brave new voices on HBO

this week I was able to attend the Los Angeles premiere of the new HBO television series. Shout out to Tanya Young who was extremely welcoming and warm with love and support and of course Shihan ;-) whose subtle awesomeness is often under rated. As for the screening, they showed the first two episodes of a seven episode series called Brave New Voices. I am in the first episode at the NYC Urban Word FInals where the making of the 2008 New York City Urban Word team took place. It was a beautiful evening and always brings me back to my year of slamming in 2005 at Washington Irving high school. I found the documentary-style film to be interesting and I look forward to seeing where it goes. It brought back many memories from my year of slamming in the Youth nationals and in many ways made me think of all the youth slammers before me, who will see this series as their mouths drop in awe of how far this movement truly has come, all the banging on doors and ears and walls praying that we would hopefully be heard by the masses... Had it not been for Brave New Voices in San Francisco and the experiences and friendships I made there, I honestly don't think I could have ever even imagined pursuing my aspirations and dreams so vehemently. I really believe there is some type of energy harvested at youth nationals that is incomparable to any other space or time. It is something to see it on television but what I hope this series inspires in people is the motivation to support and visit these types of events and poets.

Poetry has been a movement long before this show but what this show unveils is its depth and ability to express what only emotion endures and these young people are willing and open to the possibility of exploring their repressed emotions which then makes the educational process rather accessible. Spoken word and performance poetry has its own internal logic as with many arts. In light of this, I hope it helps to look at the art form as a means of healing. Surely, that is what it has been for me and countless other young people. I grew up before many people, performing and sharing my experiences as openly as I possibly could through language and stage presence and it has proven to save my life and at times to even explain a small part of my purpose and existence. I truly believe we all long to be understood and maybe simply, only to relate, to engage with each other. This series will hopefully open a small door where Def Poetry did not to the people behind poems, behind the audience and stage, to the growth and process of development.

Coming up through organizations such as Urban Word NYC has fostered a type of creative and work ethic in me that has made attaining my dreams and goals seem tangible. With mentors that give often so much of themselves it is incredibly magical to witness. Shout out to Queen Godis, she is truly a gift from some heaven where we store our hearts. Also, shout out to Celena Glenn, my personal inspiration and the reason why till this day the Urban Word NYC 2005 slam team is the only reigning NYC team to win Brave New Voices nationals (hopefully that changes this year ;-)

Some people may not know how necessary it is to be validated when you are young let alone period where often you are made to feel as though your voice does not matter and has no relevance to the adult realm but what I hope this series will do is invite people to see a bit of what has been taking place at Brave New Voices competitions with young people for years now...Be weary, the teller at your local bank, the teacher at your local public school, the student at your private college, the man sitting next to you on the train, and even the prison mate at your neighborhood facility... they may have all very well been a youth poet participating in competitions much like Brave New Voices, stirring souls of thousands and these voices may never get the recognition they deserve but they have inspired some life changing experiences. They are the real people that made Obama possible and even an expectation. Change did not simply occur overnight, no, it was a long before written poem scribbled in the notebook of some kid you never even thought twice to pay attention to... May we learn to listen to our youth differently and to read our spirits through their stories. With all that being said, check out the series. In spite of all the beauracracy behind the series and the commercial realm of things, I think this can be something positive for us to look to. I have my issues with certain individuals who have made it a point to monopolize off these young people's stories but let you be the judge and hopefully you will remember us not for our emotional vulnerability but for the fire it has ignited and the passion we have made with its embers...

always,

aja-monet

____________________________________________________________

HBO presents

Brave New Voices
A 7-episode series highlighting the voices of 21st Century America

Narrated by Queen Latifah

Airing on HBO ll PM ET/PT Beginning Sunday, April 5th

"Without language, we are nothing." -Jamaica Osorio & Ittai Wong

All over the United States, a new generation of poets is emerging. This new HBO series captures teenagers picking up the pen and taking hold of the microphone with passion, intelligence, creativity, honesty and power. These voices of 21st Century America transcend race, class, gender, orientation, and red state/blue state politics as they show us all what the next generation of leaders looks and sounds like.

Brave New Voices is a new seven-part series that features teenage poets and their mentors from San Francisco, Philadelphia, New York, Santa Fe, Ft. Lauderdale, Honolulu and Ann Arbor as they prepare for Youth Speaks' 2008 Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam Finals.

These young poets represent a growing national movement featuring thousands and thousands of teenagers writing and performing spoken word as a way to have voice in their communities and in the nation as a whole. These are the Brave New Voices and the organizations that support them.

The youth represent an amazing blend of spoken word, hip-hop, poetry, music, power, voice, imagination, and more. Brave New Voices sheds light onto this largely unseen world, putting an honest spotlight on some of the most dynamic young adults in the country.

The 2008 Brave New Voices Festival (BNV) was held in Washington, D, just three months before the presidential election. In the shadow of the White House, America's youth challenged each other with words and ideas.

For five outspoken days in July 2008, over 500 talented teen poets and spoken word artists from teams around the country joined together for workshops, poetry readings, late-night cyphers, political organizing, and of course, to vie for top honors at the National Youth Poetry Slam. They came from urban, rural and suburban areas, from the Deep South, Native American reservations, Hawaii, college towns and even from across oceans. Their backgrounds were diverse, yet they shared a passion for opening minds and hearts - starting with their own..

For many of the poets, the BNV festival was an eye-opening, life-changing experience. They left their family, got on a plane, performed in front of a crowd of thousands and found new opportunities for growth and friendship beyond borders. Equally life-changing was the four-month journey to get ready for the festival.

Eventually, one team rose above the rest to become the 2008 National Youth Slam Poetry Champion. But all were winners.

Join us for this unique four-month journey and listen to the Brave New Voices of today.

ClICK HERE TO SEE THE FIRST EPISODE ONLINE!

Writers Block Party aftermath

( left to right: Soulful Jones, Kesed, RIP, me, Falu, and Jason Reynolds)


I particularly enjoy this show because it connects and even reconciles having a good time and being socially or politically conscious where as often we see them in opposition to each other. Most people think poetry is the voice of an oppressive, depressed, or highly romanticized individual and that simply because you talk about such matters linguistically or subject wise that in fact you are the entirety of that. I would care to argue that it is because I write about such things or in such ways that I can be typically a happy and very hopeful person. The subjects or moods of my poems do not define the person I am off stage or behind the page, it simply creates a mode of creativity where I can express certain feelings and thoughts and given experiences. I think it is a very stupid thing to judge a person entirely based upon their work but I do believe it holds a given amount of weight into the perspective of an individual.
As for Writers Block, a friend, poet, and emcee RIP brought this collective together and it has proven to always be an incredible evening. The smooth and often anticipated transition from poetry to party is almost miraculous. One moment all you hear the crowd saying is "ooooohhhh" "ahhhh" "spit that shit" damn!" "woowww" in amazement of the poems to jerking and jiving, gyrating and jiggling. How we can manuver easily from the sensory importance of listening, being moved through words and thoughts to then being moved physically from the bumping rhythm of your all time favorite hip hop, pop, and reggae music. It feels like a complete house party at the bowery poetry club. I commend RIP for bringing together some dynamic artists and an incredible audience. I kid you not, there had to be around 250 people stuffed into the Bowery this past thursday and it was something to witness for sure.

Any way, I didn't even mean to speak about this I actually wanted to share photos that were taken that night from a friend of mine, Nelson Caban. He's an artist in all respects of the word and was kind enough to come through and take some photos for me. Check em out HERE and keep up with him on his BLOG as well. For those of you that came out to this amazing show, I hope you all made it home safe and that we were able to plant some seeds as well as water them. Much love and mad blessings. good times.

always, aja-monet

share MY poem:

a list poem
by aja-monet

You are a steady storm
a street light trembling
a field of shivering homes
a rusted goodbye pressed gently against the ear
whisper me a hurricane,
you are the flood
you are the knuckles of trees
set aflame.
You are the sky’s shoulder blades breaking
a cloud threading open
an angel folding his hands
the aftermath
a chandelier of fire tilting in my eyes
every time you leave.

"to a tried and trusted friend"

shapeshifter poems

1

the legend is whispered
in the women's tent
how the moon when she rises
full
follows some men into themselves
and changes them there
the season is short
but dreadful shapeshifters
they wear strange hands
they walk through the houses
at night their daughters
do not know them

2

who is there to protect her
from the hands of the father
not the windows which see and
say nothing not the moon
that awful eye not the woman
she will become with her
scarred tongue who who who the owl
laments into the evening who
will protect her this prettylittlegirl

3

if the little girl lies
still enough
shut enough
hard enough
shapeshifter may not
walk tonight
the full moon may not
find him here
the hair on him
bristling
rising
up

4

the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow the one
she cannot tell the one
there is no one to hear this poem
is a political poem is a war poem is a
universal poem but is not about
these things this poem
is about one human heart this poem
is the poem at the end of the world

c. Lucille Clifton



oKay so, Lucille Clifton and Ishmael Reed read at the Schomburg up in Harlem today. When I met Lucille, I immediately felt grateful. If ever I could tell her: Lucille, I admire your fragile strength. It is remarkable to have met you, to have witnessed the humility in your voice, the wisdom in your laughter--

What a powerfully moving woman. She was hilarious. Her sense of humor is vital and her stories are incredibly human, honest. shes a fresh poet. and i recommend her to all. So I thought I'd share her "shapshifter poems." Please read.



(Lucille Clifton at the Schomburg)

when the words enter
and crash, when they sing
softly through
let the flute of them
carry away into
the consciousness of the night
of the morning
when women all over
remember themselves between
the ancient ink of some bare breasted
book, may your laughter run wild
in the heavens, in love.

Lawrence Road Middle School Poems

Dungeon by Ahzhanae Sands, Age 13

I live in a fortress where the walls are bound together by glue and
where I'm rubber and whatever comes to me comes back around to bite
you in the ass like a pitbull foaming at the mouth.I live in a
fortress where I am a hostage to my own humanity as I'm self-detained
and forced to live in this mess I've made. I live in a fortress where
everything is black and the windows are covered in bars, I can't escape as
they go clickity klack, they whisper

The Girl

The girl that just acts her self

Not worrying about anyone else

Criticizing

She wears her hair the way she feels

Dresses how she wants

And does her own thing

The individual girl

Living in her own world of no cares

While hurtful comments bite her from left to right

She still has the self esteem

That helps her sleep at night

The girl that draws whatever she feels

In her head on paper even on her self

The girl that takes criticism and just laughs at it

The girl that stays to her self

With her own styles and fashions

Her own actions

Her own most used phrases

Meanwhile the world looks at her as if she were some mental case

When really her knowledge is above standard

The girl that says what she has to say or wants to say

When nobody’s even listening

The girl that constantly talks to her self with out her knowledge

Is the girl that’s just who she is

Not trying to live up to someone else’s standards

But her own

Living a life with no expectations

Expressing her self with each and every creation

The girl that doesn’t live for the world

The girl that loves being known as

The Girl

By: Subrina F., age 13

IF I WERE TO DIE TODAY by arielle Mcgraw, age 13 IF I WERE TO DIE TODAY I WOULD REGRET SO MUCH TREATING SOME PEOPLE THE WAY I TREATED THEM NOT HAVING TIME THE TO EXPERIENCE A SWEET 16 BUT THEY SAY WHEN YOU DIE ITS GOD'S WAY OF SAYING YOUR TIME IS UP MY TIME SHOULDN'T BE UP YET IT JUST CANT BE CAN I GRADUATE COLLEGE 1ST CAN I ACHIEVE ALL MY GOALS THROUGHOUT LIFE 1ST CAN I AGE AND HAVE A FAMILY THERE IS SO MUCH I WOULD LOVE TO DO BEFORE I DIE ESPECIALLY AT THIS AGE EVERY YEAR I GET OLDER ITS A NEW CHAPTER OF MY LIFE BEGINNING IM STILL TURNING EVERY PAGE MY BOOK ISNT FINISHED YET ITS JUST GETTING GOOD IM NOT EVEN IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BOOK FINDING THE REAL ME THE ME THAT WILL ALWAYS STAY UNTIL THAT DAY I ACTUALLY DIE Dejection- January 3rd (2009) At age one, that's where it all began. Who knew such sudden events could occur? Such dolfulness in my heart Everything happened so fast, what could I possibly do? Nothing So here is the legendary story of January 3rd. The holiday of December, she was a house warming Who knew after a few weeks of knowing what's going to happen would happen within such a short period of time. My brother's birthday, midnight they did what they had to do As he held her, everyone touching her feeling the five fingers shake, it started to rain down the cheeks of sorrow To bed she went As I adaged at the others, rain turning into snow, I began to join. Days later, the mourning came I was very disappointed to see her come in a achromatic bag She was frozen As I saw them untie the achromatic bag, I shook and shivered There she was They nicely laid her in the white casket, I felt the rain about to come I couldn't believe it, she was gone I couldn't take it I returned and caught myself back under the roof They buried her I love her Who will I take with me downstairs in the morning now? Who will come down those brown staircases to greet me? Who will I comfort when I need it? Gone, but never to be forgotten Such dejection... On January 3rd. by Shaina Phillips, age 13

Lawrence Road Middle School

Good afternoon folks in cyberspace. I wanted to tell people a little bit about some workshops I have been doing in Uniondale in collaboration with a teacher at Lawrence Road Middle school, Yuval Malkiel and also, Ms. Mahogany Browne. Now, I came up with this idea that since I meet with my students weekly and assign poems weekly, I would take advantage of the things they already use and try to make doing these assignments more intriguing for them by giving them a little initiative. Perhaps, this will encourage a whole different mode and type of passion on their part but we will wait and see. So, last week I told the lovely ladies of my workshop that I wanted them to start emailing me their poems and that at the end of the week I would decide which poem would be featured here on my blog. That way others can read and learn a little bit about the amaziness that is them--also it will hopefully ask for a different type of commitment to their work. When I asked whether or not they all had myspaces, emails, and AIM there were no hands left unraised, and being that the internet is addictive to these kids as much as it is to myself and others alike, I think this should prove to work out well. Please support them by at the very least reading the poems I post of theirs and perhaps giving them some encouraging feedback; they are great kids.

AFRIKANUS

I particularly love this photo because it makes me smile everytime I see it. I call it " you need to take a deep breath and shut the fuck up." (lol inside joke) I am hoping to share more photos I take with people on here cause I take many and sort of pretend I'm a photographer in this alternate universe called my mind. I am pretty sure if I could afford the cameras of most professionals, I'd be able to take some ill shots. but for now, i'm working with what i got. As for Afrikanus, this man is far more than most people can handle but i got mad love for him. he's an ol school fella of Harlem, USA. For those of you that have met him and know him, yall surely understand the beauty of this picture even more. He means well most days, but sure wouldn't mind stepping on your toes with his theories and contradicting philosophies of blackness and masculinity. you can catch him any given sunday at Abiodun Oyewole's house of the Last Poet's getting it in with folks about their views, opinions, and poems...some people just get to that age where regardless of what ridiculous thing they say out of their mouth, you gotta pay dues and give your respect, Afrikanus is one of those people...you can catch me debating with him on the regular until then, it is always love....

a poem called "she"

a poem i wrote this past summer after having a conversation with a good friend of mine Simply Kat. I wrote it with a couple of women in mind including myself...


She lives in an apartment made of bricks
with a bathroom that sings of a fleeting heart
her kitchen faucet has a sore throat,
ends up in conversations with the skin of her ear drums
at night,
she loves in silence
dreams of a voice for making love
on white linen, stained
with well-worm human

In Octobers,
she imagines windows like the ones
along her new lover's spine,
tired of shoveling dirt over the graveyards
on her mother's wrists,
a daughter remembers
the switchblades tripping off the ledge
of her mother's
tongue
chicken-scratches her insecurities
on the mirrors of her eyelids,
licks suicide off the plate
clean
like a bulimic torn between the God that promises heaven
in her stomach
women
are
tired
of being hungry,
of gritty knees,
and calloused palms,
tear-stained cheeks,
and retired songs
she hums
prayers between the fingers of clenched fists
amidst whirlwinds

i wish i could tell this story like a lucid dream
could stitch heartache like loose strings at the seam
but i am tired
of spiraling
boiling
blood

you see,
love doesn't like to be fucked
from behind
lest i need to remind you of the missing artery
in your ribcage

boy, God ain't make no mistake
when putting a woman into your life

this, is for every
man
that has ever
laid a hand on a women:

May the wind blow against your skin
and you will
feel me
may she smack you the way
i never could

you will die
an old man with your hand balled in a fist
at the bottom of the atlantic
there will be a war
on the terror

may a thousand nails chase you in your sleep
claw at your flesh
like unicorn horns

angels will tear
their wings
from their backs
and beat
the shit
out of you
with them
feathers splattered wet
like abstract art

for they will fall
in your vanity
wishing to be human
just so they can show you
how its done

may a million battered women
march out of their graves
and dig their rest
in your trembling soul

and she wishes
she wishes she could say
all of these things
but us,
women
are said to have carried our hearts on our sleeves
always washing laundry
in case it bleeds thru the seams

she lives in an apartment made of bricks
with a bathroom that sings of a fleeting heart
her kitchen faucet has a sore throat
ends up in conversations with the skin of her ear drums
at night
she loves in silence
dreams of a voice
for making love
on white linen
stained with well-worm human

In Octobers
she imagines windows
like the ones along her new lover's spine

c.aja-monet

to miguel pinero

Being a Nuyorican Grand slam champ, I have definitely thought about the history behind the title. In fact the history of the venue is particularly what makes any Nuyorican title worthy of mention. It fascinates me how live the spirit of the Cafe is. There is no stage quite like a Nuyorican Poet's Cafe stage, and for anyone that says different, trust: go see for yourself. something is rather mystical about the building, the audience, the ambiance. It definitely has been imitated on every poetry television show, commercial, etc and yet could never be duplicated. I wasn't able to stay long but while I was there, this past friday was a semi-final night, and what an incredible night it was. Mahogany Browne is a remarkable host and is able to bring such a startling energy out of the crowd, a type of energy that is so rare and truly magical. She gets the crowd laughing and dancing that way they don't leave every week judging a poetry venue as just a finger-snap audience member overwhelmed with the range of evoked emotions. Her light-hearted Oakland by way of Brooklyn humor always sets the crowd afire with a warm joy.
Anywho, I think about ol school poets often, i refer to them for inspiration, guidance, and just wanna make sure I'm creating my own voice in this art. Not too long ago, I looked up "Miguel Pinero" on youtube hoping to catch some live footage of him and wat'd ya know, i found one real dope youtube clip. I don't think most people even know this is out there but take a look at it. Miguel was truly something. I hope us poets have made him proud, that Nuyorican is something he could've been truly proud of...sometimes i see miguel algarin sitting at the bar of nuyorican along with pepe's loud self. and well, most nights algarin is either a full bundle of true nuyorican humor or some days he can be a ghostly image of the past, appearing haunted--i wonder often what it must be like to see all that you've lived and loved come and go, to be truly a living legend while gentrification and time takes your neighborhood and cornerstone memories...i admire the man that he is in spite of the man he is not. may we never forget either of them...



check out: nuyorican.org

a poem i am working on, more like a recent freewrite...

Untitled

The only Puerto Rican I know
is the kind whose radiant rosebud sun
rises on a rusted fire-escape
in Washington Heights
and sets
in the black coffee
of an immigrant
grandmother
after cleaning
behind white folk
in a park ave hotel.
the mornings she'd make farina with bleeding raw cinnamon
she turned into the character of some book
i believed i had read called a memory in my childhood
how she used to lock food in her bedroom
wen she went to work
the way i know hunger like an angered stomach
feeding on itself
the kind of starving a wicked aunt
allows,
taunting
A flat-chested brown bean niece
how a man will never find me beautiful
never pale enough to be spanish

the kind whose uncle's crooked smile
And salami belly
clicked through football games
all Sunday
regretting
a dream
too American,
too much drive and passion
to pursue

the only puerto rican i know
is the kind whose prima
was too fast
and too insecure of
the round mango breasts God gave her
too early to know how to walk with them
how to hold her head high with them,
how to keep from losing
her virginity
some little boy's dirty fingers slipping btwn
her legs
sitting atop abuela's bathroom sink

the kind whose primo becomes
a yellow bumble bee of a latin king,
remembering the bodega on 189th where i'd get him loosies
they were a quarter then

whose grandfather dies
a loud carona-drunk
latin laughter, salsa dancing
in his grand daughter's memory

the only Puerto Rican I know
is my father
a running faucet of a man
who could never keep up with his legs.
a once told romantic love of a bitter woman,
who bore his child,
a fuming fire in her voice,
only to grow and grow
a warring soldier of love and loss.
reminiscing on his potters field mouth,
how his smile hurt me
his teeth were like tombstones
the way they stood in his gums like graves.
how his construction-work fingers grasped a heineken bottle,
flicked a newport cigarette bud
the way i saved them like souvenirs
the only puerto rican i know
i deny as my father
they called him angel
a wicked sweet joke
some God in the heavens found funny

c.aja-monet

Blah Blah Blah Poetry series!!

Alright, so the blah blah blah poetry series is back yall!! As for those of you that are not aware of this amazing show. Beau Sia, an amazing poet and friend, came to me a little around two years ago about producing a show at the Bowery Poetry club. the whole project created a means for us to collaborate and to also invite a great friend of mine to co-produce a series, Tahani Salah. It was a monthly series for three months last year and much to even our surprise it had an incredible turnout. Blah blah blah is very different from most poetry shows because it is a means to create a bridge between the younger performers and some of the ol school kats. We also have a highly competitive open mic sign up because every show we allow for 10 or so open micers to be showcased along with the features. We are starting the show back up this January and it is definitely going to be bananas. I encourage you all to tell your friends and try to make it there as early as possible because it is bound to be a crowded show!! thanks to all those that continue to support our endeavors. Shout out to Beau Sia for being an incredible mentor and friend in this process. As for Tahani, thanks for being there to ground me and always make me laugh in the midst of it all...

CHECK IT OUT:

BLAH BLAH BLAH IS BACK FOR ANOTHER YEAR!!

A new performance poetry series organized by Tahani Salah and Aja-Monet in collaboration with Beau Sia for the Bowery Poetry Club where we vocalize unity, good laughs, and even better poetry. Attracting a new audience to the club that adores the art of experiencing art and appreciating a moment that can never be replicated!!




CELENA GLENN:



"Pure lyricist, lovely”
– Saul Williams

Celena Glenn is a ballet-toed bulldozer shoveling blankets off the ice-covered lakes of the heart’s malfunctions. Former host at the Nuyorican Poets’ Café and two-time National Poetry Slam champion. She is currently ranked second in the World Poetry Slam. Celena is featured in Spoken Word Revolution a new anthology narrated by the creator of the poetry slam Marc Smith, and bullets and butterflies a queer poetry anthology to be released Janurary 2005. Also soon to be released is Slam Channel a documentary about the lives of contemporary poets in NYC and Austin, TX in which Celena has a main role. Celena urges that every ghetto, every suburb, every mansion recognize the relativity of circumstance and allow those elements that discriminate, to unify the world as a humanity of oppressed souls.


JAVON JOHNSON:



Merging race and gender theory with comedy, lyricism, and rhyme schemes, Javon has become a very awarded spoken word/slam poet. Javon began writing in 2001, winning slam nationals in 2003 (team Los Angeles), in 2004 (team Hollywood), and in 2005 he placed 3rd (the only poet to make finals three years in a row). Javon has appeared on HBO’s Def Poetry Jam, BET’s Lyric Café, and co-wrote a documentary titled Crossover, which aired on Showtime, in collaboration with the NBA and Nike. The Los Angeles Times said, “From subject matter, to wordplay to delivery, he is working it out! It's hard not to have good times while watching him have a good time on stage.” Currently Javon is a Ph.D. Candidate in Performance Studies at Northwestern University, where he deals with the performance of race, gender, sexuality class and pop culture. His dissertation is a multisided project between Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York, which looks at identity politics and community negotiation in slam and spoken word poetry communities

Never

(Election night in Harlem C.2008 By Aja-Monet)

Last night
after the lips
of a desperate raindrop
came over the New York City skyline
and flooded the autumn
of our shedding faces,
a skeptical skeleton of joy came to me in a foiling dream
there was a childish laughter
giggling
in the faint voice
of my singing blood
and I lifted my face to a screaming world
a world of one old, weathered man beautifully, brown, bruised
walking down the drunk midnight of Bowery street
with a long trench coat wrestling the tug and tear of the wind
the warmth of a retired sun in his eyes,

we
did
it.

as he left into the disappearing point of distance,
amidst the honking horns of foreign taxi cab drivers
and the strained throats of jubilant by standers
I watched a city lit by a light no electricity could ignite
a skyscraper no building could reach,
a ceiling has fallen in some corner of the earth
where there is no sky and no breeze.

Tonight,
Obama is
our echoing mantra, our generations great romance.

Never
have I been more proud
to be an owl-wise woman
of shackles and shambles
of nooses
and deeply rooted tree branches,
of clarinet oceans and violin passages,
ambulant picket signs and riot flesh,
of thick waving curls and frowning hot combs,

Never
have I been more proud
of the strutting finger snap of a woman scorned,
carrying the earthquake stretching in her hips,
of the marching tap-dance misshape in my toes, bunion, and corn,
the fantastical saxophone in my voice,

Never
have I been more proud of the forbidden love of this land,
the large worn
lines and wrinkles of my mother's hands,
to be a woman
of
this
color
now, still.

There is more.
So much more
to come
and
go

This morning,
at the wake
of a Harlem dawn
yawning on the sweet brown-sugar blanket
hugging my bones,
I awoke a splinter in the wild forest of this country's eyes
shrugging at the worries of yesterday
floating down the enormous spine of Malcom X blvd
I could feel a humming in our gaze
an infectious spirit in our lilac children
and I watched as a police officer
pale-ridden as the ghost of his ancestors,
hugged a stinging homeless sun-man
carrying the weight of forgotten shores in his eyes

what awe it is to have lived
in this day, on this morning
of all days
and all mornings.

c.aja-monet



(Election night in Harlem C.2008 By Aja-Monet)