Jason Reynolds's Blog, page 12

Day 10 of 30

HAIKU FOR A GOOD BOOK OR GOOD MUSIC OR GOOD LOVE

reach into me and

grab hold of my ribcage and

rattle me alive

Day 9 of 30

BECKON

look a child

in the eye

and tell them

you love them

enough times

tell them you love them

enough times

for the child

in the eye

of the child

to return

Day 8 of 30

UNTITLED

4/8/16

the best

love poems

gotta be

the ones

i don’t have

to write

for you

to read

Day 7 of 30

WHEN BOOKER HIT THE STAMP

April 7, 1940

Booker T. Washington

became the first black

person to be put on a stamp

I wonder how many licks

became hack-up spits

on the back

how many envelopes

were holed by being

pressed too hard

how many just refused

for fear that this was

omen adhesive

or negro juju

like Booker would

paper cut white skin

into bleeding human

Day 6 of 30

PORT: WHAT YOU REALIZE WHEN YOU TRAVEL (experimenting with some things, lol)

Black.

America’s

greatest import

wicked transport

without passport

stripping stripping

pious purport

never comport

police report

whipping whipping

culture deport

bandwidth airport

greatest export

shipping shipping

Black

America

Day 5 of 30

IF TRUMP WINS #1: ON EMPATHY

We’re coming, Canada! We’re coming! we call

Vancouver, Toronto, oh, sweet Montreal!

By plane or by train, bus, car, run, walk, crawl

Only to be met by a much bigger wall

Day 4 of 30

WHAT IT’S REALLY LIKE TO BE A WRITER (OR WHAT IT’S LIKE TO KNOW HOW TO DO ANYTHING)

i find a tree and chop the wood

then take a limb and skin a branch

then drag the lumber bundled good

to where i plan to start my ranch

i’m young enough to dig the hole

to form foundation in the mud

i mix concrete with all my soul

and build a frame with all my blood

i cut my hand to make a trowel

and with its edge lay plaster thick

i run the wires through the bowel

i make with clay and stagger brick

i cut a space to set a door

and to the frame i nail a hinge

a shingled roof a wooden floor

a flowerbed for fancy fringe

once young enough to chop that tree

to skin that branch and dig that hole

and though i’m proud of what i see

i’ve suffered now a builder’s toll

and as i rest in what i’ve done

the work that’s left me warm but weak

you have the nerve to ask for one

and beg to have it by next week

Day 3 of 30

UNTITLED

4/3/16

my mama said

the world will give me

blister and bruise

will make me brute

a block of boiling

blood a bastard abused

abusive abrasive

an abscess on its ass

a question to be asked

why is he still alive

and why does he still

think we care that he’s

alive is the nickname

of your future

and the nickname

of your father

she said

so learn to sew

a button on a shirt

and cook a meal

and iron a wrinkle

and braid a kink

and blow a kiss

and pluck a flower

and jot a note

and know that gentle

independence is the salve

that will keep your

salvation from bleeding

when you reach out

for her

Day 2 of 30

STANDING IN FRONT OF THE MONA LISA

March 23, 2016

i went to see the famous smile

encased in glass and golden frame

and stood amongst the mass a while

pretended to admire style

then gave into the guessing game

i wondered if he knew her well

a lover or some other kin

where did dear Mona Lisa dwell

what story did she have to tell

what secrets lie behind that grin

but then it struck me rather odd

as camera clicked for like and share

da Vinci’s brush a mighty rod

but legend’s the omniscient god

convincing us we have to care

Here we go! National Poetry Month, 30/30 Day 1

IN SEARCH OF

I searched for Baldwin

at a cafe on Rue Saint-Ambroise

in the black of the coffee

in the fresh of the pastry

in the shake of my french

in the cigarette smoke

in the ornate curve of

terrace ironwork

and the peeling skin

of hand-painted signage

I searched for him

in the bloody wine

and the bubble water

in the vintage shops

(looking for his shoes

his belt)

and even in a book I was reading

written by someone else

cliche wrapped around me

like a fine Parisian scarf

I searched for me

black boy writer

now stammering infant

both abandoned and coddled

in a place that didn’t talk me

didn’t know me

but knew who I was searching for

but didn’t care who

I was searching for

because they too were searching for

who was better, Biggie or Tupac?

as the server set the coffee down

You like Wu-Tang?

as the driver made a left

What you think about Nas?

Kendrick, right?

as the bartender poured the third glass

of red

and turned the music up

and for the first time

I searched for Baldwin there too