Poems that Resist Police Brutality & Demand Racial Justice - Post #4

We Who Believe in Freedom Cannot Rest 

Until the killing of Black men, Black mothers' sons, becomes as important to the rest of the country as the killing of a white mother's son -- we who believe in freedom cannot rest.
                    - Ella Baker

Even as our hearts break in rage and anguish over the murder of Black and brown people throughout the land by police who are not held accountable, here at Split This Rock we are heartened by the powerful actions in the streets and the visionary leadership of mostly young people of color in this growing movement for justice.

We are also moved by the poets, who continue to speak out, and especially by BlackPoetsSpeakOut.

In solidarity, Split This Rock offers our blog as a Virtual Open Mic, open to all who respond to our call for Poems that Resist Police Brutality and Demand Racial Justice. The poems below were submitted in response to that call.

Please note poems with complex formatting have been posted as jpegs, as this blog has a limited capacity for properly displaying these poems. We apologize if these poems are not accessible to you.

For more information or questions, feel free to email us at info@splitthisrock.org.

If you are moved by any of the poems below, please contact the Department of Justice and your local representatives to demand police accountability. Visit Ferguson Action Demands for more information.

****

another lynching
by Persis M. Karim

the body, a rotten
black or brown
blackened and
thrown down
on the trash-heap.
not throat, not hands
not heart, not legs
deserve to stand.
and when they
move, hold them.
don't let one rotten
apple spoil
the whole bunch.

****

A Prayer

by Nahshon Cook

tonight i went

and prayed

with my feet 

around capitol hill

in peaceful protest

of the recent killings

of Black men

by acquitted White

male police officers

with the thought being

if for some reason 

a bad-apple cop

got his hands on me

and took me out,

i will have died

like i lived: working

to try'n help

heal the hurt.

Amen.

****

GRAND jury 

by Persis M. Karim

what makes a grand jury so 

grand when each and every 

verdict seems to indicate 

smallness, erasure-

a sense that the grandiosity

of an institution is 

made smaller and smaller

until it makes those 

perpetrating the crime

feel entitled to a bigness

that shrinks righteousness 

to the margins of the streets

where the voices hushed

by the grand jury 

refuse to be heard? 

****

Recurrence

by Rachel Eliza Griffiths 

Next to the throne where we are waiting

for your judgment I stand behind your hardback chair.

I don’t tie you to its broken arms. Your arms, already wooden.

I don’t offer you the torture of patience. I don’t offer you

confession. Freedom. You could only give me

what you gave the scholars. A chamber of vapors

you named History.

I give you water. You do not see my blood in it.

We have not tasted pleasure for centuries.

I swivel a tambourine like a word through air

when you insist that I am useless. The music of bells

salvages the wreck of your splendor.

We nod in time to airless trumpets. I watch the scales

of love tilt. I touch your hip & you like that.

You like my bones to want you.

In a solo you know the harmonies that make me

shiver. My lips cold with song & blood.

Are those your lips? Are you smiling?

God & Justice sit at a near table, peel

oranges. Eat chicken & drink wine. Play

tonk & bullshit. War. Their burning scales

& blindfolds pushed back. A bucket

of ears sits atop the bible. A capuchin

studies the players’ hands & takes coins beneath

the table as they move toward each other

like amiable battleships. A radio screeches.

Below us cities unfurl their white flags

& the earth heaves with melting.

I have polished you with my hair. I shine you

with my leather rag of syllables. It’s all I am.

I give you fruit after tasting each seed

for knowledge. Here is a book about war, I say

& you smile, taking it from my bloody hands.

In the government of dreams you are behind

on your paperwork. So you are like democracy.

You offer me your seat. I have been standing

here for over two hundred years. By your side,

against you. Even when you left me

for another woman. The smell of me

singed the sky & the harvest ate

my ashes. I wait for your orders.

I’m starving. Mushroom, nimbus,

tornado, tsunami. Fire. Fire. Fire.

I hold a sterling tray of faces

waiting for you

to make up your mind. 

   

*First published by Tongue, Issue One (2011)

****

I am not a poet

by Leslie Scott-Jones

I am not a poet

I am a writer

I would like to wax poetically about the things I see

But I am not a poet

I am a writer

I don’t write in quick verse and complicated rhymes

When I turn a phrase it’s hidden between the lines

Lines that characters say to each other in conversation.

I am a writer of love stories

I am a writer of relationships

It has been my therapy

Trying to figure out my own existence through harsh words and power games

through love triangles that fed the flames of my passion and my desire.

I hope you will forgive me if I pause for a moment,

you see I’ve had a hard time writing about love recently

I try to write about two people who care for each other

And all I can see is pain

I sit down to pen a monologue confessing true feelings

And inside I am numb.

I am numb from Ferguson

From Brooklyn

From Cleveland, Baltimore, St. Louis, Los Angeles and New Orleans

I am numb from New York to Las Vegas from Gainesville to Denver

You see I am not a poet

So I don’t know how to plead for the life of my black son, or yours

in a way that will heal our souls or quench our anger.

I am not a poet, I am a writer

So all I can say, in the plainest terms, with a tear stained face

all I can pull out of my lungs is a distress call today.

Raymond, Ervin, Tamon, Mike, Trayvon

Alonzo, Kenneth, Malissa and Kyam

All these brothers and sisters that look like my daughter and my son, that look like me.

I am not a poet, so this won’t win any awards.

It won’t be praised, although it may receive some scorn.

I am a writer so I pledge right now, that things I write will matter.

I will tell stories of how great our Kings and Queens are and sing them to your bones.

That is how I can use my voice, as a writer.

How will you use yours?