Instrumental - A Poem by Shima Robinson

Instrumental

A poem by Shima Robinson

The pen was instrumental in seizing me bleeding ballpoint pronouncements in Bic black ink calling the salvation that I had bitten back on point at the brink from every word I had yet learned to articulate as sister studious, daughter dutiful, fast friend I wailed my secrets into being between them caught my guard on its way up and learned to let it sink enough to open wide to scrutiny the dreaded critique embedded in folk routines snap-clap applause for my audible dreams my screams exhaled a low volumes that sound like poems for soluble problems that dissolve into spit, sweat, and tears It seems I’ve hailed this art at high time to grind mountains down to mole hills learning that perception is everything and the love is deafening it rings in my ears

Dwennimmen was instrumental in keeping me aligned with freedom teaming the virtues I amount to in my own esteem giving bold form to the idea that this sacred African key held a personal appeal for strength humility, learning and wisdom united under the quadrant symmetry of the ram horn symbol that spoke to my far crying instinct my ancestral link in the windswept prairies is an emblem sewn onto my heart a closely kept call to arms waging peace on my soul a mantra of respect reconciling my ignorance of the languages of the Black diaspora with a pledge to see farther with these tools to learn the use of coded image being Black never felt so good as when I awoke to the history within me the depth of the lineage that I now speak through talking a blue streak so wide and deep that it rivals the sky only finding relief on grey days or clear nights swathed in the infinite stretch of stars that I am named for shining in the distance drawn from the thought that I project the I’ve wrought in triumph is the ambrosia of success now I find myself blessed with the breath to blaze beacons for farseer seekers to glimpse living history that breathes ancient mystery the rhyme to my reason