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jakebeTen days left until the big Poesia deadline, so I thought I would try and smarten up the poems I had considered for submission. This is the one that is earliest along (and by default it needs the most work) so I thought I would put it up here.
This is actually the second draft of this poem; the first was a lot longer and meandered a bit more...surprise, surprise. I found that I really wanted to portray dirt in a positive light here, because you know, hey, I really like dirt actually. Halfway through, though, I'm not sure the image is being true to the idea. I might have to be a lot more careful with word choice and placement to get the feel I want, but here's the poem as it stands now.
*****
Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air
I came in as a small black child,
not just black but black
as the bookends of destruction --
a single crust of charcoal
or a bit of rain on Hiroshima after the bomb.
I grew with the small and common things,
with all the castoffs (that were) left to decompose
or at least claimed by clumps of mine.
I was humble, vulgar and unseen
and I was proud of it:
I can travel anywhere I want
and call the bottom of it home.
Ah, but with the power of my helplessness,
an obligation, an oath, an expectation:
Dirt should stick to its own.
"There ain't no worth in what ain't attached,"
they said, "and don't look higher than the feet you got
cuz soon you'll be looking down at us."
Oh, but what a world of celestines there are!
And you know once you brush your hands with cosmic
it don't come off...
So I talk faster than I crawl,
the wrong weight for both
and my stratum of mulatto
has precious little traffic for a dusty traveler
to trade the news with.
But you know, it ain't so bad, really,
being in the trenches
and looking for the stars.
This is actually the second draft of this poem; the first was a lot longer and meandered a bit more...surprise, surprise. I found that I really wanted to portray dirt in a positive light here, because you know, hey, I really like dirt actually. Halfway through, though, I'm not sure the image is being true to the idea. I might have to be a lot more careful with word choice and placement to get the feel I want, but here's the poem as it stands now.
*****
Mulattoes are Made of Earth and Air
I came in as a small black child,
not just black but black
as the bookends of destruction --
a single crust of charcoal
or a bit of rain on Hiroshima after the bomb.
I grew with the small and common things,
with all the castoffs (that were) left to decompose
or at least claimed by clumps of mine.
I was humble, vulgar and unseen
and I was proud of it:
I can travel anywhere I want
and call the bottom of it home.
Ah, but with the power of my helplessness,
an obligation, an oath, an expectation:
Dirt should stick to its own.
"There ain't no worth in what ain't attached,"
they said, "and don't look higher than the feet you got
cuz soon you'll be looking down at us."
Oh, but what a world of celestines there are!
And you know once you brush your hands with cosmic
it don't come off...
So I talk faster than I crawl,
the wrong weight for both
and my stratum of mulatto
has precious little traffic for a dusty traveler
to trade the news with.
But you know, it ain't so bad, really,
being in the trenches
and looking for the stars.
