Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – Christi Kramer

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

***

Glory be to the shoes

by Christi Kramer

Attend to the story, as if it were a stone or a shoe.  Reach into the river.  Find what is rubbed 

smooth, polished.  What is the life of the shoe in the river, saturated and moving in  

current?

Most stories of crossing are done in bare feet.  Most stories are crossings, risky, indeed. 

Throw a story, if you don’t have a shoe.  Throw a shoe, if the stories are smothered 

in mud in the river.  The story of a life written, on the bottom of a shoe. 

This for the widows, the orphans

The feet who’ve been pound with a stick tell a story.  The stick tells a story.  The story 

hides her face in her hands.  

Some lost, moving away in the river, grab on, hold tight, to a story.  

Some make of their story a boat or celebration.  

Some pray for the story of branch or stone. 

Just yesterday the doors opened, tumbled out the journalist imprisoned.  

They say he looked pale, al-Zeidi, in dark suit, tie and new beard.  

This story, that he is missing teeth but will not swallow humiliation. When the story is that the boot 

is lifted from the throats of the drowned, add ululation.  

Add kisses, sweets, satin.  Add praise. 

Attend to the dance.  Attentive: the story a fragile bright globe in the palm. 

Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – Beth Daniel

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

***

A Voice That Shakes:  A Letter to My Daughter Following the 2016 Election

by Beth Daniel

Dear​ ​Ella, 

There​ ​is​ ​a​ ​scar​ ​above​ ​my​ ​pubic​ ​area 

where​ ​you​ ​were​ ​pulled​ ​from​ ​that​ ​tiny​ ​opening. 

As​ ​I​ ​laid​ ​crucified,

bound​ ​to​ ​a​ ​cold​ ​metal​ ​table 

​you​ ​came​ ​into​ ​this​ ​world, 

screaming​ ​til​ ​your​ ​voice​ ​was​ ​shaking.

Bloody, 

railing​ ​against​ ​your​ ​forced​ ​evacuation, 

I​ ​heard​ ​my​ ​voice​ ​in​ ​you​ ​then. 

My​ ​darling​ ​sprite,

you​ ​have​ ​the​ ​voice​ ​and​ ​you​ ​have​ ​the​ ​fight 

Fierce​ ​was​ ​the​ ​first​ ​adjective​ ​I​ ​used​ ​to​ ​describe​ ​you.  

Fiercely, you​ ​fought​ ​the​ ​swaddle, 

Your​ ​tiny​ ​legs​ ​and​ ​arms​ ​would​ ​flail​ ​about. 

You​ ​always​ ​escaped. 

You​ ​would​ ​not​ ​be​ ​confined.

You​ ​were​ ​born​ ​wild. 

You​ ​were​ ​born​ ​free. 

I​ ​knew​ ​then,​ ​as​ ​I​ ​know​ ​now, 

you​ ​were​ ​born​ ​prepared​ ​for​ ​the​ ​fight. 

I​ ​know​ ​this​ ​as​ ​y​ou​ ​stomp​ ​your​ ​feet 

declaring​ ​your​ ​toddler​ ​right 

for​ ​one​ ​more​ ​story​ ​or​ ​one​ ​more​ ​Doc.​ ​Mcstuffins. 

  

I​ ​know​ ​this​ ​as​ ​you​ ​demand​ ​to​ ​wear 

two​ ​different​ ​flip​ ​flops 

with​ ​socks 

in​ ​November.

I​ ​acquiesce​ ​saying,​ ​“Your​ ​body,​your​ ​choice”. 

And then my​ ​mouth​ ​drops​ ​as​ ​you​ ​repeat​ ​it.

A​ ​question​ ​first,​ ​“My​ ​body,​ ​my​ ​choice?” 

I​ ​smile​ ​and​ ​nod.

You​ ​begin​ ​to​ ​chant,​ ​“My​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice” 

“My​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice”, 

My​ ​body,​ ​my​ ​choice”. 

  

Then​ ​November​ ​8,​ ​2016​ ​happened. 

The​ ​boys​ ​that​ ​have​ ​stood​ ​in​ ​locker​ ​rooms​ ​being​ ​boys 

won​ ​the​ ​presidential​ ​election. 

  

As​ ​talk​ ​of​ ​pussy​ ​grabbing​ ​became​ ​excused​ ​as 

“locker​ ​room​ ​talk’

and​ ​excused​ ​as​ ​boys​ ​just​ ​being​ ​boys, 

my​ ​scars​ ​begin​ ​to​ ​open​ ​and 

this​ ​country​ ​drops​ ​acid​ ​into​ ​those​ ​scars.  

these​ ​scars​ ​were​ ​left​ ​by 

boys​ ​just​ ​being​ ​boys. 

  

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

Dan​ ​in​ ​the​ ​6​^th​​ ​grade.

in​ ​the​ ​​library​ ​at​ ​school 

he​ ​grabbed​ ​my​ ​newly​ ​formed-nothing​ ​to​ ​C​ ​cup​ ​overnight-breasts. 

Without​ ​a​ ​voice, 

awkward,​ ​a​ ​child​ ​in​ ​a​ ​woman's​ ​body, 

I​ ​allowed​ ​it​ ​saying​ ​nothing. 

While​ ​Dan​​ ​claims​ ​his​ ​victory​ ​in​ ​the​ ​boys’​ ​locker​ ​room, 

I​ ​cover​ ​by​ ​body​ ​in​ ​the​ ​girls’​ ​locker​ ​room. 

I​ ​learned​ ​the​ ​shame​ ​of​ ​having​ ​curves. 

  

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

Wade​​, 

on​ ​the​ ​floor​ ​of​ ​his​ ​apartment 

as​ ​he​ ​raped​ ​my​ ​19​ ​year​ ​old​ ​body. 

I​ ​was​ ​silent​ ​for​ ​months​ ​after. 

When​ ​I​ ​finally​ ​spoke​ ​and​ ​told​ ​my​ ​mom, 

cheerleader​ ​for​ ​the​ ​locker​ ​room​ ​boys, 

she​ ​told​ ​me​ ​it​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault. 

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

Clint​ 

my​ ​boyfriend​ ​who​ ​spent ​4​ ​years 

calling​ ​me​ ​ugly, 

calling​ ​me​ ​fat, 

calling​ ​me​ ​stupid, 

and​ ​telling​ ​me​ ​I​ ​shouldn't​ ​write". 

I​ ​left​ ​him,​ ​but​ ​not​ ​before​ ​he​ ​left​ ​me​ ​merely​ ​a​ ​shadow​ ​of​ ​what​ ​I​ ​was.  

I​ ​was​ ​broken​ ​and​ ​I've​ ​spent​ ​years​ ​picking​ ​up​ ​those​ ​pieces.  

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

a​ ​man​ ​I​ ​met​ ​online, 

a​ ​stranger​ ​I​ ​invited​ ​into​ ​my​ ​bed. 

He​ ​began​ ​to​ ​hurt​ ​me​ ​and​ ​wouldn’t​ ​stop. 

Scars​ ​left​ ​by 

A​ ​stranger​ ​on​ ​New​ ​Year’s​ ​Eve 

Drunk-I​ ​allowed​ ​him​ ​to​ ​pull​ ​me​ ​into​ ​a​ ​closet 

And​ ​force​ ​his​ ​dick​ ​into​ ​my​ ​mouth. 

  

It​ was​ ​my​ ​fault.  

I​ ​shouldn’t​ ​have​ ​dressed​ ​so​ ​provocatively, 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

I​ ​shouldn’t​ ​have​ ​been​ ​with​ ​a​ ​man​ ​twice​ ​my​ ​age. 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

I​ ​should​ ​have​ ​recognized​ ​the​ ​emotional​ ​abuse. 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

For​ ​being​ ​a​ ​slut. 

  

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault, 

For​ ​getting​ ​drunk. 

It​ ​was​ ​my​ ​fault.  

Boys​ ​will​ ​be​ ​boys 

who​ ​talk​ ​in​ ​locker​ ​rooms​ ​about​ ​my​ ​breasts, 

about​ ​my​ ​body, 

about​ ​what​ ​they​ ​are​ ​owed 

because​ ​of​ ​what​ ​my​ ​body​ ​did​ ​to​ ​their​ ​cocks. 

At​ ​least​ ​this​ ​is​ ​the​ ​message​ ​sent 

and​ ​the​ ​message​ ​that​ ​was​ ​perpetuated 

by​ ​our​ ​country​ ​on​ ​November​ ​8,​ ​2016. 

Weary,​ ​sick,​ ​and​ ​scarred  

I​ ​feel​ ​defeated  

Then,​ ​Ella,​ ​I​ ​hear​ ​you, 

Your​ ​tiny​ ​2​ ​year​ ​old​ ​voice​ ​chant,​ ​"my​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice", 

“my​ ​body,​ ​my​ ​choice”, 

My​ ​body​ ​my​ ​choice”. 

I​ ​remember​ ​22​ ​year​ ​old​ ​me 

standing​ ​on​ ​the​ ​lawn​ ​before​ ​the​ ​Lincoln​ ​Memorial  

full​ ​of​ ​hope​ ​and​ ​revolution.  

Before​ ​those​ ​boys​ ​robbed​ ​me​ ​of​ ​that​ ​voice. 

I​ ​hear​ ​my​ ​voice​ ​in​ ​you​ ​again.  

I​ ​remember​ ​the​ ​voice.  

I​ ​remember​ ​the​ ​fight. 

So​ ​I​ ​pick​ ​up​ ​my​ ​spear. 

I​ ​sharpen​ ​my​ ​sword.  

I​ ​dust​ ​off​ ​my​ ​shield. 

And​ ​I​ ​head​ ​to​ ​that​ ​long​ ​forgotten​ ​battlefield  

with​ ​my​ ​tiny​ ​two​ ​year​ ​old​ ​warrior​ ​at​ ​my​ ​side.  

Dear​ ​Ella, 

may​ ​you​ ​never​ ​meet​ ​Dan​, 

Wade​, 

Clint​, 

that​ ​guy​ ​online, 

or​ ​that​ ​guy​ ​in​ ​the​ ​closet. 

If​ ​you​ ​do, 

please,​ ​remember​ ​no​ ​matter​ ​what​ ​society​ ​says, 

I​ ​have​ ​taught​ ​you,​ ​your​ ​body,​ ​your​ ​choice.  

You​ ​were​ ​born​ ​wild.  

You​ ​born​ ​free.  

You​ ​will​ ​not​ ​be​ ​restrained.  

Most​ ​importantly,​ ​you​ ​were​ ​born​ ​with​ ​a​ ​voice​ ​that​ ​shakes. 

Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – JP Howard

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

***

bedtime poem for america

By JP Howard

this body is black is blue is you

you a country i won’t ever trust

this country is foreign

this foreign is familiar

tastes almost like home

like mama’s peach cobbler gone bad

this blue is my body

this red is my blood

this blood tastes like home

these stars sewn on

black of my skin

shine when night comes

i wear this tattoo for you

america

spread your white sheets on my bed

tomorrow i will rip you to shreds

Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – Kayla Pearce

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

***

Inauguration Day

By Kayla Pearce

I

I walk into my classroom to find

that my pulse races when I see a student in a red hat:

Cardinals. I spend the next 80 minutes lecturing

about rhetorical devices and waiting for my palms to stop sweating.

II

I pass white men taking solitary strolls in red hats.

One laughs to himself until I see another

laughing back from the other side of a window,

a nod shared between the two.

This victory lap

was pre-meditated: evidence hangs heavy

around his midsection, pant legs hitched

at the thigh to reveal the tops of his socks,

a peek of skin. I picture them laughing again

later over his bravado and stale pretzels—

their wives at home, pulling yellow gloves

up to their elbows for the night’s dishes.

III

I used to envy the 60s, I tell my officemate.

They had such righteous indignation.

Later, I’ll see photos of another bombing in Aleppo,

and lose my dinner of sweet red wine. 

Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – Rasha Abdulhadi

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

***

The Holy Temple of Drag
for Pulse

By Rasha Abdulhadi

I sweat out my fever that night

in the holy temple of drag,

watching my baby sister in a mustache and codpiece

invite us all to take a walk on the wild side,

wholly supplicant to the divine glamdrogyny

that could be called down to dance through you

if you could wrestle free enough

if you could accept into your heart the saving power

of glitter. and rock-n-roll. and rhythm-n-blues.

and stank nasty love songs sung along from every stall

in the gender neutral milk hotel

every friday, saturday, and sunday night

offering a new watermark on your excitement

Until this sunday,

                             when my fever was breaking,

and you were dying, you and your partner, you and your

mother, you and the bartender and bouncer and the 18 year old

girl dancing her heart out and I can’t understand

how you weren’t me or my sister

with our shaved-head glitter-eye swagger

                             or our friends, our drag sistren and brethren

in a neighboring state where we partied

in defiance of laws that tried to deputize and sanctify hate

                             and I wondered

if the fbi had baited a hook whose sharp sting

went sideways-- or worse, if that barb

landed right where aim sent it

none of us, blackbrownredyellowqueer

tongues embroidered by other languages,

have expected safety for a long time, if we ever could or did

I do not mistake police or politicians for my friends

no matter what the press statement says

My best allies have always been resistance. Rebellion

really brings out my eyes. I find courage

is a look anyone can pull off and sanctuary

exists only in the interstices we hold open for each other.

                             and I wondered too

if this was personal, a story about the hidden body

of the gay Muslim—as occluded as the twelfth imam

who one day prophesy says may return

perhaps then gentle in form as a rainstorm

whose lips fear no kiss.

                             and it seems that nothing

will feel like justice until we heal

and that I must give myself to my nieces and nephews

like a bridge.

                             My southern, my muslim,

my arab, my baptist, my palestinian, my buddhist, my queer butch eyeliner

families, hear me: my self feels like the battlefield over which the daily news is

fought, the truth spiraled downfield to mark gains

for one military or another

while I’m trying to hold the world inside my skin

and calling all my kin to hear how they’re hanging on.

                             and you—

you texted your mother that night

to tell her you loved her.

may I, on the night I die, with the best of my courage,

have the last words on my lips be

                             I love you. I love you world that broke me, I love you slaying  

                             hand, I love you betraying friend, I love you

                             family that would not see me, I do not fear you for I knew my silence

                             would not save me, make me invisible or hide me from surveillance

                             that can find, detain, deport, or execute me just as surely

                             as the hand of any man trying to terrorize my temple,

                             and so I will not surrender these sacred spaces

                             or let them become mute monuments. I am not here to hug any racist,

                             and even if we will never be safe:

                             it is you I am am pledged to, always.

Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – Jillian Santos

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

***

Why Can’t You Be Quiet? Why Don’t You Speak Up?

By Jillian Santos

My mother posted a photo on November 8^th, 2016
Of my baby brother in line to cast his very first vote.
For so long the world commanded he speak

But who is willing to listen?

63 likes.
17 comments.
“Way to go!”
“We’re so proud of him.”
“Congratulations!”
“I still remember the day he was born.”

I don’t remember the day he was born,
but I remember the day he told us he was autistic.
Not with words
But with an avoidance of gaze
Like he already knew how much the world would let him down.

Apparently, some organizations claim to raise his voice,
But I don’t think he’s asking for the cure to a disease that does not exist.
His voice does not sound like the clinging of cash registers
After the sale of puzzle piece pins
To Aunts and Uncles who light themselves so brightly blue

That they can’t see across the table on Christmas.

Apparently, his job did him such a huge favor by hiring him
That they let us skip past the step where he makes minimum wage.
His paychecks come paid to the order of half a human
Signed by someone demanding thanks
for seeing anyone at all.

Apparently, some folks think they can tell my brother they love him
And then praise Donald Trump in the
Same
Breath

 “Two-and-a-half-years-old, a child, a beautiful child went to have the vaccine, and came back, 

and a week later got a tremendous fever, got very, very sick, now is autistic.”

Maybe I just don’t understand the definition of love,
but I want to yell back:
MY BROTHER IS AUTISTIC
AND HE IS BEAUTIFUL ANYWAYS.
And I want to hold a mirror up to my family and friends
so they can mouth their “I love yous” to their own reflections
and see for themselves how the mirror will shatter
from an ugliness
that brings FOUR YEARS of bad luck.

And I’ll wait for them to ask me-
“Jillian- Why Are You So Angry?”
If you would only fight with love-
Well, WHERE DO YOU THINK MY ANGER COMES FROM?

“Way to go!”
…it’s about time we repeal the ACA.
“We’re so proud of him.”
…for graduating before we let DeVos nix his rights.
“Congratulations!”
…we can almost see you as human.

“I still remember the day he was born.”

And then he told us he was autistic.
And you stopped looking him in the eyes.
His face is a judgment

You couldn’t survive.

Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience – Amy Young

As the incoming administration builds its agenda of attack on marginalized people, on freedom of speech, on the earth itself, poetry will continue to be an essential voice of resistance. Poets will speak out in solidarity, united against hatred, systemic oppression, and violence and for justice, beauty, and community.

                

In this spirit, Split This Rock is offering its blog as a Virtual Open Mic. For the rest of this frightening month, January of 2017, we invite you to send us poems of resistance, power, and resilience.

We will post every poem we receive unless it is offensive (containing language that is derogatory toward marginalized groups, that belittles, uses hurtful stereotypes, explicitly condones or implies a call for violence, etc.). After the Virtual Open Mic closes, we hope to print out and mail all of the poems to the White House.

For guidelines on how to submit poems for this call, visit the Call for Poems of Resistance, Power & Resilience blog post. 

***

Planetology

by Amy Young

Nothing is as it seems

    and everything is as it seems.

Without truth this is true.

    The song sparrow who

this morning trills

as usual and the horizon

    which has gone

in a matter of minutes

    from pink to gray—

these truths are solid.

But yesterday we were a free

    country. Or maybe it was the day

before that. And that seemed

    true too. Though the sky is

always redder in hue

looking back. Rose-colored

    glasses and all that.

My ancestors are groaning

    in their graves. They used

a compass rose to arrive

at this shore. So, we can’t really

    be sure of anything anymore—

can we? Even the sparrow

    singing full throttle

atop the crepe myrtle

seems at best a shaky

    proposition. At the very least

a grey dawn will sully the sky

    as we rise again. They say the sun

isn’t due to burn out, yet.