white come on brown belly fetish My body is not your distraction, Or some brown sugar for curious cravings My body is not a sacred site for the tourist bucket list ‘Yeah, been there’ It is not the free soup sample section at the supermarket My body is too vast for shallow slurps My body is the herb garden that grew the coriander and cardamom, garlic, turmeric, and lemongrass That heals And gives fragrance taste Kick My mind is not your testing site Of that fucked up manual you study ‘The Game’ My vulnerability is not your power And you thinking that it is Means you’ll never ever touch that sweet spot In a woman you are forever secretly yearning to find Her total surrender My body is not your science lab, No I don’t give u permission to lay your curious on me I know u could feel that somewhere Between the kiss And spreading legs Somewhere in my body muscles yelled on behalf of adolescence of silent tongue I know you heard it in clenching jaws And tension between hip creases I had changed my mind It stopped feeling ‘right’ But you made me feel I had to finish what I started… (What you started)
You took it anyway My body is not your satellite tower to broadcast your stolen conquest My body is the peace behind closed eyes The quiet of in-between sacred pauses of the last and the next thought, That humble creek that, despite its size Carries the mighty power of waterfalls My body is like the deserts of ancient times Rich with minerals and underground oasis My body is the cave and the cliff And the lone flower growing on the side of it My body is like night Full of promise Of the flood of light Soon to come My body is changing Constantly rearranging particles of my wants and needs Meditate on the rise and fall, the melody, the staccato of my breath to know where to go with my body My body is the evidence and The witness That you can try to desecrate, to dishonor, to reduce my body will bless the Earth for generations to come my body is sacred site Filled with bones that chant And praising organs that sing In a mass choir of 78 harmony parts My body is womb carrier Of my ancestor’s wisdom my body is intelligent and kind and compassionate in its forgetfulness of past trespasses and transgressions my body is like my open palm always facing the Source My body is open field and red earth holding hands like
childhood sweethearts and wet mud squishing in between toes in a freedom dance My body has broken all your cages With forgiveness this body mends and heals braces and builds It is the sentimental mood of Coltrane The soulfood slice of Maya Angelou The breaking of bread with Arundhati Roy Sitting on the ground cross-legged And eating with hands Of the Great Almighty My body spunned the cosmos from billions of light years ago My body is God’s library of information A breathtaking tapestry of interference patterns Stitched with stardust and synovial fluids for God’s movements The Blessed Community in reflection of Pure Harmony. This body contain a Well of Peace And you may drink from it
Love Letter to Self Ee’da Brahim Dear Adik Ee’da Little Sister Ee’da How did you keep that smile intact After all this time With their well-intended(?)suggestions of dimming it down As if enchantment could be traded in Like that old anarkali dress Too gaudy for current liking With stranded beads hanging loose on a thread How did you survive endless nights of inflamed airways Coughing fits to chorus the cicadas Carrying your mother’s stress in your unborn lungs, But still outstretch your rays to magnify the sun’s calling Every morning? Perhaps your soul feasted on your great-great-great grandmother’s Holy communion with the moon In between the shortness of your breath, gasping for the arrogant air She breathed in an eternity of her prayers Her pact with moon to replenish you with energy In every waking hour, and imbibe you with strength You were made from the softest of cotton From a staple fibre that grows on nakedness of fertile soul/soil From bud to boll, you ripen to blossom To harvest, to yarn, to stitch and sew To wrap you up in more of you Deep rich reds and maroons Turquoise and blues One cheek pressed against wet cinnamon earth On grandmother’s land You were made of an herb woman’s wisdom And her cauldron of desires You were made of curious fingers and Open hearts You were made of dad’s porn stashed between the mattresses Of the wooden bed-frame You were made of “I’ll show you mine, if you show me….. love” You were made of the freedom that everyone else calls guilt You were made of feeling, and figuring out And all the spaces within those forbidden boxes You found the in the attic of your mind You wonder of this matriarch singing Wordless songs around the bonfire
To the pulse of the hang drum With all her grandchildren running around Joyous and free You are the cacophony and cascade of pleasure Avalanching into the most ordinary of moments You build okayness around confusion and everything that is not so pretty You want peace for all Why dance when the music has stopped? Or worst still – when it stopped being good? Because – that bass is Still carving a groove inside of me My great-great-great grandmother’s wordless songs a cosmic rhythm that will keep me dancing forever I will give you my laughter in an air tight Tupperware container For you to have during lunch On the park bench With the autumn breeze on your nose And you can get a taste her cooking I have always loved about you That effortless way you make friends With three-year-olds Count your blessings for every breath, Even the hyperventilating, short ones Be mindful of people that are so fixed With their ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs’ Remember the song, the dance and your Great-great-great grandmother’s communion with The Moon.
Idiopathic S curve Gabriela Garcia When I was 12 she painted herself onto the canvas of an X-ray Brushstrokes sliding sultry curves through an orthopedic's mouth My spine is a snake, seeking the soft landing of stability the statuesque power of an upright surrender flag So silky-sounding: she bends, scoliosis She wrapped herself around me, taste of suffocation, steamy death of of dreams Ballerina or beauty or swimsuit-that-fits-just-right She gave me instead a twisted heritage Migration A badge over sun-raw skin Sometimes her pain is tender, beckoning to be held Secret desires Layers of muscle shrinking in holding tight She is radiating hot shame the spot from which beauty threatens to grow My spine refuses the simple life If only to hide the softness in her imbalance If only to pretend she's not kissing my ribs and heart or that she is not that familiar song that knows my brokenness
Haunting Gabriela Garcia Sometimes I think I made you up to plug the bullet holes holding me until I turned to sand, I have a tendency to dig my nails into everything I love until it crumbles into clay, hold tight to the idea that the things you told me about who I am are only true when you say them I saw you today in the rain in the sea, kelp wrapping my ankles, pulling me down into broken fragments of shell again If I squint enough, if I let the sun rays make home in my eyes, I see you in everything that makes me smile, report the day's activities, wait patiently while you untangle performance from truth, fake​ I'm okays, ​breakdowns in the caves of my solace Waiting for you to tell me that you stood before the blackest corners and licked the dirty walls, suddenly understood the house you built in me and want to knock it down, say you're sorry, dig a tunnel out of my mind, alchemy makes gold of every broken thing, your name no longer tastes like stitches breaking open. I let you pass through my skin, I beg you to stay beneath the muscle Feel this magician juggling stardust and womanly fire, I met her in me after, you left me invisible, I survived. I feel you in my hips, squeezing me to sit taller than before the fuel that feeds the hunger of my ambition, the grumbling that asks me who I really am Sometimes I forget that all we ever were was blood and bone and maybe
I'm the ghost in the most hidden cracks of you, too Dig into the most tender parts, swollen with life and hold you to the light, I admire your parasitic beauty and then -- let you fly
Haunting Angela Silva Vega My ghost has wooden fingers Sharp and thin fingers It uses them to tear apart The wings of beautiful butterflies. It has to have a gentle grip Otherwise it would smash them Before nurturing them. My ghost walks back and forth Behind my closed door While I lay in bed Eyes like full moons Covering up my face with cotton sheets I know if I look it in the eye I’m lost. And this has become a problem Because I can’t keep avoiding the mirror. How annoying it is That this ain’t no Peter Pan story I just can’t cut the shadow away. This ain’t no Fight Club I can’t beat the shit out of it And run away. But I just realized We have never talked My ghost and I I’ve never heard it’s voice And we’ve never hold hands. So I’m gonna ask it To please come out From under my bed And we will dance barefoot| Until we know each other well.
Letter to Self Angela Silva Vega Little Angela, What are you so afraid of? You stand petrified, white canvas in front of you Digging in the ground with your toes To stay still, to have control, To not move forward, to not move back. It’s the fear of being broken, I know it well. And then you wonder Who did it? When did it begin? And you keep believing his words “There was always something off about you” And he was not the only one Someone else said it, with his eyes Someone else said it, with silence But they don’t see your burning eyes They don’t see you climbing those damp trunks To touch the greenest leaves on top They don’t see you Licking at your wounds They don’t see you. What about those hands grasping yours? There are so many Do you feel the warmth? Don’t worry, they won’t let go. And when your legs break, They’ll hold on tighter. I know New York City is for you, Where you can work that green hair Without the stares. Here they stare. But that’s the thing. Make them stare. Disturb them, rip their minds apart. Now fill the White canvas with your body. Do you remember those scabs on your elbows From chasing the ball? They made your sweet arms. And how about that punk music to which you used to fiercely shake your head And dissolve your throat in every lyric?
It made your voice. Even all of those night kisses Followed by morning rains, They made your heart. So just climb into that boat And sail, sweety You know you are scared of the sea But it’s the one that embraces you whole.
Black Don't Crack Randie Henderson We used to belong to trees. Postcards passed around evidence of white sadism: Lynching’s Swollen flesh and scarred psyche, a plague. Dr. Marion Sims didn’t think we felt pain. He ripped us open. Always the sun kissed women first. Early autopsy. Sister holding sister down so he could probe and scrub and cut. We muffled the cry like a woman hiding in the bathroom too proud to let a man hear her anguish. Like a woman losing her language after years of triangular voyage separated from her people. Then We used to holler. Never considered Never considered human Never considered human enough to truly love, Never ever considered human enough to keep our babies. Perfect enough to nurse their white infants. We used to belong somewhere. We used to know how to cook our food: Kneading and grounding Fufu Pairing Banku with warm lamb bubbling pot of Jollof rice—always cooked right, Groudnut soup, yams, and egg stew. We used to remember and perhaps that is the worst of it all, How we used to truly remember that we did not begin as slaves. We were not niggas, thugs, or coons. We used to know. Now, we are healing: Juneteenth, study abroad, African print, natural hair, and therapy. We are understanding that we must take action if we want to be treated equally, we are reading and creating narratives that are for us and by us, and demanding to be seen as whole human beings.
We are living for our family reunions and holding each other accountable, naming the grandchild after the great-great-great grandmother and family member long gone: Nottra, Ida, Mary, and Charlie so that we never forget. We are engaging in debates of right and wrong, fucked up and ridiculous, always wanting our people to be okay. We are black proverbs passed down in shades of royal purple and blue. We are now learning, deconstructing the internalized thinking, and We are mannerisms we never realized we never forgot: Dap giving hands, “Tsk” making teeth, and swish swooshing hips. We are God’s favorite people, we have always been.
I am here on purpose Randie Henderson My body is like The Door of Return in Benin Because my body belongs here. I feel like the crisp and smooth pages of a great book. I am happy too. I am on the inside of Mikey’s smile; and sometimes my body reminds me of Dogwood flowers, for it is beautiful, with undertones of pink, and the reason double takes of wonder exist. I am like the smell of milk and sugar in vanilla caramel tea in a sea of a baby’s first laugh. My body belongs like the sight of sisters leaning shoulder to head while talking about joy. My body is a room of good books lined against the wall and the Sun and Shea Butter have found a home here. My body is a constant reminder of Grace My hips have the strength to carry my future children, My high cheekbones reminds the Chief of Komenda of a beautiful woman and My skin will age slow (God’s form of reparation) And And And And I love my people like I’ve personally known every one of them, all my life. I love our body types of curves and wonders, Uniqueness in how our shades vary, Our shine after using Goat’s Milk or Black Soap My family is as beautiful as honeysuckles from a wild bush, and fireflies when they light up. I feel like the blues and purple shades of a Peacock in love My body is a home that is beginning to feel and look lived in. My body and my being is as necessary as Revolutionary acting and thinking.
Untitled Pippa Lukin Exhale all the moss Growing on your ribcage A fur of green, a love photosynthesis let it grow and fall from your mouth like water so everyone can see how alive you truly are A sprite leans into touch A ripple radiates over your skin Bubbles racing to the surface Only to sit on your chest, unpopped your belly, wet bark your ass, a fur rug Say you’re welcome to the world For being here It owes you so much for breathing this space birthing everything believing the good in yourself and others expand and contract so that everyone can see you a pulsating cell that keep going outwards grow into yourself and say your welcome
Mikaila Pippa Lukin A leather book a gasp of skin shoots from behind a blouse you found on the street A lock licks around your ear like you planned that movement years ago How else could it have been so perfect your arm, lifting like a swans neck to catch that silky vine dangling from your scalp and tuck it away like a secret behind an ear pierced with chunky silver and red stones A smile, a wave crashing Long legs grow like ghost gums from those boots You bite keratin crescent moons from your fingers while you talk to a stranger who is falling in love A black inky pool surrounded by amber You look at me Bathe me in that husky voice Your energy is the growl that hasn't left the belly of a wolf yet Girl, come see me sometime a velvet giggle escapes your lips A sun bursts in my heart that I could make a creature like you laugh
Bounty Yahaira Carrillo evergreen curved winding roads I am landscape grey-blue crescents under starlit sparkling eyes baby bright pots of honey arms wide expanses wind caressed treetops catching holding pushing this body gentle steadfast rooted strawberry moon belly rising Coyolxauhqui pieced back together journey find lily blossoms in valleys of body trace slopes find fruit bountiful world
ColibrĂ Yahaira Carrillo Huitzitziqui of the sky wing flutter ahundredkeynotes nonstop spirit calls do you listen? Huitzitziqui de colores sit perch let wings rest
Family Lines Whitley Jackson 1. I know no family tales can't trace my family tree past my father and mother My momma is from New York, where she hustled and bustled for all we had, where living ain't easy and washing walls was Saturday chores, and My Father is from Alabama, where sugar canes grow in the garden, southern twang slips softly off their lips and they call you baby when they ask you somethin’ Born in a family where most of the time my name is pumpkin or baby 2. Last year at the age of twenty four I met my father’s family for the first time found out that my father’s home and my home smelled the same yams cookin, the laughter They didn’t have the china cabinet like my mother instead they had a backyard where their vegetables grew they are farmers, they plowed away the harbored pain, planted love, my builders, They called me cousin, the chicken sizzled in the grease bubbling up like the tide I lost my grandparents before I could meet them, a child without a past Textbook history, that’s all I knew Bodies hanging from trees like the inside of a grandfather clock swinging. The way taking a stand sometimes looked like sitting down where you didn’t belong I heard stories of men and women dying for dreams we still hope to come true 3. We never said picnic in my house My mother always said “we don’t have picnics we have barbeques” Picnic – Pick a nigger to hang, long list, your family could be next 4. Men don’t stay here for long A family full of strong women, We are fighters Black & white photo collages of our family hung over the family chair graduation caps, beach ready, family bbqs, Full figured black women, who used to be girls, caressed, sexualized, before their time Raising their own 5. Momma always said we have to break family curses/trends Some heavier than others 6. I see my family through my body High blood pressure, blood clots, heart attacks, strokes, diabetes, cancer,
I remember as a child i felt my heart beat in my vagina, I thought it was trying to fight me Anxiety attacks sat on my chest like the elephant we never addressed I always thought I would go by a heart attack when the doctor said I had traces of pre-cancer cells I cried silently But put on my war face We are fighters, strong women indeed
Soak Judith Sharkey I want to come visit you, Some time now, or in time, to meet on your terms, leave that ghastly context behind. I know to drive forever and a day, chasing the horizon, just as they'd always say, I know now to find beauty in that wide open sky, just as you always have, I had to leave to know why. I hope my skin pickles, and the flies claw at my eyes, it's what I deserve, but know, I won't be shy, No I won't be shy, to speak in your language of silence, I know, I know now, the language of heart, or at least, I'm stammering, no guidance. If I could be so bold as to translate what I did to you, I would scream in that skinny language: "Fuck. you! Fuck all this shit, I don't want it anyway, I want my family, their hold and their hot, wattles and, honey, I want my land, forever and ever full stop." Terina, I hope you still kill it like you always did, showing those awful boys, what b-ball really is I hope you still dance your own dance,
and sometimes, so special, shake that ass, in American style. I drink tea now, I knew you'd love that, and to Sydney I'm coming around, but only if Adam Goodes is still making you proud. The language you speak is one of the sky and the dreams, of water and salt, I know. I know now. The language you speak is one of seasons, and the earth below your feet, I know. I know now.. That to look in your eyes is to hurt you but I hope to walk by your side forever, and share in your virtue. I know now, but not then, their determined poverty of your people, my nation. We know it, and our bodies cry and ache, and heart's tears fill our stomachs, but some time now, they gone break.
crossing oceans Libby Walkup hat between his hands, sitting upright, no sense of adventure pulls his fourteen-year-old body from Italy. ** the sound of the bell fades and he wonders if this town will take him back. one last. but i don’t look back flat for as far, i know what’s there ** NapoliNewYorkNewYorkChicagoChicagoMinnesota was it endless, unbearable. findfollowlead your people, start a town, what did the women keep the red sauce burning on. ** i drop my heart in an English valley dancing myself over Roman streets; my arteries stitched between Prague’s cobbles where Fred and Ginger glide above a riverside bar; i walk myself home blood pumping pistachio gelati that place next to the Trevi. cleaned out, empty i find my way back home ** a man the next time his mother sees him had he meant to meet a wife back/home. had they known each other as children did he find her there walking arm and arm with his sister
he takes her on la passeggiata through the centro storico a snail winning their race he tells her stories: the smells, the cities, his quiet train town hot and wanting slipping away like lovers do until comfortable there in one another's arms, a breeze cooling their skin, she tells him: a bambino ** i’m split, torn, spilled between spaces stuck in one my bloodline built for me breaking for the one we come from i'm building wings bone to joint feather by feather to reunite my sinuous tendon
Letter to Self Yenedit Valencia You are a reflection of your mother. Beautiful, Strong, giving, and with high expectations. How did you keep hope in your life? Knowing that all odds were Against you Knowing that although mom worked three jobs there was Never enough to eat. Knowing that nine numbers stood between you and your dreams It was Her. It was always her. You were made from the clouds, not from the rain. From Southeast Fresno and its Drugs Poverty And your father’s sinful touch. You wonder when the time will come For you to stop building walls. You want the sound of guitars calming and energetic getting lost with the music wearing that dress, soft like your mother’s touch. I have always loved that smile Honest and full of life. Count your blessings for time moves faster Remember to love yourself You are beautiful Remember : “kundee ini” “Dentro de tu ser eres fuerte” “Strong from within” Not in the language of the clouds but in the language of the rain.
The way my tongue twists and turns in its own unique way Yenedit Valencia The way my tongue twists and turns in its own unique way, The way only my tongue can do, to say words like: Resistencia sonreir lengua oppression. The way it’s not my native tongue but it’s the tongue that my mother passed down to me, The way you cannot translate some words into Ingles, The way I think in Español but write it better en Ingles, The way I mix both languages to form my own, The way that doesn’t mean i forget where i come from, The way it means i accept both culturas and both parts of me. The way my tongue twists and turns.
Like We Used to Do Nia Hampton Sisters were never similar in my family Sisters used to shame each other at the dinner table Talk trash over turkey at Thanksgiving While a daughter cries into her 13th birthday cake Happy birthday to me Sisters weren’t very affectionate Weren’t many hands clasped in unity or joy Didn’t hug that much Not often no We say I love you But only when you’re going away For a while Some of us abuse Substances And each other Verbally, Physically, Sexually Some of us fear that the ache to be held Will be misunderstood As the desire to be touched Played with But we are not dolls, no. We are not toys. And we ain’t white either So all that lovey dovey shit is just weird. But now, we affectionate. We hold each other arm in arm As we stumble down cobblestone roads after brunch Hold each other in airports Tears streaming down cheeks that favor As too short visits come to end We pinch each other in church pews Stifling laughter we share. We listen and remember. We listen and know. Now, we have our language. Now, we have a new kind of sisterly love.
Black Out Day Nia Hampton Dear God, I want to stand in front of gold rimmed mirrors and dust long eyelashes with black magical mascara with them. Oil thighs and slick back flourishing baby hair filled edges together. feel plush fur and marble floor under my soles as we pose. look good and not feel ashamed or feel stupid for being fine as fuck. Skin like black sand, painted mouths perfectly ombre’d like a medium rare steak, Inspire me to put more effort into my look for myself, they have. bored with being approachable — I don’t want to be approached anymore. I see you taking your body for the tool it is, creating images that I wish I was bold enough to do. Not taking those perfectly lined doe eyes off the prize. I see you. Posing like the diamond mine between your thighs just started spurting oil. I see you. Doing hoodrat shit with your friends in absurd clothes because your day job is looking fly. I see you black girls on the internet. Oh how I want to be you.
A Realitea Party Megan Skelly Welcome to abundance. Earth a deep, deep house eternal groove / rhythm smooth harmonious tunes. Forever home, what an honor to come as this soul. Drink kaleidoscope awareness from a luminous bowl to witness & wonder at the stories unfold... I have always been so tall, but not always proud California redwoods we could hold hands, kiss clouds Now I sparklesoar: glitter over satin, lace too & yes I do rock combat boots to cradle this ground with my infinity roots. To be born the same day as the rambling rose, to seek out & stretch doubt so that thorns made me grow. & when I sink, I just settle: sandalwood incense, green tea in the kettle. the wind that caresses night always whispers & calls me to write. Keep going, eternal wander there's still mango with hot sauce for long walks in blazing summer. Come cleanse thru tears Megan. Join us here. Hold the crystal up to the window of your pain, Refracted light coursing in your veins, Reclaim your name. I remind you, humming smooth jaguar muscles into pulsing rain it will be okay. It's all just chemicals storming in your brain.
I still love you, into & thru the dirt of deep roots old oaks bass notes, oxygen hope rising smoke embers glow return anew tomorrow. Love fearlessly. Deliriously. I used to run these streets but always deep with the peace So expansive, the stretch wisdom of Grand canyons Teach the sacred alchemy of polished mirrors, moonlight candles. Dream sheen gypsy queen I water diamonds in my eyes so all may see. Blessed be. Would you like to rest under my poetree?
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