I like men who impress me Lots of women like them I am sacrificial in what I want Forthright in what I need I like only him He is egotistical He has power by way of his intelligence or pursuit Lots of women like him He likes lots of women He does not know how to be a man and be with me. Poems for 72 Days, Poem 11 Inspired by Warsan Shire - Excuses For Why We Failed at Love
A couple of ideas/ readings/thoughts driving this poem: 1. I often reflect on Gabrielle Union's letter to herself in the October Issue (2012) of Essence Magazine in which she writes to her younger self/ other women about loving her "deep Mahogany skin" and generally, colorism in the Black community and in Hollywood. Everytime I post A Letter from the Young, I think of it. 2. I just read this article on BBC about colorism in Africa: Africa: Where black is not really beautiful . My problem with the general debate on colorism in Africa, which I have heard many others echo, is with this notion that women and men who bleach their skins are more insecure, less conscious, have more self esteem issues, and/or are more susceptible to subscribing to the "white supremacist mentality" than the rest of us. In some circles, they are even vilified. I truly believe that this is unfair. Firstly, saying that African women/men who bleach their skin do not love being Black or...
First, for my grandma. Then, everyone I think about often in this experience called immigration. A poem to be performed for my grandma. Grandma, I am still looking From above, I see greenlush somewhere Soon beneath me, the sea Atop, the blue-black midnight sky Below is blue pain, water the depth of this immeasurable distance Someone asks, "sweetheart, what do you want to eat?" My stomach turns, flight food I am churning memories I have ingested but time, time swallows I can't necessarily recollect and condense, like cumulus clouds, our togetherness Scattered perceptions of watching you sell tomatoes to someone. A thief. Church. A running crab. A mango tree; the sweet taboo of too ripe brown mangoes Lizards. Listening to uncle listen to Marley and Dube. Sharing one bed. I long for the comfort of being cramped in one room with everyone I know Empty space is loneliness, I despise a room of my own If I had ever known sleep, it was only my rest underneath ...
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