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.
****
I Select My Jury Before Justice Appears
by Rachel Eliza Griffiths
You made things up. How you felt. Who you were.
Beyond the cities & the caves you sent me to look
for your body. You hid yourself, disguised your taste,
your voice. In our mouths you planted longing & hunger.
We walk around repeating your hands.
We can say who is wrong & who is nothing.
We polish the sidewalks with our forgetting,
play the lotto, bum noise from the dead, turn
our mothers & fathers into obelisks.
We won’t abandon the orphans of history,
or the worship of their shivering.
Lift our workhorses & smear our senses
with dogma. You made things up.
How we felt.
And now emptiness is the feeling we trust best.
We walk around mourning our germs.
You unmade the houses
we tended, the unfinished children, the lonely flat tv.
There was a chance to shatter. The detour
of loving then dying
too devastating to follow.
The gavel, the injury of a cross.
And we look up to what?
The alchemy of perpetual discontent.
To ask for what?
****
The Standard Script
Given to the Grieving Mother
Whose Black Child
Has Been Murdered by Police
by B. Sharise Moore
1.
Dress
as you would for Sunday morning communion.
Black
women appear least aggressive with heads bowed,
while
kneeling.
Black
rage does not photograph well.
2.
Quote
I Corinthians, every grandmother’s go to book.
Call
on Jesus.
Even
as your stomach knots, restricts to a rawness that numbs,
convince
them that this is His will
and
that His will shall be done.
3.
Plead
for the peace your child was unworthy of while alive.
Pause
deliberately.
Denounce.
Distance yourself from the riotous fires
that
have done more to honor him than this law has.
4.
Quote
an out of context syllogism,
preferably
“I Have a Dream.”
After
all, you are grieving
and
no one has studied it anyway.
5.
Tell
them they must vote.
This
will not happen if they simply vote
…more.
Often.
They
can move Forward with their Obamas and Holders
on
their shoulders. Tell them he cannot really speak about your child;
he
is not the President of Black America.
6.
Make
it plain you’ve raised all of your children to be color blind.
In
church.
You
are Christians in spite of your dead son’s
Kindergarten
suspension.
7.
Call
for faith in a system that has failed you for 400 hundred years.
Tell
them justice must run the same course
as
the too many bullets that splintered your child’s temple,
opened
up his abdomen like some twisted Cracker Jack prize.
8.
Mention
the good police.
Not
all bad. Not all vigilante.
Not
all trigger happy. Not all racist.
Yet
all more alive and well than your child.
9.
Be
respectable. Remind them of Black on Black crime.
Tell
them the police kill them because they kill themselves.
Tell
them that they are responsible for the smashed skulls
of
their own daughters and sons
with
their sagging pants, poverty,
10. Repeat:
“This
is not about race.”
“This
is not about race.”
“This
is not about race.”
Repeat
as you watch yet another mother fold her tears in her already bulging purse.
Watch
while she strains to push her child back inside the safety of her womb.
Stare
as she leans over a son who looks oddly like your own:
Dead
and stiff and indicted and tried more
than his murderer.
11. Repeat:
“This is not about race.”
“This is not about race.”
“This
is not about race.”
Remind
them of Black on Black crime.
Of
Black on Black Crime.
Of
Black on Black crime.
12. Convince her it is necessary
that
she believes it too.
****
Of storms and tears
by Aimee Suzara
by Aimee Suzara
For Mike Brown, Tamir
Rice, Eric Garner
and the Philippines after another storm
and the Philippines after another storm
"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of
power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are
messengers of overwhelming grief and unspeakable love." ~ Rumi
There is a sacredness
in tears.
The water nearly
drowns us:
typhoon a regular
disaster
in places the world
ritually abandons
resilience taken for
granted
like poverty and like
starvation
and one storm hits
before the other
has
even taken toll
And here
Black men and boys are messengers
Black men and boys are messengers
become our accidental
angels
looking over
destroyed altars;
looking over
destroyed altars;
we
mourn their
destroyed bodies
destroyed bodies
The
river which encased
Emmett Till, returned him
to his source, becomes our
metaphorical vessel
for these sacred tears
Emmett Till, returned him
to his source, becomes our
metaphorical vessel
for these sacred tears
There is too much
cliche
in the repeated
obliteration
of black lives by
white hands and
of black lives by
white hands and
white systems
we want to erase
these hasty
superfluous
repetitions of death
We all want to turn
off the noise
turn back the storms
to drown in our own
tears
to be oblivious to
our own
overwhelming grief
But there is
unspeakable love:
we use our ten
thousand tongues
let the tides loose
and truths
be storm surge
in this kind of
surrender
to our humanity
to our humanity
this
kind of a torrent
is less of a tragedy
is less of a tragedy
and more of a relief.
****
I go black
by Persis M. Karim
I go black in
black times
Gaza and Ferguson
torque my soul
too tight to know
what kind of bombs
will quell what we know
what we know is not
real
in the language of dismissal
what we know is not
unless justified
in black nights
and black days
of Gaza and Ferguson
A Lunch Conversation in China With a Local
by Nahshon Cook
1)
Him:
Are you on Jesus' team?
Me:
What do you mean?
Him:
Do you believe in Jesus?
Me:
I believe in his teachings, yes.
Him:
Do you go to church?
Me:
No, not often.
Him:
I don't believe in anything.
Me:
Are you okay with that?
Him:
Not Jesus, not Buddha... No need.
Me:
You're lucky.
Him:
No, it doesn't make sense.
Me:
Ok.
Him:
Why do you read Jesus' book?
Me:
It helps my heart love better.
Him:
You're a mutant.
Me:
Maybe. I don't know.
Him:
We're the same person.
Me:
Yes.
2)
Him:
You know Tibet?
Me:
Yes, I’d like to go there.
Him:
Hmm, no. Not yet.
Tibet’s not liberated
like Hong Kong.
But, almost. Soon.
Me:
OK.
Him:
China’s like a father,
Tibet’s his lost son.
The father went out,
found his son
and is bringing him back home.
Me: And what do you think about that?
Him:
I have no idea.
****
Grand Jury
by Dylan Bargteil
Michael Brown lays dead in the
street.
was
there any particular reason
when
the police officer gives you
an order that you did not obey
get
out of the street
Michael Brown lays dead in the
street.
did the thought ever come to your
mind
maybe he was doing it for public
safety
for your own safety, why were you
not
even on the side walk? it was not
safe
Michael Brown lays dead in the
street.
why didn’t you do that?
i thought it was strange
you didn’t seem concerned
i would expect
just seems strange
is it typical?
Michael Brown lays dead in the
street.
an act of defiance
they are being defiant
to show strength
or
something
Michael Brown lays dead
****
from understory
by Craig Perez
(to my wife, nālani
kai cries
from teething—
how do
new parents
comfort a
child in
pain, bullied
in school,
shot by
a drunk
APEC agent?
#justicefor
-kollinelderts—
nālani gently
massages kai's
gums with
her fingers—
how do
we wipe
away tear-
gas and
blood? provide
shelter from
snipers? disarm
occupying armies?
nālani sings
to kai
a song
about the
Hawaiian alphabet—
what dreams
will echo
inside detention
centers and
cross teething
borders to
soothe the
thousands of
children atop
la bestia?
#unaccompanied—
nālani rubs
kai's back
warm with
coconut oil—
how do
we hold
violence at
arm's length
when raising
[our] hands
up is
no longer
a universal
sign of
surrender?
#black
livesmatter—
kai finally
falls asleep
in nālani's
cradling arms,
skin to
skin against
the news—
when do
we tell
our daughter
there's no
safe place
for us
to breathe #...
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