2003-03-05 - 12:54 a.m.
i be reading june late night. His Own Where. Written 1971. She write curt and careful, a continuous poem. A long poem notice and call out where potholes be in Brooklyn and try to fill them up. with black dirt and maybe roses. she got a thing for flowers, and for love. story that call for dirt down between fingernails know you be alive. she write in english, black.
it be hard to separate june from the actual story. i think they one and the same. i laugh out loud. the story be sad and funny at same time.
it be tuesday, night. snow pile up like them days. white and grimy and all run together. you need to look through fresh eyes to know you once giddy when first saw snow.
so many firsts come along. my little niece born, Feb 3rd. Siona Rani Bhasme. i go to sleep on that note, for now.
here be a poem i wrote. for my niece and against the war.
This message is not flagged. [ Flag Message - Mark something like a lullaby for Siona(and for any and all children everywhere)
this month
my sister gives birth
stomach swells
with baby Siona
i try to write
a prayer a fight
something to recite
me and my niece
before she sleeps
---------------------------------
let her say each day
when children weep
the sound seeps into my skin
let me be the new born twin
---------------------of mystic Rumi
resurrected and rising from bombings and burials in Afghanistan
i will thread words into wool
to warm the weary wherever they go--------------------------------------
Let me be
June Jordan
juggling words
jabbing truth
down throats
and making the wicked wallow--------------------------------------------
this little pinky be for
The Guatemalan factory worker
With boils on her hand
That threads and sews and never stops and never goes home-------------------------------------
this little toe be for
The Bhopal mother who
Gave birth to a cremated corpse
Union Carbide fathered
I will be her daughter
--------------------------this little fist rise for
Corporate cats and the computer coders
Window washers and blue collar workers
who died in the world trade
I will not let war be waged in any our name
------------------------------------------------- Where they would force shiver
hindu muslim somali hatian
in long lines to stutter their story
To an INS unapologetic officer
--------------I will stand arm and arm
Where they would clamor to kill and stone and bully vindictive into the land
All who have lost their voice--------------------------------------------------
I will sing continuous this---------------:
The plummet past hum of missles fall and falling
is no song
My voice can carry me much farther long
----------------------------------------------------------------------- The spin spin pierce perpetual of a bullet is no dance
My little feet can flutter much farther if given a chance.---------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------
and each day
on my path home
i will fold musical notes
indented with innocence
into any willing palms
this will be all our new song.
sri
