Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 46
February 26, 2021
Poem 57 – malcolm & marie
malcolm & marie
a haiku
marie’s white girl voice
dances a tango of truth
in shades of ripe grey
Malcolm & Marie, a thunderstorm of a film written and directed by Sam Levinson and starring Zendaya and John David Washington, pulled me into its glamorous black and white world (oh the layers of meaning in these two words/worlds) where nothing is black and white…and everything is black and white. I was riveted as I watched, feeling shards of Mike Nichols’ 1966 relationship rage film ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf?‘, starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, fall around me on my sofa. Yes, there are comparisons to be made between these two films, each at their essences grand, masterful, slick and precise reflections of love between two people and their love for themselves…or the pendulum swing between loving and hating one’s self and how that affects the other. Malcolm & Marie is complicated and outrageous and perfect and sublime and maddening. What a cocktail!
I barely breathed for the slamming of dynamic dialogue and outstanding performances between and by Washington and Zendaya. I felt myself attach to Marie’s thin white tank top and hang on for dear life. It’s been weeks since the film first smacked me in the face and my cheeks are still stinging. This two-character wild ride was filmed during the current pandemic when real-life isolation adds a thick layer of greasy emotions to ‘work’ no matter what the work is. There are many great interviews, in words and in video, about the making of this film and the outcomes of the film, all of which are worth grinding into on a Sunday afternoon. It’s an emotional, educational and enigmatic hole in which to fall into – you’ll land on your feet, but you’ll be off-balance, as the themes in the film will have spun you about in the best of ways.
MALCOLM & MARIE (L-R): ZENDAYA as MARIE, JOHN DAVID WASHINGTON as MALCOLM. DOMINIC MILLER/NETFLIX © 2021
February 25, 2021
Poem 56 – Uncle Eddie
Uncle Eddie
That red leather suit
Zipper all the way down
Shiny chest topped with a gold medallion
Teeth so bright
Smile so urgent
That backthroat laugh
Sucking for air
Eddie Murphy in the living room
On the VHS
Play stop rewind play
Memorize the ice cream bit
Shakin’ my hips screamin’ and singin’ along
Little me fan-girlin’ for days
For years following him on screens big and small
Beverly hills cop
Golden child
Coming to America
SNL
Then with my kids
Mulan
Dolittle
Donkey
Daddy Day Care on repeat
That red leather suit though…
That laugh…
Epic
Iconic
Forever
photo credit HEREI was listening to the radio this morning and the DJ played a clip of talking about part of the production for Coming to America. He said that the studio had told him that there needed to be at least one white person in the film, so he cast the ‘funniest white guy around’ at the time, Louie Anderson. Coming 2 America comes out on Amazon Prime on March 5, 2021.
It got me thinking about Eddie Murphy and what a staple he was, and continues to be, in my life. As a kid, I watched all his stand-up (when I was way too young…), and watched his films as they came out over the years. He had a second coming when I had kids and we watched his movies together, some over and over. Now that my kids are older, we’ve begun sharing his stand-up and watching his break-out roles on Saturday Night Live.
Eddie Murphy makes me laugh and think and laugh some more. He’s like my dream uncle who visits on wild whims and stays as long as he wants. His conversation with Jerry Seinfeld on Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee is stellar. Thanks for making us laugh and think and laugh some more, Eddie!
February 24, 2021
Poem 55 – Audre
Audre
for Audre Lorde
Audre lives in the volcanic intersections of
race | sex | class | phobia
I know who I am [exclamation mark]
I said, I know how I am [exclamation mark] [voice loud]
I am a black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet [exclamation mark] [foot stomp]
[hand on hip] Who are you
I said, who are you
Audre is fierce confrontation
bubbling rage gurgling out of her fingertips
the blood of killed black children inking
lines of protest
Audre sits in fury
unfolding the truth of the revolution
radically rushing from her soul
Furthermore [exclamation mark]
Mastectomy is a sentence for strength
against the ugly face of a disease
that thrives on silence
I survive [exclamation mark | hands on breast]
What do you do, sisters
Audre celebrates differences and the
landscapes of growth therein
Audre’s treacherous magic
palpitates the collective hearts
of women everywhere
Open your hearts, women [smile]
When you let me in you’ll know
that i’ve already been alive in you
the ocean’s pounding voice
against your spine – that’s me
Unleash the tempest
of refusing silence [exclamation mark]
I will stand beside you [offers hand]
Research: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/audre-lorde
Book: Literary Witches A Celebration of Magical Women Writers by Taisia Kitaiskaia, illustrated by Katy Horan
February 23, 2021
Poem 54 – We Can, We Will, We Must
“We Can, We Will, We Must”
For Annamie Paul, Leader of Canada’s Green Party
hers is a voice
epic
braided with mother grandmother
legacy – learned & lived advocacy
rallying determination with the
passionate grace of a phoenix in flight
she’s thundering author
of the book of radical daring change
she’s pounding rhythm of
We can!
We will!
We must!
the mouthpiece majesty of courage
in the loops of stilted melodies in
need of diversity
she turns heads
to face the tumultuous now
the collector of Hope’s
wild child Action!
Granddaughter
Daughter
Mother
Wife
Leader
pay attention!
hands are joining in
togetherness
step into the dance of
inclusive
possible
energetic
vibrant victory!
photo image: https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thecurrent/the-current-for-oct-5-2020-1.5750419/annamie-paul-is-canada-s-first-black-leader-of-a-federal-party-she-says-it-shouldn-t-have-taken-this-long-1.5750815To learn more about Annamie Paul, please visit her website HERE.
February 22, 2021
Poem 53 – An Act
An Act
“Spontaneous creativity is a supreme act of trust.” pg. 175-76, One Day My Soul Just Opened Up by Iyanla Vanzant
trust the lifting
of your mouth the pressure on
your cheeks the squeezing of
light from your eyes
the spontaneous creativity of smiling
is a kind shout from your face in service to the world
your smiling face is supreme love
supremely loved
Happy Monday, friends! Smile! Smile! Smile!
February 21, 2021
Poem 52 – Headstones on the Potomac Shore
Headstones on the Potomac Shore
The Potomac coughs up headstones
from the Columbian Harmony Cemetery.
Heavy slabs of memories choke on a story
that won’t stop repeating its violent conflicts.
The bodies of 37,000 black residents uprooted
reburied – names replaced with the silence of sold markers.
For 60 years Keckley, Fleetwood, Shadd and more
six feet under footsteps that do not know soul’s writhe
beneath withering in the agony of unrest. It’s time the water’s
throat clears that the lapping lips of Hope’s swan song
recovers the melodies of lives lived – re-tell celebrate remember
so the wrong is dammed – stopped in flow to reap its finish line.
Heave and lift the stones by heart and hand – do not ever do this again.
Research: https://www.cbsnews.com/news/columbian-harmony-cemetery-history-37000-black-dc-residents/
*Note: Yesterday’s poem was 51 not 50 making today’s 52.
February 20, 2021
Poem 51 – Movement
“Social movement doesn’t come all at once, just as it doesn’t come out of nowhere. There are moments when it captures the news, like the National Guard in Little Rock, and then we don’t hear anything about it nationally for a year, two years, three years, four years, five years – and then wham!” pg. 133, The Measure of a Man by Sidney Poitier (2000)
movement requires action
internal shifts
muscles rolling
opinions grafting
the soul gathering intentions
it requires connectivity
between parts
gesticulations & contemplations
movements make an aircraft fly
a watch reveal time
progressive by nature
developmental declarative
movement is war & peace
silence & weeping
a ridding of waste
from the body
tempo key structure
in sound
a campaign of
motivated collective
wham!
advancement for
better or worse
a choice on fire
a genuflection to the art of change
both patient & impatient
a dichotomy of difference
held in the womb
of Hope’s pregnant centre
alive in the then now tomorrow
For more on Sidney Poitier, click here.
Poem 50 – Movement
“Social movement doesn’t come all at once, just as it doesn’t come out of nowhere. There are moments when it captures the news, like the National Guard in Little Rock, and then we don’t hear anything about it nationally for a year, two years, three years, four years, five years – and then wham!” pg. 133, The Measure of a Man by Sidney Poitier (2000)
movement requires action
internal shifts
muscles rolling
opinions grafting
the soul gathering intentions
it requires connectivity
between parts
gesticulations & contemplations
movements make an aircraft fly
a watch reveal time
progressive by nature
developmental declarative
movement is war & peace
silence & weeping
a ridding of waste
from the body
tempo key structure
in sound
a campaign of
motivated collective
wham!
advancement for
better or worse
a choice on fire
a genuflection to the art of change
both patient & impatient
a dichotomy of difference
held in the womb
of Hope’s pregnant centre
alive in the then now tomorrow
For more on Sidney Poitier, click here.
February 19, 2021
Poem 50 – Markers
Markers
“…we know where the markers are
for where we buried the children…”
From Day 46, 100 Days by Juliane Okot Bitek
grief knows how to grow
reflects the truth slowly – how
child souls resurrect
Today I went to Gertrude’s Writing Room and there was no internet. Can you imagine? It immediately became a sacred space…even more, if that’s possible. The silence in the air was filled with gratitude. I crouched before bookshelves filled with poetry and I pulled out book after book…sifting through…diving in…I crouched so long my feet felt tingly from loss of blood circulation. I revisited poetry I hadn’t read in years. I found Juliane Okot Bitek’s ‘100 Days’, a collection I’d read when I was on a jury for a big poetry award. She made my long-list. Her collection is 100 poems of remembering the “lingering nightmare of the Rwandan Genocide”, published by The University of Alberta Press in 2016. Every word still relavent today…still as heavy and heartfelt.
Writing a poem a day is proving to be quite a creative experience. Yesterday’s poem took me over two hours from start to ‘post’. I’ve been doing research. Gathering history. My commitment (to myself) to writing about black history all month feels hard some days. I can feel the weight of my own pressure to open new books, share stories that are new to me, say out loud names that changed the world and the bodies and minds that endured these magnificent changes…many at the hands of violence and hatred. I hope my goal to unfold and reveal is being reached.
I’ve always believed that writing is one of humanity’s greatest gifts to each other. I’m grateful for the words and how they pave and connect and re-connect our souls over time.
This month has been weighted for other reasons too. My novel is holding up a white flag – calling out for surrender. It wants me to get back to it. To pay attention. To capture what’s been waiting to be captured. I’ve stepped away from her battlefront in an effort to do ‘other’ work. I will be reflecting on this month that was ‘supposed’ to be dedicated to completing the first draft of this novel…and how seemingly easily it’s been to push it aside. Priorities flip each day. I cringe when I hear ‘you’re so busy!’…I cringe in guilt and an self-sabotage. Things, not just my novel, get put in the ‘wait’ line. I feel bad for how I prioritize. How does one choose which project to work on when all of them are from the heart?
As I was researching 21st century Canadian poets, Wikipedia offered a list of 795. Some local writer’s name’s included. I felt a push of envy under my sternum. Thought but didn’t dare say out loud: why am I not on this list? Then I thought, it’s Wikipedia. I can add my name to the list. I can write my own Wikipedia page. I clicked on a link that said: edit. But there was all this other information. More links. What’s my account name? Is what you’re saying legit? Read here for legalities…I x-ed out of the page. Feeling scared, but also silly. Don’t want to think about the implications of me stopping myself from creating a page about ‘me’. Wait until you win an award…a voice peeps. I turned up the Nina Simone. Drowned out all the other voices with her silky tones.
Yesterday I received four rejections. They flew into my inbox in a quick succession. I sighed loudly. A lot. I printed them out, the rejections. Then I felt guilty for not submitting more, more, more despite the fat pile of contests and guidelines next to my laptop in my office. When will I write? When will I write, edit, revise and submit? And how can I not feel more celebratory for the honourable mention for a poem I received on Monday? I barely mentioned it…felt shy to post it here…Yes, I do need to reflect on my writing life and dig in the deeps to find out what’s going on with my ability to believe in myself.
So let me tell you, I won an honourable mention in the Planet Earth Poetry ekphrastic writing contest. It was judged by the fabulous Terry Ann Carter. The poem is called ‘scratches’…Here is what Terry Ann had to say about the piece: Here is a poet in love with language, spinning and playing at every inter/section. Glinting at the edge of the page is the presence of mystery.
I blush when I read these words! I remember the feeling I had when I wrote the poem. How the image I saw immediately conjured words out of my body…how I felt cold…trapped…like I was scratching to escape. And the words did…the escaped. And I didn’t hard about them. I trusted their reasons for being. I read the poem out loud. I submitted it. And that.was.it. That process doesn’t happen every time. But when it does…golly it’s somethin’ else.
It’s Friday. Tomorrow I teach a three-hour Intro-to-Poetry workshop. I’ve been prepping it all week. I’m excited to teach. I’m excited for the exhilarated exhaustion I will feel afterwards.
February 18, 2021
Poem 49 – The Poet for Phillis Wheatley Peters
The Poet
For Phillis Wheatley Peters
age seven
seized in Senegal
sentenced to slavery
one tender body in
a shipment of shame
under a robe of dirty rug
slender child nearly naked
suffering the vived change
in climate and freedom –
shivers
the ship captain in haste
her frailty no reason to
stutter sells her to
the Bostonian Wheatly whites
before dusting but after dishes –
reading and writing
a daily gift given to the
child eager to learn
her mind adventuring in astronomy
gaining in geography hurling into
history lusting for literature and
blessed by the Bible – decided
poetry comes like the dawn
naturally necessarily and
the parade begins
slave poet published
among the whites
pressed like a spine
against the slave-ship
dungeon wood
enslaved and educated
the dynamic duo dazzles
by 13 her words splashed
in the Rhode Island Mercury –
‘On Messr. Hussey and Coffin’
but her Whitefield elegy put
to pamphlet and broadsheet
elevates her to national renown
the Wheatley wife defied the
resistance of her peers and
with asthma weighing down
her lungs she sailed to London
where the presses were
less hateful
the young woman
then 18 with 25 poems
to her credit is supported
by a wealthy abolitionist countess
who helped get a book to bound
Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral
ink dried and distributed in 1774
the poetess becomes the first
African American to publish a volume
of poetry ‘in modern time’
adoring the couplet
exercising the elegy
her poetry demonstrating
form and fervour
her heart and mind
delivers a destiny
raising religion and respect
to patrons and presidents
and then a slashing shift in time
manumitted in 1774 – the sorrow
of the dead white wife a cloak
on her page the ‘African genius’
feels her place between
servant and slave in
the fog between
family and freedom
through war and recession
marriage and childbirth
poetry flows like tears
until illness wrapped in
destitution was the frontier
of the page on which she created
on the threadbare hem of America’s
own struggles for freedom the
poetess advertises her second
collection – 33 poems 13 letters
for publication and left in the gutter
with the wrinkled daily news
soaking in the easy drowning
of yesterday’s hollering dreams
still perseverance pursues
she publishes more elegies and
a 64-line poem Liberty and Peace
said poem being the corner fold
on the last page of her book of Life
her husband behind bars
Death becomes the poetess
she dies alone – a daring participle
going gone being been seeing seen
Death took with him her body and blood
and much of the ink she dripped from her soul
a life in letters and literature slammed
into staggering stanzas of poetry
continues untethered into today
captured by an ignorant system
exploited by a cruel race
critiqued by unkind peers
Phillis Wheatley Peters
radiant slave child
wrapped in a dirty rug
weaves poetry into
the torn-up fabric
of freedom’s frantic
becoming
Research: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/phillis-wheatley
