Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 47
February 17, 2021
Poem 48 FOLD & I Read Canadian Day!
Fold
Connecting readers, educators and writers through
Extraordinary advocacy, acceptance and empathy
Lighting the path for literacy for all
Evolving the space, time and love for diverse writers
Bringing it to us live from Brampton, Ontario, Canada
Reflecting the reality that is Canada’s cultural diversity
Author representation that is explosive with the
Truth that lives in the literary landscape –
Emerging and established writers working together
reading, performing, discussing and developing
the marginalized voices of our time!
THE
Festival
Of
Literary
Diversity
Today is ‘I Read Canadian’ Day! Jump up and click your heels together, book lovers! Then settle down with a book written by a Canadian writer. Snap a pic of yourself and the book and share it on your socials with the hashtag: #ireadcanadian. Show your love and support for the Canadian writers who bring stories, poetry and information to your world through books!
In the spirit of celebrating this momentous day, I’m bringing our attention to the FOLD – the Festival of Literary Diversity. Founded in May, 2014 by author and leader Jael Richardson, the first FOLD happened in 2016 in Brampton, ON. Jael and the FOLD team has been leading the way for diverse writers in our country. “Since the flagship festival launched in May 2016, the FOLD Foundation has grown to include a reading challenge, a kids festival, an author visit series, and monthly online webinars.” The FOLD reaches into our hearts and minds through the written word, the spoken word, and through the words that bring and keep us together supporting each other’s grand diversities.
This year’s festival is virtual and happens from May 1-15th. For all the exciting information, please click here – and subscribe to their newsletter so you never miss an opportunity to learn, volunteer, and support this epic festival.
Here is the speakers’ list for this year’s festival. Immerse yourself in the outstanding spectrum of voices! And – be sure to purchase these Canadian writers’ books from your local independent bookstores. Or follow their socials to support their performances, read their work on-line and stay connected.
February 16, 2021
Poem 47 – the intimacy of skin
the intimacy of skin
“…how come, how come
I anticipate nothing as intimate as history
would I have had a different life
failing this embrace with broken things…”
From ‘thirsty’ by Dionne Brand
nothing is more intimate than skin
the bag of it
mighty body buttress clasping
the broken & betrayed
cupping loss in a wrinkled elbow
standing at attention on the round
of a raised nipple
in the case of skin
such persistent embrace
everything within is
storied
DNA histories traceable
to spectrums of beginnings &
affinities for the lies of death
fragments of selves
land on the rug
mingle with dust & dirt
skin lives
exclaims its place – a
declarative dancer
pressing against
lamenting love
lasting & lasting & lasting
To learn more about Dionne Brand, and of course, to order her books (!), please visit here.
This snow! It refuses to quit. There’s so much, when the dogs went out to pee this morning, I could see that it snuggled up against their bellies. They were a bit befuddled, the pooches. All I could think about was how grateful I was to be inside…watching. Later, I’ll bundle up and go shovel. I’ll sweat under the layers of sweater, scarf and parka. I’ll let the flakes smack me in the eyes. This is Winter at her finest. This is living in a city with seasons. This is the miracle of weather.
Novel Update: Slow. Slow it goes. Haven’t opened the file since last Wednesday. The work part of my writing life is busy. I’ve got a lot of prepping and reading to do. So I’m facing each day with a new list, new priorities. ‘Work on the novel’ is always on the list…but where…but where is always sliding.
How is your writing coming along?
February 15, 2021
Poem 46 – Mary
Mary
When she opens her eyes
the first thing she sees
is Hope – how it leans
at the foot of her bed
holding up the cheek
of dawn – directing light
on Mary’s heart
She is tired Her body
a trunk heavy with the
weight of being the change
today there is much to do
as there was yesterday as
there will be tomorrow
Passion ruffles Mary’s tummy
she smiles stretches
Henry is already awake
dressing by the window
he turns to Mary in the
golden light – blows
her a kiss
When she sits up
swings her legs over
the side of the bed
her toes anticipate
the cool of the wood
floor but pressing down
soles to standing
the feeling beneath
her is warmth
The sun supports
Mary’s goodness
offers its heated devotion
Mary will teach write
organize gather and lead
she will do this every day
beyond her body –
expanding her self into
the lives of the black
the white the all who
have life because life
is for living freely for
floors heated by the sun
for a kiss on the shoulder
of a morning breath for a
bed a home a school a
newspaper a constant
delivering of hope
When Mary opens her eyes
she sees what too many people
cannot see – she knows her
Fate is to illuminate the invisible
to distribute the impossible
she knows she can because
these miracles are spinning
alive within her
The voices of the fugitives
move through her symphonic
she is a conduit a master
for change an owner of freedom
destined to slice the shackles of racism
melt metal with education
reuse the elements – recreate
community in the dusty streets
of a small town that is bigger
than the universe
This poem was inspired by information in the City of Windsor’s culture e-blast about Mary E. Bibb and her husband Henry. Research includes: and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tchtoyUGpzE and https://blackhistorythetruthgoingforward.wordpress.com/2016/02/13/fugitive/
February 14, 2021
Poem 45 – Dedication
dedication
a name held in quotations
ink-embraced – eternal
love underlined
a precipice
a spine cupid’s arrow arrived
nineteen years of yesterdays
meet again today
lovers on the page
for us to emulate
The funny thing is I can’t remember if this book was gifted or if I purchased it myself? I suppose it doesn’t matter. The gift is that I have it and it’s a constant force of love in my writing life.
On this day of love celebration, I hope love is alive and thriving in your life. Dedicate this day to reading and writing love letters, love poetry, love notes…watch an epic love story on film. My favourite is The Way We Were, but there are so many. Get dressed up. Brush your teeth. French kiss your partner. Hug your kids and pets. If you are alone, hug yourself. Give yourself pleasure in as many ways as you can.
Of course, spread love on this day – and all days.
February 13, 2021
Poem 44 – Lines
Lines
“Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board.”
first line
invitation
“Now, women forget all those things they don’t want to remember, and remember everything they don’t want to forget.”
fifth line
under the influence
“The sun was gone, but he had left his footprints in the sky.”
twelfth line
feverish surprise
“But now, the sun and the bossman were gone, so the skins felt powerful and human.”
seventeenth line
pregnant with love child
then
stop everything and devour
until literary gestation
births a new essential
knowing
metaplasia then
action
All lines are taken from the first page of Zora Neale Hurston’s novel Their Eyes Were Watching God (available at your local independent bookstore!).
February 12, 2021
Poem 43 – Collection
Collection
“While close friendships can be seen throughout, viewers will also see how these women respectfully challenged and shaped each other’s ideas and perspectives.” Instruction Archivist, Gabrielle M. Dudley, Curator of ‘She Gathers Me: Networks Among Black Women Writers’
when we gather
the great collection
e x p a n d s
in sound & silence
in rooms & on roads
we collect the parts
of each other that need
love
forgiveness
light
we collect the
uncertainty the
depleted the lost
& hold it in the palms
of our hearts
thrum & thrash
shake & stretch
what demands to be changed
also what shouts to remain the same
in trust and good promises
we are collectors
respectful sassy
riveting sensual
dancers on the
slippery tongue of
necessary self- expression
women gathered
in sound & silence
in rooms & on roads
collect each other’s souls
in the grace of fierce
knowing
that womanhood
is a sisterhood of
devotion to the
wild spirit of
empowerment
Members of The Sisterhood, 1977, a writing collective/circle founded by Alice Walker and June Jordan in NYC. Front row, left to right: Nana Maynard, Ntozake Shange, Louise Meriweather, back row, left to right; Vertamae Smart-Grosvenor, Alice Walker, Audrey Edwards, Toni Morrison and June Jordan. Image: abladeofgrass.org. The woman in the photo on the wall is Bessie Smith.Research:
“She Gathers Me” exhibit tours libraries statewide
February 11, 2021
Poem 42 – Considering History
Considering History
“There were humans long before there was history.” pg. 4, Sapiens, A Brief History of Human Kind by Yuval Noah Harari
This past of ours
riddled with riddles
with punchlines
we’re still discovering.
But lines, oh yes,
they are rich. Lines
of life stretched across
the planet for millions
of years –
including the line of
Homo Sapiens
one of three species
in the genus homo (man).
We are the wise (sapiens).
This makes me giggle.
Also, it vibrates my brain
in a way that causes
waves of pain.
Consider the impact of
story. That for millions
of years our story was…
something.
Consider the impact
of the story that one
group of us is less than.
The riddle and the
punchline – to be punched.
This makes me weep.
Also, it vibrates my brain
in a way that causes
waves of pain.
There was a ‘we’
long, long before
there were any stories
that this ‘we’ was
to be separated.
It’s a lot to consider
that violent raging stories
came from the same
brain that figured out fire
and language and felt love
for millennia.
History is…what?
Certainly real.
Malleable. Shiftable.
Evolutionary.
Consider the living it now
the ‘we’ of the wise man
is
revolutionary.
What history
are you
living?
What ‘we’
are we
story-making?
Novel Update: Yesterday I wrote for two hours. Not straight, but I wrote. I forced myself to sit and wait. To think. To unfold. Today is busy with other commitments. I’m not sure if I’ll fit in writing for the novel. It’s a new moon too. I put on a dress to greet her.
I’m reading a lot. Poking my brain into different books. This one, received from The Husband as a Christmas gift, Sapiens A Brief History of Human Kind by Yuval Noah Narari…golly, it’s jiggling my mind. I can only read a little at the time. But it’s important, to jiggle the brain. And the booty.
So today, let’s work the jiggling – read a hard book, shake your booty in the kitchen while prepping a meal.
Shake it. Shake. It. Up.
February 10, 2021
Poem 41 – Nella Larson Lives
Nella Larson Lives
“At the time of her death, her work had been forgotten.” pg. 551, The Norton Anthology of American Literature, 1914-1945, Volume D
Two novels conceived in the belly
of a biracial beast
quicksand unsteady under soles
her soul passing back and forth
between black and white and why
What is culture between cultures?
Who goes there and what belongs as truth?
Where does the privilege of being remembered
begin and end?
Identity is a slippery snake
slamming into the slick of
ignorant-eyed judges – icebergs
above and below the waters of worth
Nella, we have not forgotten you
Right here
Right now
Your name in lights
flashing to the rhythm
of Time’s heartbeat
Death does not become legacy
in your books you are black ink white pages
you are all of your words
permanent
Nella Larson (1891-1964) was a writer, an integral part of the Harlem Renaissance, who penned two novels, Quicksand (1928) and Passing (1929) published by the prestigious publisher Alfred A. Knopf. The daughter of a white mother (Danish) and a black father (West Indian), Larson asked herself “how there could be such a thing as racial authenticity if there was no such thing as ‘pure’ race.” (pg. 550, The Norton Anthology of American Literature, 1914-1945, Volume D).
https://restlessbooks.org/nella-larsenNovel update. Status: slow-going and ‘ugggggghhhh’.
Didn’t work on the novel at all over the weekend. Wrote for 1 hour on Monday and 1 hour yesterday. Each hour was painful…the words hiding. I hope today is better. I think that one of the reasons I’m struggling is because of where I’m at in the storyline. There huge plot points that need to happen. They’re taking their time revealing themselves. The characters are…being coy or stubborn…or both.
This Friday, I get to talk to students about being a poet and a writer for a virtual workshop. I’m excited…I will let them know about the struggling and the joy.
February 9, 2021
Poem 40 – Jazz with Zora
Jazz with Zora
For Zora Neale Hurston
Zora takes me to The New World Cabaret in Harlem.
We treat it like the meal that it is, murmur excitedly
our plans to gorge ourselves on the orchestra’s specials.
We are plunged in the mighty supping of temp
toe-tapping & trumpet. It fuses our light together
in a fury of indulgence. I watch Zora.
See her skin vibrating, witness her chameleon
shifts – red yellow blue. She looks a murderess
raging her assegai into the smokey air like a trophy.
My mouth opens into whooooop! I slap my knee
so hard it knives in prickly pain. Laughter falls
onto the small table between us peppering our
sweaty glasses of golden liquids. After, when
what’s left of the music sits on our shoulders,
Zora stares at me. I feel my cheeks redden
rising to meet her glare. In a soft lean, she
whispers in my ear, her voice thrumming my
earlobe like snare drum wires. Her words
are dessert. Sugary, painfully delicious.
Then up the fingers stand. Puckering lips
engage & the spectrum of jazz zaps us again.
No oceans or continents between us. Our
wild howling selves – revealed
sizzling.
I found Zora in The Norton Anthology of American Literature – 1914-1945, Volume D. Immediately upon reading, I felt a core kinship with Zora. When I looked at a photo of her, sleek in a dress, necklace kissing her collarbone, black hat happy to be there, I felt like we’d have been close pals. There’s a section from a text entitled I Love Myself When I Am Laughing…and Then Again When I Am Looking Mean and Impressive (1979), edited by Alice Walker, that’s called: How It Feels to Be Coloured Me. I read it all. Took a highlighter to most of her words, each one to be revelled in. But a section on an experience she had with a white man at a jazz club shook me deeply. Especially since I can’t seem to get enough jazz these day…like it’s the soundtrack to my torso, the thing that gets my shoulders lifted. The section describes what jazz feels like to Zora…how it “constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies….rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond…” I found myself talking out loud, mm-hmmming to the air around me in agreement with her stunning words. So, I thought…I’d like to join Zora. Let her take me to a jazz club. See what happens.
To find out more about Zora Neale Hurston, click HERE for her website.
Photo by Carl Van Vechten, 1938
February 8, 2021
Poem 39 – Willow Grove, New Brunswick, 1815
Willow Grove, New Brunswick, 1815
For Alexander Diggs
Arriving is a physical
& mental biting down
a swallowing of exhaustion
stretched out over time skin
but dignity is leading
a leather strap in these
hands that are crusted
with racism hatred slavery
grasped in the victory of
this coming into home
In the river wash these hands
but hold what seeped in
wisdom protest song
the right to exist freely
though what’s right
shifts like quick sand
Here in 1815 the land
is rocky & small filled
with strings attached
to white lies relentless
Here with my family
beyond miracles
on the other side
in the devastating
beginnings of hope-tilled
survival
This body stolen bound dragged
can and does and will endure
this heart plants seeds in tomorrows
so todays can sleep – this heart
flayed is colossal crowned
Weeping souls grow stronger
can’t own can’t fish can’t vote
contractions birth premature
pain & change is a plight
prescribed by prejudice –
stunted growth is still growth
it can and does and will
be delivered these are
immaculate conceptions
Determination honour legacy
on scarred backs whipped
on broken necks strangled
yet this voice lifts
resettles for eternities
anger cascades into joy
simple possible calm
Like the first seedling emerged
thrusting for light like dusty
laughter on dawn’s rose cheek
These eyes containers of
discovery to be discovered
teachers from the past
permanent stamps inking
black paths into nows
These feet standing
bearing down into an
earth that understands
destruction & destiny
This mouth opens
exclaiming truth
in the lines on this face
freedom exhales
again & again
For the past thirteen years, to educate and bring awareness to black Canadians during Black History Month, Canada Post has created stamps that depict black Canadians’ stories and lives. This year’s stamps include images from Amber Valley, Alberta and Willow Grove, New Brunswick, two black settlements. The stamps are designed by Lara Minja of Lime Design Inc.. The artist is Rick Jacobson.
Research: www.google.com/amp/s/globalnews.ca/news/7586928/canada-post-stamp-willow-grove-settlers/amp/
www.bittergrounds.com/black-history-month-2021-grow-nb-stamp/
Alexander Diggs and Eliza Taylor
