Poetry Writing Gallery

Mujer
by Elizabeth Perez, mentee

Quiero escribir un poema para todas las mujeres desamparadas.
Para todas las mujeres que no sueñan,
si no que viven inmersas en sus problemas
I want to write a poem for all the abandoned women
who don’t dream, but instead live immersed in their troubles
we’re the backbone of struggle.
Don’t you ever question our power
And no it’s not sheltered between our legs.
Instead
We’ve held it in between each and every hit
That was once tolerated by the man we loved
We hid behind their shadows as if we never existed
As if we never had an opinion
As if we never were, period
Machista my ass.
Mis mujeres
Del caribe
Nurturers of the Amazon
Zapatistas con
Revolves
Indigenous with pride.
Mujer.
Never learned how to cry
Or care because it was mandatory all emotions
Were to be ignored
Only skills we’ve accommodated through the years
And assets Dios propio gave us were to be acknowledged
Our hips became boundaries
Our breast became comforters
Our souls became platforms
We became useful.
You know, stay home
make sure
your enchiladas, your ensaladas de papa
Had their exact taste grandma taught cha
That wasn’t the only thing we took with us
We learned how
To stay silent while we screamed
With eyes stitched
Hands clenched
Only known to one rhythmic up and down
motion
Back and forth rubdowns
Ese hombre never deserved
I mean the favor was returned
When we didn’t stay in line
we befell into his slaps
into his verbal attacks
our words lacked
only thing he gave
us was his back
We adapted to being known
As a metaphor for being worthless
But fuck that
Each and every woman has her story to tell
So mujer,
Hold your head up high
Clear those eyes
Tu eres bella
Tu tenies gracia
Tu eres mujer
Eres mujer
Eres la mujer que nos das paz
La que no dice cuando hacemos mal
Tu eres mi hermana,
Sister,
Abuela,
Madre.
Woman
Carrier of wrongs
Doer of rights
Re-maker of love
I want to live through your story
I want to know when you’re hurting.
I want to write a poem for all the abandoned
women
Who wish to dream and live those dreams
through their seeds
Quiero escribir un poema para todas las
mujeres desamparadas.
Que desean sonar y viver eso sueños desde
sus semillas
I want to be
want to be
Mujer.

 

Face Prayer
by Saleema Josey, mentee

Waking
Face Purer than summer morning
Eyes squinting
Trying to shield themselves
As endless light seeps through windows covered in heavy black cloth
Face Purer than summer morning
As bare feet step through clothes and unfinished compositions
Body questioning its worth
Even though it's alone in a house where one shouldn't be judged
Hot water splashing against colored skin and shower-capped hair
Body questioning its worth
As it tries to wrap a towel around itself more than once
But failing as always
Face Purer than summer morning
As it shovels through clothes
Knowing that nothing will fit as it should
Body questioning its worth
As it pinches and tugs at layers of fat
Visible and palpable to only one person
Face Purer than summer morning
Is violently smeared with layers
Of dark mud meant to cover up all flaws
Face Purer than summer morning
Glossed and glittered to make her feel better
Face now dark and dirty
As the city it longs to be a part of
Face Purer than summer morning
Is lost in a failed attempt at perfection.

 

This is For...
by Stephanie Huancas, mentee and
Sarah Herrington, mentor

This is for the one who survived the darkness,_who yearned for the breath of light_Gave and received too much, gave up _Slowly withered in her corner of solace

this is for the one who didn't know
that thought she had to work to be loved
had to give so much she was empty
step back keep quiet grow <small>

This is for the fifteenth year, it all began here
Between four white walls she longed to mutate
Pressured words that threatened her image, now
Dry ink engraved to a mighty journal,
Worn from the force of her thoughts through
a pen

this is for sixteenth year
in a small town
dreaming of bright lights at the end of some
dark road
this is for the one
who wanted to disappear at the same time
she wanted to be seen.

This is for all the tears she bottled up,_All the darkness once contained_She got sick, she got tired_At last she cracked _Bottled tears now drained_Darkness like ashes riding in the wind
this is for the one
who found salinger and emerson and plath
slung over library aisles
pens like words jammed between her teeth
all the things she wouldn't say
eating at her body

This is for the one, her only_Heart's desire, heaven-sent_He who said these words_"Dwell not in the past _Rather escape to your passion but forget me not"_Her loyalty responds_"I love you"
this is for the he
this is for the she
who said Watch!
the future is coming
and "i love you"

And this is for Sarah, aka Sally_Who opened my eyes, spread my words_Made me believe that no deed is too petty_If it comes from the heart

and this is for Stephanie
who reminded me of the power of voice
and love
like couplets that should never be separated
like survival
and beauty

 

Where are You? No Answer
by Natalia Vargas-Caba, mentee and
Erica Silberman, mentor

E-MAIL

ERICA

E-mail Natalia about setting a time to meet. Wait for a response. E-mail her again. Wait for a response. E-mail her again. Stop worrying about the tone of your e-mail. Stop checking your e-mail. Stop trying to get into the head of a seventeen year old girl. You were in a rush to get out of that head, why are you now rushing to get back in.

NATALIA

Met my mentor. Third mentor so far. Why do they always leave? Read e-mail from new mentor. Spend too much time on MySpace. Dad bans me from computer. No more computer. Never e-mailed mentor. I hope I won’t have to ask for a change in mentors.

*************

PHONE

ERICA

Call Natalia. Call her again. Ignore her outgoing message, “Hey this is Natalia, sorry I didn’t pick up the phone. I did not want to hear your voice, so just leave a message,”
…and call her again. Don’t ask her what she did to get her e-mail privileges suspended. She’ll tell you on her own, if she wants to. If she wants to. If she ever wants to meet.
Seems like she has no time for you. Wait a minute, she signed up fro this. Who is the mentor and who is the mentee? Mentee. Mentee. Mentee. Ridiculous word. Sounds like candy. Or men golfing. Oh, my God! Natalia is you! You got you as a mentee. How did they know? Who’s they? Probably Maya. How did Maya know what I was like at Natalia’s age.

NATALIA

Return from school. Check messages.
Listen to message from mentor,
“Hey Natalia, it’s Erica. It was really great meeting you at the workshop. I’m really glad you’re my mentee. So, so um, you can only make it on weekends. That’s fine. So let me know which day and what time you can meet. Ok, great so let me know. Bye.” Yeah, she’s trying too hard. Too busy to return call. Call SAT people to find out about my scores.

*************
MEETING

ERICA

The place Natalia has chosen to meet is closed. Find a new place. Call Natalia. Where is she? No answer. Wait half an hour. Call again. Where is she? Where are you? An hour later she arrives. She’s not me. She’s so not me. Except that she is a low-talker like I was. But that’s it. And she’s so different form her outgoing message. She’s sweet and cool and candid. So candid. She tells me stories and asks for exactly what she needs: help with her college essay. We go over her workshop pieces. She writes with purple swirls of abstraction. I chase after her with a butterfly net. I tread softly. I choose my words carefully. I squeeze every bit of clarity from her, Careful not to disturb her powdery wings, Lest she never fly again. Really corny metaphor, but fitting.

NATALIA

Get out of train station. Phone rings. Yeah, I know mentor, I’m getting there. Arrive late. Try to be polite. Have a pleasant chat. Forces me to get down to business. Criticizes my work. What a great mentor. Buys me fruit milkshake. Lightens my mood. Listen to her advice. Smile more often. Consider her suggestions. She doesn’t seem quite so snippy now. Re-write together. Tell silly stories along the way. New mentor is Erica. Erica teaches me the value of simplicity. Third mentor is just who I need.

*************

CHATTING

ERICA

Natalia sends me a Christmas card. I’m so touched, I cry. That’s so sweet.
Too bad I’m Jewish. She would have known that if she hadn’t cancelled our last meeting. She’s senior. Be patient. She tries to re-schedule for the weekend I’m in L.A. I bring her card with me. I’ll send her a postcard from the West Coast. She calls while I’m out there, forgetting I’m out of town. High on ladybugs, sunshine, and whale spotting I tell her I’m staying. She screams, “Not another one!” I tell her she can join me after she finishes school. I forget to send a postcard.

NATALIA

Christmas is coming! The goose is getting fat! Can’t make it to next scheduled meeting. Rummage through rubbish for box o’ Christmas cards. Send Erica a Christmas card. I hope she likes it. A few days later. Call Erica. I’m in freezing New York. She’s in summery L.A. She threatens to stay there. Don’t leave me too! Wait. Told I can move after school’s done. No, thank you. New York is just fine for me. Wait by mailbox.

 

I Look into the Mirror
by Carol Medina, mentee

I look into the mirror and see the smooth white surface
Surrounding my body.
I got more curves not even the new Honda civic could drive.
My twists and turns … each place leading to a piece of me …
A peace of my soul.
Inner beauty.
I see in me the sun and the stars finally together … glowing …
A heart of gold … with lack of love …
Crimson rivers carrying the currents
of one’s tears, one’s pain, one’s hope, one’s fears.
I am woman.
My eyes tell the stories, tell the lies, witness my cries..
I am me.
Every crevice, every corner is full and voluptuous.
My breasts are my mountains..
My arms, my branches..
I am nature.
My pale rose lips speak their mind with sweet words that I hear.
I look into the mirror.
I look into the mirror and see that I am beauty.

 



In Between
by Jenny Cruz, mentee

Who am I?
Should I answer Jenny,
The girl on the 5th floor who lives in New York
Should I answer a friend, a sister, a daughter
Because I’m more than my name and my address

Should I answer I’m a future lawyer who doesn’t condemn dreams
Or a Dominican who loves mashed plantains and all sorts of ice creams
Should I answer I’m the one who still dances to the drum’s rhythm
See that’s all part of who I am and I can’t deny that

My thoughts go beyond what I put into words
Because I’m more than what I show
I’m not black, I’m not white
My hair is neither curly nor straight
I’m not rich but I don’t come from the street
To be honest I’m the result of mistake
A man’s journey that turned the slave, the crusader, and the Indian
into one race
My body traces the chains of slavery, the ambition of a fool
The gold and power that became an addiction of those who flew
A trip from the New World to America

Were you asking who am I in the inside or the outside?
I’m a woman who refuses to be someone’s doormat
Who wakes up with insecurities but still tries to give the best
Who enjoys inhaling air that some take for granted
Because if you ask me I consider life a gift

I’m a woman who loves with passion…
I should mention I love my Converse
with the same passion that I hate Blabbers
I’d die for my friends even knowing that I could get my heart broken
Should I mention I’m driven by an adventure that has a promise hidden

I’m this and more
And if you are puzzled and ask who am I?
I’ll have to answer
I don’t have a clue but I have a lifetime to figure what part of AM
makes me I

 

A Black Rose
by Sarah Jang, mentee

 

Hand me a black rose
That drips rotten with love…
With a secret only he knows
Show me how an angel wing grows
So that I (we) may fly above…
Hand me a black rose
Tell me what happens to souls
That were stripped of emotions and loved…
With a secret only he knows
Love me ‘til death, ‘til the end, ‘til the close
And above flies a flock of pure white doves…
Hand me a black rose
Help me remember the time that goes
A smile here and a laugh there and a shove…
With a secret only he knows
Rid me of the way ordinary flows
So we may be different without the white glove…
Hand me a black rose
With a secret only he knows.

 

Rhonda . . . Still, by Rhonda Palacio, mentee
The Invisible Size, by Mary Roma, mentor


Rhonda . . . Still

Rhonda is the sweet name,
I love to hear my mom call it

It’s like singing a lullaby
on the Congo

It’s like looking at a rainbow after an everlasting rain shower
I say “everlasting” because someone will always have the name Rhonda

My name tastes like a strawberry frappacino
With extra sugar

Rhonda is the name for
a bright young lady who will strive for knowledge

But my aunt’s name is Rhonda
And our names have different meanings

Because she’s older, wiser, and more experienced to the world than I am

Rhonda isn’t just a name,
It has meaning
Like no other

So when you call my name
You call for not only me,
But for my meaning

 

The Invisible Size

Goodbye to Mary
I don’t like the sound of my name when my mother calls it
But I like the name “Mary” when Jimi Hendrix sings it
Goodbye to . . .
I don’t know if I can leave her behind
What will happen to her?
Can’t I carry her along?
But that girl’s too heavy to carry on top of you
She’s too big for that
And I can’t be free to move
To see my new image
Or recognize me now
Instead of keeping the dress I was given
That I struggle to fit into
And it’s too tight
I split the seams
Like the Incredible Hulk
Showing my big green muscles
Of radioactivity
And shredding the leather of my shoes
I can’t carry the old mary along. Or her clothes
She’s full of nerves and bad memories
She thrashes around and holds me down
I can’t breathe
She’s been used up
Already broken down
Ready for fertilizer
For springy green grass
Goodbye to Mary
who’s afraid of dead things
That lost their power years ago
When there was no one there to protect her
Now that I let her, she’s turning away from me
Back into the shell she burst out
Thanks for the help
I won’t forget you.

 

Two Viewpoints on Desire’s Territory, by Jeanette Anderson, mentee
Twice is Carelessness, by Zaedryn Meade, mentor

I (Zaedryn)

Without you, the city has lost its shimmer. The glimmer of promise and
hope and potential. without you, my fingertips grow cold against the
mid-evening air, Union Square, and I scurry past the marketplace, the
coffee sellers, the street buskers, the paper-heart love notes taped
to trees because they have lost their meanings without you. Without
you I wander but am not lost, simply wishing to lose myself in the
emptiness of a street packed with strangers.

I want the tattoo of the swirls of your index finger on the underside
of my ribcage, the bifurcated arteries pumping blood to all the
corners of me which somehow won't stay warm without you. Without you I
am not myself. Without you I miss the ease with which my body moves.
Without you my pens are boring, screaming at me for playfulness that
will not come. Without you I'm leaving the traps you set alone and
learning to un-become a mouse. Without you I've forgotten things like
this, forgotten the ways you used to let me feed you, fill you with
rubies and nails, coil springs and diamond rings. I am without you,
without you, without you.

I (Jeanette)

Without you

sheets coil around
my sockless feet
like a king cobra
who has lost
his crown.
Waiting for his
mate to slide
across and twirl
together faster
than ballerinas
at Lincoln Center.
Each scale is
a voiceless mouth
calling for desire-
grinding into rock
into grass
into moss that
hides everything
smaller that does
not matter, does
not satisfy.
This hunger waits
too for the
dance to be over.

II (Zaedryn)

With you, the city shimmers. The glimmer of promise and hope and
potential. With you, my fingertips grow warm against the mid-evening
air, Washington Square, and I stride through the tangled paths, the
students with their backpacks, the street buskers, the paper-airplane
memories of flight taped to trees because they appear everywhere with
you. With you I wander but am not lost, simply wishing to discover
myself in the comfort of a street packed with strangers.

With you the morning glories bloom purple at midnight in November.
Their blossoms burst from the vine; though the night is cold, my palms
are warm with you. Wrists ache to hold that carefully defined shape
next to me that is with you. How will I deserve to kiss the lips that
are yours, hold the hands with your fingerprints? You were my last
first kiss and my night-blooming dreams, catapulted over moats of
defense to the sky to become stars, both of us, castor and pollux, and
I am with you.

II (Jeanette)

With you

Shed skin is left
like a python's
old body he
hadn't the strength
to carry.
I don't wash
the sheets.
I forget about cold
mocha coffee
in the kitchen,
morning mugs
sitting lonely,
NPR blaring
Iraq is still
burning-

I do remember

to never let
desire know
the definition
of ancient,
I hold it on
my tongue,
the roof of
my gums
whispering,
you
know
no
boundary.