Friday, October 29, 2010

to: the emotional lapse of my speech.

She asks that I engage every word.
Till breath curls to hug every syllable at the waistline.
Till tongue commit to practice an trap all what momentum taste like.
How to learn to cheat reflexes.
How to iron the heavily accented,
whiff-of-a-British throatedness
for the sake of clarity?
There is much more conflict in me than it have in this scene.

Copyright © 2010 Arielle John

Monday, October 25, 2010

to the white police leaning on my front gate last night.

You and I both know how well beyond 1am it is, wind pressing your arms into a fold, pulled to chest over the metal of your badge, surely you feel how far summer has gone from here.
It feels strange to walk on to my own porch, that I'm being watched, that I might look suspicious, collecting a parcel from the white civic that just pulled up, in front of front of my gate so is in front of me.
and if you really need to know officer, is only two roti, one shrimp and one goat meat, I would think it too cold for west indians to be making trouble in these parts, this hour, in this temperature. Smiling "Goodnight Officer!" to all 135 degrees of you on my gate..sitting, and we both know how deep into the morning now is.

Copyright © 2010 Arielle John

to the anchor of my father's strides.

Leather jackets are heavy on the backs of island men. You won't be here long enough to get accustomed to it, so we will walk as slow as you need to. Turn these run-down, everywhere red-brick to flower garden scenic. Until this side-walk of another man's treasure, turns orange leaves to feathers underfoot. You give the ground enough faith to rise above itself, so brooklyn is road bumps and middle-road mini mountains. Take your time, I will remember you better this way.

Copyright © 2010 Arielle John

Monday, October 11, 2010

to: the way the sun falls.

Heya people. I'm embarking on a new series of short pieces that I will post ever so often. I am creating conversations with elements of life, as I have experienced it. These are the things I would say to these people/things/places if I could.

To: the way sun falls without evening.

this degree of awkward between us would have been bearable if we avoided each other completely. The frigid of your blank morning stares cringe capillaries to blue in my palms. The brown of me recoiling like back-stroking tidal waves on my limbs, your quiet glimpses have been turning me,scribing passages of braille on my skin, I never thought you could change towards me this much.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

But It's Sunday.

So today Ryan goes: baby did you write in your blog today?
Me: I've been sick all weekend, what you think?
Ry: but it's Sunday!!
Me: Um whatever.

Even the dramatic form has taken over my easier moments. So tells the story of my days I suppose. Work and work and More. My writing is in my construct of scene work and play critiques, the poetry grows between the invocations of the dialouges in my head on African literature and forms.

My head hurts. to bed I go.