sun rose           red
eyes blinking back night
yawning cool like Coltrane
at the blue note

i welcome him           early
even though it's saturday
and our date is usually
pushed back

sun spoke warm
hellos as he rose
past night
to greet me



(c) me. just a few minutes ago. don't bite. savor.

so i guess this means...

i'm completely VAIN lol. but seriously, here is your opportunity to put a voice to the words.

Gabcast! This Side of the Wall: Notes from The Prisoner's Wife #1 - Welcome

sharing poems, random thoughts, and giving shout outs!

5
____________________________________________________

by Wanda Coleman


there is no one here but me. from behind this glass
i see the guard's station. prisoners are watched
on TV monitors, a camera in each cell. if i move,
i see the wisp of my movement on the monitor.

i am here through no fault of my own as a result
of doing more for others than for myself. all the guards
are men. they can watch me undress and make my toilet.
they can watch me caress myself in my nightmares.

there is a pay phone in the prisoners' rec room
that does not take coins. communication is futile at worst,
faulty as best. i have learned that i am friendless.
no one has sympathy for me. i have learned
that misplaced trust can dismantle a life

as a result of this punishment, i have learned
it pays to be more selfish with desire.

memory divides me against the light

~~~~

i was browsing some of the books i own when i stumbled across this poem. it speaks to my life, beloved's life. i haven't heard from beloved in nearly a week. the last time we spoke was Saturday morning. he's been having some trouble. he's been depressed. he's being sort of harassed by the COs.

last we spoke, he told me they cut off his electricity and water. i suppose this is "normal" when they are trying to "make a point." you see, even in prison, beloved refuses to be treated as less than a man. i can understand. his situation is precarious. he doesn't want to jeopardize coming home, but he doesn't like being talked to any which way. he will speak up. he's filed complaints about his treatment, and that's just not something that's looked upon favorably.

the power dynamics within a prison are astonishing. it's amazing how people feel superior to you, simply because they have some authority. you can feel it in the visitor's room. you can feel it in the way they speak to us (visitors), the way they look at us suspiciously, as if we are guilty by association.

i hate visiting. i hate prison. i hate that this is our life. i want beloved home, like yesterday. i want our son to have his father. i want to cook dinner and go to movies and walk in the park like everyone else. i want so many things and it seems as if everything is put on pause...indefinitely.

what is poetry? (when enough is too much)

breaking windows
with words, grinding
rough diamonds into amethyst rocks
trying too hard
to reach inside        thoughts
sweating themselves about how deep
they pretend to be       poets
trying to bottle them as butterflies.
when enough is too much,
who can be the judge?
what is and is not       art
pretending to be God
pretending to be man
where the divine
and the blasphemous
do lunch at Sylvia’s, arguing
who is more
in touch with the people.

(c) me. circa 2003. harlem, ny.
~~
poetry is something that many attempt to define, but rarely come close to doing. what is a poem, exactly? by definition it defies such confinements. even its strictest forms allow the poet room to play and push the envelope.

this year has been my first year teaching creative writing, and as a poet, it's been an interesting experience. teaching writing, of any kind, is a bit trying. i am a natural writer (did i just type that OUT LOUD?). i can hear things others do not. i know when a line, a sentence, an essay is right because it SOUNDS right, and that fine-tuned ear is not really easy to explain to others less familiar with the rhythm of words. this semester i've been teaching my kids about poems. all kinds of poems. yesterday, we explored limericks (they had a good time trying to write those). prior to that it was the sonnet, the tanka, and the villanelle. in working with the kids, the thing that i consistently notice is that they either LOVE writing poems, or they are completely frustrated because they "are not good at writing poems," whatever that really means. when my students hit roadblocks and start to psyche themselves out, i try to tell them to relax and not think so much. over-thinking it has been the death of many a poem for me, so i know it must be killer to them. they come to class with their preconceived notions of poetry: it MUST rhyme, it has to have short (or long) lines, it's really, really hard to write. it is my job to help set them free.

writing for me is like...breathing (or fighting, or fucking, or living, or_________). it is a means to express all the things i wished i had the courage to say to people's faces. it gives me a voice, power, agency. it affords me room to live outside of the world i see everyday. for my students, i want them to see the power they have within to create. at 13, many of them are dealing with SO many issues i never thought of back then. they need an outlet, other than older boys or their neighborhood corners. they needs this (words) more than they actually know.

as readers, what do words, and specifically poems mean to you?

April is National Poetry Month, and as a poet, i'd be remiss if i did not acknowledge & celebrate it. over the course of the next month i will share some of my favorite poems by my favorite poets, dig into my own poetry crates, and maybe write a little something new.

i encourage you
to do the same.
   c'mon
share with me.

(pic taken by my camera phone. i took this after her encore. she came out to test out a song she wrote in the hotel. check out the hotel pad in her hand. an artist never stops. lovely!)


untitled (inspired by she)

last night     a testimony of words
echoed through wombs
waves of blues met
earlobes    hips and fingers
   pursed as if
waiting for a savior

a philly jawn
honeyed and aged
urgent like
rain in the dessert
weaving stories through time
bringing us
closer
to ourselves

~~~~***~~~
i had the pleasure to see jill perform last night. WHEW LAWD! is all i can say about THAT. you. must. go. see. her. now.

buried beneath a mound
of papyrus i breathe abstract
minds meld time & words
into a revolution of syntax
i break back        pack minds
raw and heavy
even if heads ain't ready
i'm on time
full of grammar and rhymes steady
student of this game
my students name's may change
but i break levies   and brains
be growing like weed smoke
permeating rough throats and sentences
wondering what use this writing shit is

it is
life blood to silenced laughs
the cadence of a smile
before it breaks
face screwed like minds
birthing dope lines that reach
beyond this

it is
more than anything
we could imagine

before we saw it
heard it
felt it in our bones
the difference between what's known
and that foreign shit you only dream about

it is
grabbin paper and
whatever writes
to write your story
late nights when
the lights won't burn
when darkeness inhabits everything
but your imagination

it is
this
it is that
and
it is
everything in between

~*~
didn't set out to write a poem...just wanted to say i've been busy teaching, but it be like that sometime. ~peace

this week i've found myself moving through the streets of los angeles....i've never really stopped to look at my city in detail. found some interesting things, wrote a (bad) poem...thought i'd share them with you...



free stylin...

birth
place color crime rate
blood blue in red
my neighborhoods dead
covered in ashes
weather be classic
times is passin'

south central cries foul
tell me how
one can afford to live
hood's for sale but
we only got blood to give

summer births
rites of passage
sometimes i ask when
brown gon' win
just one of these games
wondering how many
hit the grave before
they go to college
droppin knoledge
InshAllah
it's the way we get through
praying HE grew us up strong
not wanting to do wrong but
options be limited
time is closing in
cash & posers win
and i'm tired of the games

damaged collateral

I.
yesterday joseph came
home       draped in crimson
muslin smelling       gentle
          white lotus leaves
bowing underfoot

they call him hero
help him
          into the cadillac
hoist old glory
and play riffles
like trumpets in a parade

was it worth it?
               mother sobs
was it worth it?
               we all wonder      angry

he came home
like this

II.
fireworks paint the sky
      orange
               red
                    a ghastly purple
Mosul erupts           a cacophony
of women and wailing
babies struck down

without uttering a sound
we watch
seduced by the blood
pooling silently
beneath our feet

my son is determined
to break his arm

standing atop our
leather ottoman          proud
& grinning as if
he just conqured
        kilimanjaro

last week       he fell
and wailed until
salt caked his lashes
hysterical               he was
comforted with kisses
and coos

i ask my mother
how to keep him
off the furniture

"a boy" she says
"what do you expect?"

twenty-seventh trip
'round the sun         wondering what
this voyage will bring

daredevil

17 months       training
     legs arms and toes
exploring every inch
of new
      world

fear lives not
in his heart
    mine surges
when i see him

brown legs jumpping
from tables or chairs
or jungle-gyms or stairs
straining to reach
                     everything

i wonder when
he will be tamed
reckless spirit lost
amid mommy's worring words

beloved's voice came
clear cross rivers
and cities and lakes
and projects and concrete
and razor wire

greeting me
slick and soft like
he was tryin to
win me over
again

i was open

savoring
each word
as if it were my last meal
on earth

dear beloved,

today left me
wanting to feel
something that felt
like you

your voice met me
easing into palms
every inch of
distance evaporating

honeyed recitation
chant to gods
of love and war:

break down the walls
break down the walls
break down the walls

between my lips
and yours

i'm getting the itch
to write
(and send my babies out
to the world
again)

the kids haven't played
in two years

but hopefully
some kind editor will
fall for my verbs and
grant them shelter
in a lovely mag.

i guess,
we'll see.

dear beloved,

wrapping my head
around you is like
listening to coltrane
be bop in the rain

today
we converse staccato
breaking words like beats
between lips and tongue

 miss
      you
wish
      you
were
      in
me
      now

i love it when
you sound so vulgar
rolling my name
between your palms
wet      lips parting
to speak
hello

Lunchtime Musings

I am here
trapped beneath
a seemingly endless mountain
of ungraded words

trying my best
to play catch up
while catching them
up to where they should be

teaching is a struggle

love and long hours
overdue props
nerves shot to hell
definitely worth
the smile
you get
when they understand
whatimsayin

wha gwan, star?



i love my man like
cook food
like star apple
mango leaves passion
fruit cool like
breeze over mountains dem

beloved speaks
to every piece of
i and i and we
will make it
cuz love is
stronger
than
this


[ i got inspired by xavier and his blog. i couldn't help but vibe off his poetry. thanks for the inspiration.]

love poem # 22

I
there are some
poems made just
for you       wrapped in fresh
banana leaves tasting of sugar

at midnight my tongue
wanders the earth        searching
for your fingers and mouth
and i come        up empty

II
time is not on our side
it strangles words        catching
in my throat        causalities
of the space between us

III
i love
         you hard
brave and beautiful you
are an indian summer       burning
up my thighs

~*~
i haven't written this much since i finished my thesis last year. my muse has returned in the form of memories of my beloved. i would much rather see him than write poems, but this is the only way to touch him right now. i hope he feels me.

be blessed

untitled poem # 23

the warehouse heaves
two million bodies       stored efficiently
   head to toe to head
bunks stacked high     holding     families

are collateral damage
searched and questioned and branded
guilty for maintaining some semblance
of togetherness      a patchwork
of relationships carved out amid surveillance
privacy is a luxury     not sold
in the commissary

pieces of this poem came to me as i was visiting my beloved, but as with most things i write, i didn't actually put pen to paper until much later. i'm going to send this to my beloved tomorrow. perhaps it will help someone., speak to someone, or maybe it is your story. i am composing another poem (it's in pieces inside my head) about my visits to Rikers.

every since talking to my friend, i am seriously thinking about what i can do with this blog. sure, it's good to write out/sweat out/cry out all of your emotions. there is something so gratifying about coming here & writing. it is confession. i feel reborn & powerful. but there are so many like me, with lovers, fathers, sons, wives, daughters, friends behind the wall. and so many times we are afraid to speak up and say just how much we love. how hard we love. we are sometimes afraid because people may view us or view our loved one a little differently if they knew. well, i am opening this space up to everyone. at least for now. share your thoughts & stories. please comment. you are not alone. you are loved. and it is ok to love the ones you do, in the manner in which you do. peace.

~~****~~~~
Visitation