The Prairie

 Valentine's Day Challenge poem #12.  I'm having an ekphrastic day! This one was inspired by listening to Lucia Micarelli . (Click this link to hear the exact song that inspired this poem!)  

The Prairie

By Ieisha McIntyre

The prairie, outstretched and vast in its greenness. 

You are farther away than ever the years or distance could make.

Close held in memory is the strength of your arms,

The heft of your weight against thighs.

Your breath against my neck—

Only the touch of the breeze as it contorts itself through the pillars of the house.

My feet pad gently against the course wood grain of the weatherworn porch. 

Lured toward the light of the setting sun—

I can hear your voice travel through the brush,

Just above the hum of the fireflies as the sunsets.

You rush upon the warm summer wind, graze the hem of my dress, slide finger light

Up the crease of my thighs,

And the curve of my waist,

To the cleft of my breast.

Defenseless, I breathe in the warmth that was you.

And for one moment,

We are shining light of love and harmony. 

We are partner friendship, forever.

But the gathering of night comes to our day,

And the cold creeps into the breeze—

Pounds out the rhythm of ending that all living things hear and deny.

Bare feet to the dusky ground,

I start my evening search for the clothe blown free of the line,

Call the cat,

Draw the water and wash the porch free of the dust of the day,

Lend coolness to the night’s thoughts.

Speak softly, gently the words that came from your lips.

Look my love—

All the plain is amber and orange.

Red.

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Valentine's Day Challenge

I know I'm behind in my Valentine's Day challenge that I set for myself.  I was at a loss for inspiration, and you know how that can be.  So I went on writing other things.  But here I am back again and only 3 poems behind.  So my goal for today is to write three more before midnight. I hope they will improve in tone.  If they don't, oh well!  I hope you can get something out of them.  Please feel free to comment! I've included a link to  The Handbook of Heartbreak: 101 Poems of Lost Love and Sorrow so that you can take a peak of some of the masters of lost love poetry.  See if you can roll with the big boys!

Python Heart

By Ieisha McIntyre

My love, can you adore me?

Even though my heart is enraged

And in full flame

And lost to concealment?

Beloved.

Can you love me? Can you take all of my acerbic charms?

Can you stand faithful even when I cannot stand you?

Even though in full two year old tantrum—

I insist you stay

While shouting NO. 

Will you tolerate my lost nature and directionless heart?

My childish mistrust of anything

That doesn’t look like mommy’s hand?

I promise. I’ll pay you back.

I’ll pay you back—

For every scar I place on your heart and your soul.

I’ll pay you back in kisses and caress,

I’ll give you every beautiful moment I can muster

From the turmoil of my warring heart.

I’ll let you become addict to narcotic me. 

I promise you won’t feel pushed upon. 

Not until you are fully hooked upon

Me and all my poison.

I promise, you are my antidote. 

I will help you be more than prince,

More that savior.

I will let you be more than methadone.

I will let you be cure.

If you can love me.

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A Day at Frye Art Museum

  If you live in the Seattle area or you think you might be in town soon, you should make sure to make time to visit The Frye Art Museum.  Not only did I have a very enlightening workshop in ekphrasis facilitated by Susan Rich and another wonderful woman named Lilias (I unfortunately can’t locate her last name)but I also had a chance to become better acquainted with art in Seattle.  If you’re a poet or someone who loves books/poetry/art and are also a teacher, check out the Tim Rollins and K.O.S.: A History exhibit.  It will inspire and excite you when you see what art and education can do.

Just in case you are knew to the term Ekphrasis, Susan gave us the following wonderful definition:

Ekphrastic poetry is a written response to a visual painting, photograph, dance, sculpture, Ikea catalogue, Childs drawing, or bumper sticker.  An ekphrastic poem begins with inspiration from another piece of art with the understanding that art begets art.

--Susan Rich

I wrote a little poem that was inspired by the painting The Bride, by Marc Chagall, 1953.  Anyway, here’s the poem feel free to read and comment.  Blessings!

Child Bride

by Ieisha McIntyre

Papa said it would be simple

And momma said it would be quick

The first night with my old husband

That I did not pick. 

He chose me.

It was an honor that could not be refused.

My sisters gathered white flowers, washed them with their tears.

My aunts dressed me in red, with a white veil.

I thought only of my nanny goat and how well I kept her fed.

She never gave me worries or wandered from the yard.

Even when the gate was open, she had no need for exploration.

It would be too forward. 

Her milk never failed.

When she saw me come her way, her bleat was more a melody – so much so, that on that day, when the village musicians did play

–        my nanny goat from the dowry cart

Did express her heart and sang along.

Simple and quick.

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Why We Date

WHY WE DATE

BY Ieisha McIntyre

We date for the same reason we play the lottery.

We hope against hope,

Hand over our sweaty wads of change,

And force ourselves to believe that we are the one in forty.

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Love Salutations

Love Salutations

By Ieisha McIntyre

All my heart is hello for you.

Gentle,

Strong,

Tender.

Hello.

All Rights Reserved © 2010

*This poem is #9 in a series of Valentine's Day love poems.  Please feel free to scroll down and read the others posted during this month.  Don't for get to click and make your free donation to THE WORLD FOOD PROGRAMME for international school lunches.


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Iron Heart

Iron Heart

By Ieisha McIntyre

My heart tasted more like iron

In my throat when I first decided

 to speak from it.

 I let it grow teeth and

shape ventricles into lips,

And throb out a meaning.

But you were deaf.

And I was exhausted.

 But someone heard.

And it was made good

Enough.

All Rights Reserved © 2010

*The previous poem is #8 in a series of Valentine's Day poems. Feel free to scroll down and view #'s 1-7! Don't forget to click and participate in generating funds for The World Food Programme!


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Autumn Love

Autumn Love

By Ieisha McIntyre

The multi-colored leaves of fall

Reveal the true nature of our love.

Every once green thing

Changing color by degrees.

Every once green thing

Heightened and in metamorphosis.

We are not evergreen.

These words of yours

Change the summer of our love

To fall.

We should be conifer rich,

And without enemy.

Our love was the trunk of our being.

We were joined walnut.

Not maple, able to be wiped out by a foreign moth.

We are so in need of the other that we cannot produce.

But here we are in the autumn of our love,

Transfixed by the hurt,

Transformed to golden, red, azure quivering in the subtle breeze,

Frightened of the words,

We know that winter kills.

Let us speak of springtime when we first met.

When your fingers met mine and we knew.

Let us turn our thoughts to the breaching of the cold crisp air

By the warmth of sunlight.

Let the scent of fresh tulips breaching the black earth

Be remembered, held sacred and recovered ritual.

Let us hold tight memory and warm ourselves with the flame.

Winter holds only the things that want death.

Remember my arms, holding you.

Remember my lips, kissing you.

Remember my thighs.

Nothing of love wants death or autumn.

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War Bride

War Bride

By Ieisha McIntyre

Tears rise from my eyes,

Roll down my cheeks,

And slide softly to your chest.

I rest my ear against you and listen

To the beating of your heart.

Try to match my breath to its sturdy rhythm.

Dependent. I know you are there.

I know by the rhythm of your heart.

A gentle breeze blows through the window of our apartment

Tossing new pressed curtains

Against a gently whirring fan.

It cannot drown out my sobbing.

This is the day that you leave.

I need to memorize the sound of your heart.

I need to know every tap of the muscle

And the moment in between,

I need to hear the rush of air in your throat.

I need to hear the intake of the warm late summer air

Rushing into your lungs.

I need to feel the heave of your chest

As the muscles spread gently

Letting in another burst of life.

This is our last morning. 

Our last morning before they put the suit of a killer on your back

And paint your blood khaki green.

Last morning, you’ll lie next to me and sleep

Uninterrupted by nightmares.

Last morning that I will wake next to your body

And not be drenched in the sweat of your shame.

The man they will return to me will be a shadow of you.

My heart knows.

I listen to the beat of your heart and the ease of your breathing.

You brush back my hair and promise you’ll return an even better man.

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Summer Rain

Summer Rain

By Ieisha McIntyre

Beloved, your touch

Is the warm summer rain –

air pregnant and moist.

Trees turn their leaves end up in anticipation of you.

The wind blows –

Herald of your arrival.

Love, changes shape and patterns

But that day you were rain.

Round heavy drops – and

I was welcome and desire,

Open armed and willing,

One touch of you and the dust cleared.

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Days Like This

Days Like This

By Ieisha McIntyre

On days like this,

I want to fall into your arms

and let the scent of you carry me

swiftly from my worry.

Days, when I want your tired head

to lay heavy in my lap and

let my fingers comb away your troubles.

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Love Offering

Love Offering

By Ieisha McIntyre

The path that is my life has turned the soles of my feet cracked and calloused; has placed

Corns on my soul;

bunion ridden my heart continues to beat.

But in syncopated

Rhythms – rather in an arrhythmic throb of sorts –

both feet and heart left disabled -- fully hobbled.

Humbly.  Full of shame at my unworthiness, I offer you my calloused heart.  Sacrifice. Do with it what you will – my mind lurches.

Disbelief.  

I offer you my heart,

Bid you remove your shoes.

Come walk with me.  

Come stride cross, gravel and brambles, and shards of glass.

Take my hand full scared and bleeding,

But warm and worn from fighting,

Bring the strength of you to this journey and we will make it ours.

Or better – together forge a new path,

March head long into the fray. No longer a lone warrior, but allies instead,

Armed with the peace, love brings

Healed by nurture.

Pressed forward by faith, we are made army.

Intimate, I can give you partner in arms.

I can give you healer.

I can give you lover.

I can give you my heart,

world weary and ready for your love.

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Sweet

Here is the second of my Valentine's poems. I'm attempting to write one a day until Valentine's Day.  Just sending out the love energy.

Sweet

By Ieisha McIntyre

Sweet my love – lie sweetly

Next to me. Let the strength

Of your arms wrap ‘round my waist

And pull me gently to your middle.

Lay your lips against my

Shoulder and whisper soft

The best parts of your day.

Nuzzle my hair and listen

As I pray for us –As I thank God

For the miracle of us.

Let me rest my cold feet atop yours

As we drift into sleep.

When we wake we will breath

Forth new salutations, new proclamations –

Forge new bonds and reclaim our vow.

‘Til death do us part –but not now.

Now, we are us.  We are the best of together.

We are sweet, my love.

All Rights Reserved © 2010

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Hello Love

Hello Love

By Ieisha McIntyre

Hello love.

My heart says hello.  Take my hand and feel my love for you.

Take my hand and feel my pulse race.

Hello love.

My eyes trace the perimeter of you and map your jaw line. 

My fingers test the feather of your eyelash and the pillow of your lips.

I rest a kiss.

Hello love.

Feel the warmth of my breath as it dusts across your lips, as we speak to closely.

Too public. 

We smile and wonder at the rush of the blood and the dizzy our minds take.

Hello my love.

I welcome you. I welcome the softness of your lips against mine.

I welcome the firmness of your tongue against mine.

Twist mingle together. I welcome the strength of your body, the feel of your hand against my waist.

I welcome you. Rest your kiss soft against the curve of my neck knowing I’ve rescued you. Knowing you are hero, and home.

The comfort of surrender.

There’s no agenda, there’s no deadline, only the mercy of love.

Only the peaceful blessing of our joined fate.

Home. While the storm looms held at bay, by our love.

Hello.

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Edwidge Danticat: Stories of Haiti | Video on TED.com

Edwidge Danticat author of Breath,Eyes, Memory gives a talk on the beauty of Haiti and shares the power of story. Listen and learn of all that Haiti has brought and contributed to the Western Literary Canon. Perhaps it will bring you hope for Haiti's rebirth.

Edwidge Danticat: Stories of Haiti | Video on TED.com


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Capitalist Charity Negotiations

It has taken me weeks to try to find a way to respond to some of the many feelings I have wrapped around the tragedy of the earthquake in Haiti (World Vision appeal). I am admin of a group on Readwritepoem called African Diasporic Voices.  I posted a challenge to respond to the poem Betrayal by Leon Laleau in which is discusses the internal conflict of mental decolonization.  Here is just one of the poems that I have written during this time of heartbreak.

Capitalist Charity Negotiations

By Ieisha McIntyre

My happiness matters more to me than your pain.

--matters more to me than if you eat,

 if you are warm.

--more than if you are loved.

Your misfortune is not my fault.

It is your job to convince me that your pain

is a threat to my happiness.

-- then I will help you.

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Best Laid Plans

Best Laid Plans

By Ieisha McIntyre

When plan A failed

It freed my mind,

to believe that plan B was possible.

That every if, and, or but

and the woulda, coulda, shoulda’s

had the right to be resuscitated.

The right --

to be released,

to be wild,

to be free,

to wreak havoc and run amuck

upon the failing seeming normal. 

I laugh now when I meet those clinging feverish to their plan A –

having tied too tightly the rope around Plan B’s neck –

Never having jumped,

they left it there until the blood pooled and

the flesh turned black decay

and the head of the thing just fell away.

I should sympathize.

But, I have not time to linger over dead things.

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Prayers To the God of Convention

Prayers to the God of Convention

By Ieisha McIntyre

Squeeze me into normal.

Even if the shoes pinch, and

The bra straps dig into my shoulders, and

Make the sweat pool up against the creases

Underneath my breasts, squeeze.

Cinch in my waist.

Make me size 6 normal and taught.

Pull taut, my waist and expanse of mind,

And give me pleasure in the common fare.

Stop me from scribbling outside the lines,

And give me paint-by-number rules.

I’ll use the corresponding colors and place them

In the right spots to make the allocated image.

Squeeze me into normal. 

Give me the boyfriend who wants marriage and 2.5 kids

And suburban wonderful unconscious,

And enriched white bread culinary, mall pretzel Saturdays, Squeeze.

Bring me the promised exhale of pension and homeownership,

Secure healthcare, affordable babysitter, and retirement in my 50’s.

It is my bounty as the rightful assassin of my dreams.

I carried out the prescribed order and followed through on the demand.

Leave no incriminating evidence of crime and no trace of the dream refugees

Who hid beneath my acceptable demeanor and conventional garb.

I was the assassin who followed through on the hit put out on my dreams.

I let the years tick by afraid to risk their release.

Desperate, they were flung loose by tragedy and trauma.

As wild things will do,

Threw themselves full-bodied against the fences. 

Some lying on the wire as sacrifice so that others might live. 

I was the assassin and I claim my bounty.

Squeeze. Squeeze me into normal.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

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Pussy

PUSSY

By Ieisha McIntyre

Women know the truth but close our eyes and pretend –

pretend, when you touch and we let you in.

You see, we know that pussy is just pussy when you fuck it.

Not a woman.

Not until you love her and surrender to that which is superior to the flesh

– the spirit

Not a woman when you call her baby.

We know.

But we close our eyes and remember when baby was a name called out of love, not lust.

Not a woman when you leave before sunrise.

Not a woman but an object.

Some creature with similar limbs.

Not a woman but an object of flesh.

Dehumanize her in pieces; let her be just a bucket of fast food chicken.

We know.

But close our eyes - open our legs and imagine love, and family, and garden parties in white gloves, pearls and red silk charmeuse dresses.

While men bone and debone, making women into poultry

We know.

Some how, in claiming freedom of our bodies we lost the power of NO.

No, to cowards who put forth his penis instead of his heart.

A penis, saturated in the sweat of too many lovers.

Lost No – to the man who cannot see the beauty of a sister or the possibility of a wife – of a mother, a partner.

Lost the power to see a woman in our own reflections.

We surrendered to the myth of the money makers, take a pill, liberate, independence.

But wait,

A life is not made on those without name.

It is made on the courage to face passion and pain.

To do so with others,

To call them by name.

Not bitch, nor ho, or some such thang – but wife, sister, mother, daughter –

we’re both to blame.

Because we know that a pussy is not a woman.

Not unless you love her, and claim her, and call her by name.

Child of God, reclaim manhood,

Reclaim woman hood, put down the blame,

put down the pain and take up your dignity!

It is worth more than the nickel you were told to keep between your knees.

Worth more than the dinner, the cab fare, the rent,

worth more than the mornings of waking up on your own,

it is priceless and powerful sacred.

We know.

A pussy is just a pussy,

Unless you love her and call her by name.

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ATONE New Year's Eve Performance with Tacoma Urban Orchestra

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LINK TO THE TEXT

Mississippi Mission

MISSISSIPPI MISSION
BY Ieisha McIntyre

I am standing in this field in Mississippi,
Looking out across corn, corn, and more corn.
My eyes look out across this land and at the old silos blown loose by hurricane.

And my heart is looking too. My heart asks my soul a question.
“Is this the field where we worked? Is this the field where we bled?”

“No. But, it is somewhere, and I will tell you when we find it. And the land will move up to greet you. As your blood will know its own, so too will the soil know you.”

I moved back and leaned against the fence.
Took in the blue of the sky,
the plumpness of the clouds,
the breeze blowing through the corn and trees,
and listened to the whispers of ancestors –
breathing hello and smiling.

All Rights Reserved © 2009







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LotusPapillon

LotusPapillon


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Starting Over

By Ieisha McIntyre

Let me pick up my pen and put it to this paper. 

Place it clearly in the right spot to be moved—

and to move someone, anyone to a side.

 Either righteous or hedonistic, just to move someone, moral or immoral.

Wait.

Let me pick up my pen and take it to the wall,

turn it into a sharpie

and begin to outline either the worst graffiti

 or the most remarkable of murals; but let it be art and let it change the world—Let it change everything

Stop.

Let me pick up a brush an put it to canvas –

let it make nuns blush or sinners cry –

but let it be original – let it be ground breaking.

No.

Let me pick up this pen and move it across the paper – just so. 

Just so I can reveal my truth, a truth.

Give voice to my pain and triumph.

I will pick up my pen.

All Rights Reserved © 2010

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Atone -Video Update:
I've tried to post a video of my spokenword piece Atone however, it is not working out. And when I go to new posts the video button doesn't show. I'm not quite sure at this point what to do but I will keep working at it.





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LotusPapillon: Minnesota Mornings

LotusPapillon: Minnesota Mornings

Minnesota Mornings

Minnesota Mornings
By Ieisha McIntyre

In the sweet soft quiet of the morning, I set my feet, hesitant onto virgin snow.

Full fresh scent of crisp crowds my nostrils and lends itself to the clearing of my mind’s fog. I am new. Made clear. The shock blue of sky bounces white and glistening off the tops of snow and water.

Crystaline.
And the crunch-squeak as my boots make their careful way.

With each step, I have ruined someone’s morning view.
They will not have the privilege of a clear and uninfluenced path. My grief is not short, just swept aside. Instead, I enjoy the hush of morning, and the wisp-shush of wind as it pushes loose snow over icy drifts.

Crows land with a soft tap.
Even the lightest foot,
even a wing assisted foot cannot go unnoticed. Even a feather sounds as the whiskers of an old man’s untended beard.

Coffee warm, and grasped against my chest-
Lips, tucked behind my scarf-
Hair hidden under wool, and fingers growing cold for the want of better mittens- I travel briskly.

Breath is labored, the cold cutting sharply into wet lungs. More than two city blocks to travel through fresh snow; how strange the shift cold makes. Now, the curse and impediment to progress, the glare of white, strains the eyes.

Slip,

Two slips, a loss of coffee – now tepid. Exhaustion, and not even halfway to my destination, I stop. Take a moment. And, survey.

The crows have followed, and are in want of the remnants of my peanut buttered bagel, stuffed halfway in my pocket. A lure. Somehow, I feel myself, bate. Non-angelic wings, full ominous with blackness. There is an unsettling keenness in their eyes. I am certain they know my name. I scurry on and abandon my bagel.

Stone steps before me and the lure of warmth. I am not in need of seduction. Ready to betray the morning and the light for the comfort of indoors and berber carpet. A tug of a heavy door.

Pretending—not to watch for her,
Pretending—not to need the sight of her smile,
Pretending—not to feel the sickness in the gut of me,

Pretend—not to need love.
Pretend—just friends.

Deprive my spirit of what she freely gives.

I slide into the cold seat of my chair, let my bag drop to the floor, take my pen to paper and begin.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

LotusPapillon: #5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

Military Brat

Military Brat


Daddy used his love like the M16 he carried back from Vietnam.

Every hug smelled of gun powder and old spice, with a note of agent orange. this was the smell of a soldier/father.

Family man was last on his MOS,
last of all the things on the list of man.
Forever disappearing into a night filled with warming MAC flights, jeeps, or base buddies' cars. Nights scented with exhaust fumes and stiff starched uniforms in tightly stacked duffle bags.

(to be continued)

Mother and Child

We all need just a little help
to remember
that the compassion of our mothers
does not have to be restricted
to that moment of intimacy
before the world came between
her breast and our need.

Nothing Black

Nothing Black
By Ieisha McIntyre

There is nothing Black about sitting under a McIntosh tree
waiting for hours to have an apple,
Drop –
On its own,
And,
Out of respect for gravity.

But, in my childhood, legs too short to pick apples from their resting place,
I was grateful for the sacrifice and ate even the core.
As a child,
I waited,
just so.

And stand here, an adult and black.
Surprised at the shock of others
when they find I have a love of apples.

Still.
I rely on the patience of my childhood.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

Loving

Loving
By Ieisha McIntyre

I only pull away
When you touch me because --
I want to pull you apart.

Climb in your skin,
feast on your heart
– take in
All that your smile promises
and bring to an art
this cannibalistic form
of lovemaking.
This loving in parts.

Loving bits and forgetting the whole –
you know?
Loving the sinner- hating the sin,
When it’s the sin that made us and keeps us in
Circled in dances around each other
afraid of the whole –

I only pull away when you touch me
because my love hungers.
like a wild dog – your skin is of little concern to me.
I want the flesh and bones of you.
To suck – ravenous!

but my predator eyes know willing prey – so I pull away.

All rights reserved © 2009

the contemporary black child @ integration

the contemporary black child @
integration


i have learned beside Them.

taught by the same teachers, seated in the same seats. My intellect and understanding of the possible shaped by the same books and smiles of acknowledgment.

But,
Brown and smooth and full of youth.

Eyes stretched wide from astonished discovery,
My face betrays me.
it smiles bright –
teeth wrapped by ample lips, lips primed to reveal the answer to the questions posed, a comment to the topic discussed.

But, lips never fully part, thought never expressed instead only a sigh as my hand, proudly thrust forward is passed by –
on the basis of affirmative action protest.

The teacher chooses a more appropriate hand.

All rights reserved © 2009

@integration

@ integration

Little black girls pray nightly
For transformation
Into Barbie beautiful Pantene and
Flaxen.

Nightly.

Prayers – little caged lights- ascend
And, innocence offends the ears of the creator

In little voices,
“Take back my face, Father and make me over into whitebread wonderful!”

Nightly, little lamb’s heads bough and pray.

“If I can’t die before I wake, let me wake free of this skin. I’ll trade you my gravity defying curls and twigs – for your yielding silk.
Father?
Take back defiance, and bring me a permanent relaxer.
Don’t let my eyes be so dark that those who look on mine can see the depth of their destruction. But, pry loose my eyes – instead.
Give me eyes like the blue of the sky or green grass.”

Little black girls pray nightly for transformation.


All Rights Reserved © 2009

Blacksatire

New word: Blacksatire(blak-sat-ire) (noun) a form of ethnicly informed satire centered around specific experiences and/or viewpoints of those who identify as belonging to the African diaspora. [blacksatrical](adj.) that which is imparted with blacksatrical characteristics.

LotusPapillon: african man

LotusPapillon: african man

african man

african man
by Ieisha McIntyre


I love the look in the eyes of a tired african man
- at the end of the day.
That look that says he has worked hard and loves himself and knows that he is loved
The eyes wet and weary but possessing tears that can choose between hope and despair.

I love the look of the tension
in the forehead
- brought up from the strain
in the feet that have stood too long and walked just a bit too far
- for that day.
The feet that are calloused and throbbing, but long to carry the man home
through muscle memory and the desire for the home cooked meal and the Loving and well loved bed.

I love the look if a weary african man.
the eyes gently betraying him through the slow appearance of water around the rim of eyes,
Just near the eyelashes, moment to moment tears clinging to the stray hair or two – and being wiped away and blamed on the fierceness
of the day-end wind.

I love that look of gentle thanks
for the grace of a warm bowl of stew and slice of thick country farm bread-
Or
Biscuit.

I love the look of a weary strong-backed african man.
Blessed to see his love and kiss her calloused hands,
Feel her well-rounded warmth, soft nestle just beneath the curvature of his muscle from chest to thigh to foot.
Both worn.
I love the look of a well-loved, weary, strong african man.


All rights reserved © 2009

LotusPapillon: Husband

LotusPapillon: Husband

LotusPapillon: Wife

LotusPapillon: Wife

Wife

Maafa Cycle
Wife
He came last night.
To our bed, to our home
After the wedding and the whippin’. . .
And took me.
He took me back from you.

“Don’t think he own you now girl.”

And, just like that I was no longer wife.
No longer purchased – not bought
- But stolen
- Not body stolen, but soul.

“Think you can put some white flowers in your hair, put on some white rags and you married, huh?”

Soul robbed,
In the sweat, and the musk of a man not mine.
Our love was surmounted.
White man on black bed,
Black love defiled - and my man lying weak from beating.

“Watch this here boy! You see this cow you jumped broom wit?”

Watchin’, while . . .
White sweat. Dripping on black soil.
Seeding where my
man has yet to be
fruitful.
My eyes reach out to my man.
MOVE.

Where is the strength that works all day in the high cotton?! Where is that Bull worth the trade of three milk cows?
MOVE.
No lash should take the strength that willed forth our love.
-Writhe free of the pain!
Move.
Instead, I am stolen. First his body whipped and then his soul lynched.
- his blood and the lashes, that will scar, heal, seal in the memory of this wife, re-stolen.

My body is payment
for the audacity of his black manhood.
A slap on a weak thigh.

“Bitch wore me out.”

This body, birthplace. Origin.

White seed on black soil-
White seed will sprout – will sprout, will
Sprout and mock him, mock me, but avenge.

This hybrid,
nurtured and reared by unwilling, love defiled, overworthy mother in a sea of pissed on love.
Pissed on love.

And this, defiler – corrupted the sanctity of us.
You watch him, eyes too weary to bring tears. You watch him writhing pleased above us both.
Both lashed and leashed—
- My virtue lost.
- Our love ruptured – as your back,
As my womb,
forever the lamb upon which wolves feed.

I curse the absence of manhood.
You curse the presence of my womb.

It will never bring forth the product of our love.
Wombs soaked in shame cannot birth pride.

All Rights Reserved (c) 2009

Mother's Child #2

#2 of Maafa cycle

Mother’s child

Eyes caked shut
Wrestle
Awake.
Eyes are met by newborn cries and warmth.
A corpse straddled by a nuzzling babe with a searching mouth,
Lies next to me.
Somewhere between the haze of tormented
Sleep and raucous waking hours, my neighbor gave up her child – laid
It gently on her chest and slipped into death.
Here in the mouth we are slowly chewed
This new young thing exists- now its life
Belongs to no one until his cries are heard
And here I have heard them.
He is mine – I reach my hand
Heavy with iron toward the child
He slips easily from the cold body
He is mine- this fresh skinned cherub.
He is mine – in this mouth we are chewed, prepared for digestion
He is mine – I have no milk
He wails – I am without. 
I can only hold – He wails – I cannot –
I will send him to the waves.

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Dance #3 of Maafa Cycle

#3 of Maafa cycle

Dance

Rocked in this tomb cradle, skin beneath me grows soft and marshy

Muscles tight stone from having been lain out straight and forced

Taught – soaking in human brine.

Eyes have grown used to the darkness – even still when the single cone of damask

Sunlight makes itself known

Light starved senses reach

With every fiber of being – here is hope. The Sun and Moon

are.

Debemos ejercitelos

(we should exercise them)

I know the gods have not abandoned this world.

No han movido en un rato.

(they haven’t moved for a while)

Even though everything has spun loose.

El capitan necesita una cuenta

(the captain needs a count)

The light is still here.

Si nos libramos de algo del peso podemos estar en puerto más pronto.

(if we get rid of some of the weight, we can be in port sooner.)

My body is numb – but I focus my mind and live in the light.

One hand and then another –

White marble fingers split the weak column of light descending toward

The bowels – for a moment certain the

Hands belong to the ghost of my father

- They curl and twist as the hands

- Of a fisherman pulling in a great net

Deftly the lock is twisted –

a thud on the wood braces above

Us – could this be my moment of release? – a powerful spirit can wrest a soul from its body.

Consígalos hacia fuera en cubierta.

(get them out and on deck)

Haremos que bailen - Tienen gusto de bailar.

(we’ll have them dance – they like dancing.)

a tug

And then another

A shock of pain like silver spikes thrust through my thigh

-We are being moved.

Links of metal chain are heard

-they pull after them the living and the dead together

So that the living must bring the putrid remains of their neighbor into the light

My eyes tear from the shock of the light of day

They betray me before the fraud of

The white hands.

They belong to one of the

Thieves who have us purchased here. They are

Laughing, and punching, and yelling at the weaker ones among them.

They rip off the remainder of our clothing and

Two the size of boys run toward us with buckets of water – it is salt ocean water – it burns into rotting wounds on the flesh – and causes us to jump.

Parecen listos ahora para bailar

(they look ready to dance now)

One laughing red face pounds a crude rhythm

Meaningless –

He mimics the tamma – but says nothing.

¡Muévale los perros negros! ¡Movimiento!

(move you black dogs, move!)

a whip – this whip talks

¡mueva, al diablo negro!(move, black devil!)

big man yells, his face redder than the rest grows redder.

The whip licks the top of a man’s foot and his leg pulls back – jerks up

stumbles and attempts to balance – down, - move right

bumps, neighbor

the rest chained to him fall right.

Esso correcto. Enseñe a su amigo. Usted ennegrece al diablo.

(That’s right. Teach your friend. You black devil!)

The whip lands soundly on the back of a man

Screams rise from all on deck and they begin to shift and shuffle

The ones who fall – are pulled from the line and

Tossed over.

A woman – naked and holding rags – refusing to believe

Her child is a seal -

Kufa! chekundu mashetani! Kufa!)

She screams obscenities at the red faced devils

Ones who know scream as well –

Red faces rip the rags from her arms – across the deck slides the seal body of a once human child. One grabs a bucket and sea water

Chases the seal child to the ocean depths – a scream peals from the women’s soul – catches in the sails of the ship and lurches the boat forward

She follows her child. She takes wing and flings herself over – follows her long dead sealchild.

Perra loca (crazy bitch!)

Danza!Danza!(Dance!, Dance!)

The crude rhythm begins again – we know now, they want us to shuffle. They must keep the cargo alive – and yet they send the weakest among them forward to thin the herd.

As we move – some legs do not anymore

They are too tight

Flesh too split

Too marshy

Flesh too briny

to stay on the bone it peels from beneath

The metal cuffs.

Slowly they are relieved of their chains

The raw flesh and tendon come into view

He is pulled from the line.

She is pulled from the line.

I check my own.

They are scarred over.

Made leather.

And I can move –

I move, move, I move disjointed

And the rhythm and stumbling- but, I move

And the screams of the dying sing to this counter syncopated song.

- We are doing our death dance.

All rights reserved © 2009

holiday

holiday
Hear the peace of water melted against the heat of too warm body lying restful in the sun. And toasted even browner than the earth--surrounding body partially shaded by trees gently swaying overhead. Slowly tilting in reverence, more the wind than the human.
--Soft breezes across skin and the gentle scent of Apricot rises from flesh—covered misty and salt.
Arabesque, arabesque, arabesque – gathered dust swirls mindless indifferent the bird high aloft seeks shade or prey—forlorn –and without mate or nest.
Crystal glass of water, lemon-in with ice, casts fresh prism grown rainbows against newly oiled thighs—shift. Open. Shift. Restless. Hopeless.
Wondering, useless and the sea water gently laps against the shore, nature with clear pace pounds out the true rhythm.
--The body seeks reprieve from the passionate sun—rises toward water slips gently inside sea curling first around feet, legs, thighs, stomach, breasts—welcome tepid.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

To be cont’d . . .

Husband

Husband
By Ieisha McIntyre

Husband, who never was.
Sometimes—roll over in bed and nuzzle face in armpit – inhale and sleep deeper, all that heady funk circling nostrils.
Cry – for ‘never was’ –cry for ‘never was’ –
‘never was’—
Remember that morning come to door – eyes wet from nerves and the fear of refusal – and – breathed out proposal with knees buckling from uncertainty of response
And ‘never was’ –unable to speak but took orange roses and pressed hand against warm ‘never was’ cheek and felt the softness of facial hair—
breathed warmth onto quivering lips ‘never was’--a yes – breathed through a kiss separated by warm scent of freshly crushed orange roses.
‘Never was’--sometimes hand just grazing the small of back is the only absolute truth needed –but ‘never was’it is only the chill from the change of seasons.
Eyes search side of the bed, hand reaches for what spirit insists is real and hand then tells the truth ‘never was’-- from the feel of cold sheets.
Seen yesterday on a lunch break—taking a smoke—catching the cross town bus—sipping some overpriced hybrid coffee—and knew ‘never was’ was too good. If ‘never was’ are too good then never is just what will take.
Spirit knows spirit regardless
of--race or breeding or class or place –take nothing ‘never was’—take nothing –honor and mercy—take nothing ‘never was’
but do speak without speech there will be no peace,
no peace, no peace—‘never was’—my husband.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

What I wish momma had said outright and without metaphor

Baby, Breathe!

Breathe this air.
This is black folks' air, too.

Breathe in and taste it.
Taste it. Before they label and meter it, place it on the tax rolls
And call it public assistance.


All rights reserved (c) 2009

Dear Hope

DEAR HOPE,

Please don't give up on me. I know I lost you and that you aren't the one to blame. But here I am finally. And, shouldn't that count for something? That I'm here, that I've come back. And that I'm knocking on your door. That I'm asking you to give me one more chance to be a more fervent believer. One more chance to let go of cynicism. I know I haven't been the best at commitment. But I beg you to give me a chance to let go of fear and fully embrace a life filled with hope in all things and faith in not only my own heart but also the hearts of others. But mostly my heart. The poor thing is so lost and in great need of you.

Sincerely,

Me.

#12-Naprowrimo

#12 of Naprowrimo

Easter or re-Matt:28

-Revive
Early, Sunday morning, while the new day was dawning,
-Relife
Came Mary Magdalene and the other Mary to the tomb.
-Re-
-It was the women who believed, even until the end.
Everything.
-Look at those places in your heart where pieces of your hope has died
Come! See the place where the lord lay.
-Even God, descended into hell. Why should we not? Even still why should we then not be blessed to rise from our hell?
For He has risen as He said!
-Why does it need repeating? Once should have been enough! But, why then, do we seek Jesus only in our hell?
For I know ye seek Jesus who was crucified!
-Just as we look to the suffering of Jesus so that we can know how great a debt he has paid, remember. . .
He is not here!
Why do you look for the living among the dead!
He is not here!
-His glory and know that He also rose that we too would be able to rise from our own deaths.
_Why look to our failures and choose them as the definers of our reality? Our God is a risen God, therefore we too are meant to be a risen people.
FEAR NOT!
_ We are so rarely visited by our joy that catching a glimpse of it, we can cast it off in fear and disbelief- our earth quakes, and in the great noise of our desire we can overlook a miracle in its infancy.
_We must lift up our eyes, our minds, our hearts, we must let go of the security of that hell that we know so that the glory of our truth can be shown to us.
We are meant to – revive ourselves and each other through mercy and faith, forgiveness and understanding, humility and love.
The Word is the life that must be brought unto a world steeped in death.
Why continue to look upon that place where death is meant to take residence?
Why are you looking at darkness, when your eyes should be turned toward the light?
Revive!
Alleluia!

All Rights Reserved © 2009

#11 Naprowrimo

#11 of Maafa Cycle

My Man

He woke up early this morning
Early
He woke up early this morning like he always does
And he met the morning dew
He greeted me sweetly this morning…
Like he always do. He woke up early and was on his way.
I knew that my man….was on his way.

And as the day was passing to night, I knew that his fee t would touch the porch
Like it always do.
And as the day was passing to night, I knew that my man,
Was on his way.
On his way home to me
On his way .
As sure as the moon rises as night, I knew that my man was on his way.
His feet, would meet the back porch,
Workboots would meet the floor,
His low voice would meet the air,
And My man,
Would find his way.

Dinner was ready,
As it always was.
Kitchen was clean,
As I always was.
Porch light was on, like it always was.
I knew that my man,
Had lost his way.

Moon was high,
In the night sky.
Stars were shining bright and sure.
All the night was quietly panting;
I knew that my man, had lost his way.

I’m bound to find him, and fetch him home.
I’m sure that he is somewhere to be found.
Dusk has fallen, and he not home.
I knew that my man, Had lost his way.

I took a lantern, and his best dog.
I took my shoes, and his warm coat.
I set foot to stone and was one my way.
I knew that my man, had just lost his way.

I waded through tall grass, and walked sure footed on.
I held my light proudly forward.
I looked into the blue-black night,
I knew that my man had just lost his way.

Saw the lights, bouncing on the treeline.
Saw the lights, bouncing in the trees,
I saw the lights shining brightly in the orchard.
I knew that my man had lost his way.
And my feet moved against my judgement.
My feet moved against my judgement.

I reached the treeline, and my fingers met the bark.
The scent of plum blossoms met my nose.
I heard the yells of deamon glee.
I knew that my man,
Had lost his way.
And my feet moved.
Against my judgement.

I heard the whip, CRACK
And land on flesh,
I heard the screams that would curdle blood, and in the red-orange glow
Of crucifix aflame,
I knew that my man, had lost his way.
My foot, moved
Against my judgement.

I saw the knife, slice at his manhood.
I saw the blood, urine raise down his leg,
Heard his soul writh free of his body.
So, my feet moved against my judgement.

There were men, standing round, with the faces of devils, there were
Men all around but lost to God,
There were men all around, screaming against his favor,
I knew my man, had gone way.
But, feet moved, against my judgement.

Slowly the rope, slid around his neck.
And when the horse moved,
His neck did stretch. And when the breath stopped,
His feet did kick, and when the feet stopped, his body twitched.
And when his eyes bulged, the heart did lurch.
And my feet moved.
I knew that my man, had lost his way.

There wasn’t time to cry,
There wasn’t time to think,
There wasn’t space to believe, there was a God to see.
All of the years that passed, he had come home to me.
I knew that my God, would bring my man home to me.
And my feet moved - Against my judgement.
At first,
I believed they had thought twice.
At first I believe it was water to douse the flame.

At first,
I believed they had remembered God.

At first,
I thought they had remembered shame.

Then, the smell of gasoline, and the smell of hair a flame.
Who knew that skin would melt like wax? Who knew that wouldn’t quell the pain?
But I knew.
I had found my man.

I knew. I had found my way.
I knew. I had found my home.
My feet, climbed to him.
My arms clasped tight to his body.
Laughter met my tears,
And I knew, I had found my way.

Our skin, met as one.
The flame smelled sweet.
Our hearts beat and stopped as one.
And I knew, I had found my way.

And early, that morning, carrying the blackness of night.
Our joined skin, was met by the dew.

Silence crossed the orchard.
Silence crossed the field.
Hound dog howling breaks the silence.
And the truth of love revealed.
I and my man,
Had found a way.

All Rights Reserved © 2009

#10 of Naprowrimo (Maafa Cycle

#10 of Maafa Cycle

Whippin’

Here is this flesh
Wrapped around wood
Hands lashed together
Heart pounding
Mind clasped tight around fear
Waiting for breath, while breathing
Waiting for the promised beating
The beating promised to my too dark flesh upon birth.
Waiting for the twisted hide of an animal to launch through the air and past
The speed of sound
Crack
Wildly through the air, land as deftly across the flesh of my back
Split like overripe cherries in summer heat
Breath stops, eyes bulge, arms arch against unheard of pain, every muscle contracts
Before breath can be found
Crack.
New split skin and tears stream down my face, never mind that I am a woman, never mind that I have borne children who work this land,
Never mind that I have given my body to pleasure the man who sold away my love
Never mind
The blood and sweat rolling down my back, never mind
The fire in my lungs
Never mind that my lips can’t even shape the question my mind screams
Never mind.

All rights reserved © 2009

#9 of Maafa Cycle

Did you here that?

Did you hear that? Did you hear that?
Sounded like a link in a chain falling.
Did you hear that? Sounded like the first time – Nigger came flying from 4 year old pale white face pink lips.
Did you hear that? I Swear I heard something when I first learned the direction the Nile flowed, and found Kilimanjaro on the map.

Did you hear that?
Martin and Malcolm talked, and called their wives at night. And, read and learned and became definers.
So defined that they are studied and made studies. Did you hear that?
Not even the bullets blasts have taken them from us. No it has not been the bullets blasts but it has been our absence and our willingness to media, to mainstream, to celebrity our memory. We lost them before we found ourselves.
Before we found ourselves we ran to white picket fence streets and forgot our own. Before we took care, to take care, it was taken.
And when we cried foul, we found that it was not a new trick but an old.
The same tool of colony had taken us again. But then instead of losing country and language, history and family, faith and healing, we lost all those who survived the chains.
Big Momma and Old Uncle, Grandpa and Auntie, we lost knowing just how much God has done, we lost witness, and cried foul but it was too late,
new chains had already been prepared.
But this too was not new, these chains were the same chains as used on the first Americans. Chemical chains, wrapped up nice,
yellow diamonds in a dealers pocket.
The dealers,
Worshippers of the money God. They filled the necessary criteria. They volunteered to be the scapegoat who made the people the lamb.
But
the chain was not complete until the last link was added.
The children.
Once the children were raising children,
and once the children would not read, once the children were given to those who refuse to know and who swallow stoneguilt down throats of glass, then the last link was formed.
Here, American.
You piece of Diasporic Afrika.
Here - we are still dancing, still bobbing and weaving,
still shufflehussle
still adrift
with dulldrum minds in critical mass, we are chained.
Did you hear that?

All rights reserved © 2009

Embrace - #8/30 for Naprowrimo

#8/30 not Maafa

Embrace

Fingers against fingers. My fingers, someone’s hand.
Fingers touch wrist and I roll to the side. Face against face and

I smile.

Hands in hair and fingers twist gently ‘round hibiscus locs, nose nuzzles ear.

I’m kissed.

Lips touch lips. Softly, gently, gracefully dance. Nose breaths in sandalwood and cedar on warm skin.

He is treasure.

All rights reserved © 2009

Man - #7/30 of Maafa Cycle

#7/30 of the Maafa cycle
Man
Man for sale.
Man for sale.
One man, black man.
One good negro man.
For Sale.
Never run away, talks good, strong back.
Clean back.
Good teeth.
One negro
For sale. One negro buck. Four strong
Boys, good negros too. All good pickninnies, work hard
Too.
500 dollars will buy you this negro. One strong rice negro.
Work all day and never talk back. Work all
Day, no doubt. Buy this Negro, never look back.
Negro for sale.
Negro for sale.

All Rights Reserved ©2009

#5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone

#5 of Maafa Cycle

Atone

Here is this skin – this black skin.
Here is this body – covered by this black skin.
Here is this soul - full of light and promise.
Here is this world – that looks upon this black skin and calls it secondary.
Here is this earth – the blackest soil reaps the most abundant crop-
Here is the sun- that waits upon this skin.
Here is the world – that buys, sells, rapes, kills this flesh
Here is this soul – made stronger or broken.
Here is this world – that calls this flesh an abomination.
Here is the blood- spilled for gold, sugar, tea, coffee, cotton.
Here is the foot – with steps cut short for trying.
Here are the hands – chapped and bleeding from reaching.
Here is the womb – soured by anger.
Here is this god – who gives his son a copper hue.
Here is this body – that bends so as not to break.
Here is this soul - eternal and connected.
Here is this world – willing to lie to steal the soul from the skin.
Here is the body – Atone.
All Rights Reserved © 2009

LINK TO VIDEO PERFORMANCE