placing.

I look at him sleeping sometimes, and I miss moments before their arrival. anticipation turns memory and dream, something familiar. My mother says I should not be so serious about love just yet, I am young and life needs teach me more of itself. I do not see the need (or the possibility) of outgrowing this one blessing, my spirit has vowed it so.

Washington is dry air, toco heat and dull shades- grey and pastel. I should get used to cold nights by the time we leave here. the poetry festival started yesterday, some hundred miles from here....and I am still on the polar end of the country. What miss yuh ain't pass yuh. Things will come up...maybe. I've recognized the need to start over, from scratch. everything, poems included.

I have not written much since I left home. I am still building image in my head. who I am here, and now. there will be change. Responsibility will make me woman and I will choose how I should live. I cannot move forward until I have consulted with my God, and made a fast. I cannot think straight enough to write on crooked lines, for myself, not here.

School is on its way. It seems a long way off for me still, but that too will pass quickly. I am tired of shopping. It must stop. now. I would like to spend more time relaxing, thinking and sleeping long hours rather than running around everywhere like sales were salvation.

This week should lend more quiet. less tears, more love and greater peace.

first impressions of a land not-so-strange

been three days in this corner, here is crowded but more comfortable and cosy than most apartments in these parts. saw my new home tonight. i am comfortable with the thought of a new life there. it is cold here for me, cold summer. no anticipation for less gentle seasons. i am learning quickly, street names, dialects, that people aren't too big on appearance on these streets. i am two blocks from the park and yet to visit it. bobo shantis smile with me here too. i have said the word- 'perdon' 4 times and- 'oui' 2 times today... unintentionally. latinos and haitians are everywhere. a haitian woman said to me last night "we are almost the same"...i think she was trying to make me comfortable. we are the same. who we became was an accident of floating earth. brooklyn has too many familiar things to be so far from home..

be-leave.

my grips are in garbage bags.

I'm tired of throwing dreams out.
the only thing that gets collected
on mornings,
is dust,
skinning teal-coloured plastic.

They would always come back
stare you still,
and spill empathy
from air-tight recall.
like the begining of a breath,
short but pronounced,
and there in every pull.

one suitcase will
not allow room
for so many things.
can't store anymore problems
in this closing space,

nomads trace their leaving
behind them.

up.

Of things eyes brighten over.
but comes daylight with a drag
less tug, more escorting.
easy walk from smiles,
to less crooked lips
straight to the point,
rushed goodbyes
and kissed sores.

I'm in no hurry
for bitterness.
For dried salt streamed
like tribal marks,
buried into my cheeks.
these eyes are marble
and flint and opal.
with no last words,
only better hopes.

Arielle John copyright © 2010

fate.

Stubbornness.
That will teach faith to have self-worth again,
Remind trust how to believe in itself
Lend light to sulking mornings,
And baffle a whole lot of people.

All I have left,
is a handful of promises,
a heartful of hopes.
and it's all I have left.

copyyright © 2010 Arielle John.

womanifestation.

There is irony.

Blessed under heat of stung palms,

Red and beating like goat skin prized it,

This should not surprise us again.

Woven in breaths taken, not swallowed,

I will not take the venom in,

I will not make my melanin lose faith in itself,

I will not pretend to accept that women

Are treated as any flesh of yours,

Barren your days will be,

Shrivelling spines with brittle bones,

there is no going back

for me.

I will not be part of your colony,

Naming ceremonies,

and semblances of freedom,

Hold your own flag,

call it what you want,

Chant your songs,

Beat your drums,

Fall in love

With the call of your own voice-

Over and over again,

Folding, falling back on itself-

Over and over again,

Sleep with your own echoes

every black night in your beds,

but

this?

This is my end.

here.


© 2010 Arielle John

40 days.

I came to miss your mischief

Like it wasn’t morning anymore,

Like daytime settled lazy

Among pillows of cloud.

There is no pillar shrouding the sky for me

To predict the walk of my wakings

Wind would hush the dreams in my eyes,

Down the sheets of collecting lids,

The wilderness would wish for rain like today.

Tapping everything in me awake,

Till my colours come back.

Till thunder returns to my chest,

Until memory learns how to sing again,


I will wait.


© 2010 Arielle John.