Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
whilst every brown boy and his mother leaf through the beauty of local girls,
I sit rudely in the scorching sun daring him to turn me darker still.
they’re checking the boxes that define perfection—
milky skin against ebony locks, submissive eyes.
but they lump me separately—
too much fire for a family so obviously dry. Continue reading “[Writer’s Quote Wednesday] Dark Kali”
“I have never once looked in the mirror
and said, ‘I love you.’
I think it’s long overdue.”
A midnight scribble,
a morning sigh,
you watch the words,
curl up and die.
inside your head,
of poems lost,
and pages dead. Continue reading “[Writer’s Quote Wednesday] Lost Words”
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
and even then you carried the anthem under
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come. Continue reading “[Writer’s Quote Wednesday] Let Evening Come”
The water splashes onto his face
And drops roll down his back,
Disappearing under the towel
Wrapped around his waist.
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility – Continue reading “[Writer’s Quote Wednesday] Because I Could Not Stop For Death”
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Once when I was running,
from all that haunted me;
to the dark I was succumbing—
to what hurt unbearably.
Searching for the one thing,
that would set my sad soul free.
In time I stumbled upon it,
an inner calm and peace;
and now I am beginning,
to see and to believe,
in who I am becoming—
and all I’ve yet to be.
— Lang Leav —