Rosalind Guy's Blog, page 40

Ramshackle Castles in the Sky

The following poem is dedicated to the memories of Bessie Smith, Gertrude “Ma” Rainey, and Billie Holiday. I’ve been reading Blues Legacies and Black Feminism by Angela Davis and it has been an educational experience in which I’m learning a lot, and also realizing that nothing ever changes. It’s amazing how the more things change, the more they stay the same.

“The birth of the blues was aesthetic evidence of new psychosocial realities within the black population,” as Davis states in the book. She also discusses the pushback from those in the black community who perceived the blues lyrics as being a sort of vilification of the black male, when all they were doing was singing about the experiences that women were having in the years following their release from slavery, when black people were finally free to choose their mates. The new freedom brought with it new attitudes, expectations, relationship dynamics, and sexual freedom for both black women and black men. Still, one of the prevailing attitudes back then, one that is still persistent today, was that “race must always take precedence, that race is implicitly gendered as male.” In other words, don’t speak ill of the black male. Hmph. I call bullshit. The blues, whether expressed in song, poem, story, or play, is a way for the artist to transform pain into something beautiful.

For those beautiful Queens of the Blues:

I���m tired of breaking my own heart

I���m ready to move on, knowing that

I never meant more to you than I

once meant to myself and that ain���t sayin��� much.

They say if you don���t love yourself,

you���ll meet someone else who doesn���t love you

either, someone who���ll help you

not love yourself. And that���s what you

did for me; you helped me not love me.

You made promises you knew you���d never

keep, kept promising to love me,

to one day love me like I love you, but reality has

been staring me in the face for some time now

asking if you don���t love me today, why

would you love me tomorrow?

I���ve fallen down the ladder so many times,

trying to reach those castles in the sky you

built for me, but they���ve always been out of reach

for me; the door to the castle is locked and you

threw away the key cuz you never planned to let

me in. It���s just a good thing that while you were building

castles up too far away for me to reach,

I was building my own castles.

And I���m going home now, to a palace that

was built specially for me by someone who truly

loves me and doesn���t need to play with my mentality

to prove that love is a fragile mistress that can never

be satisfied as long as there are only promises with

no manifestations in reality. This is a door that was

left open for me and I don���t even need a key.

I just have to want to enter. I started making that journey

way back when I realized you were a jester of love, someone

who plays with love to suit your childish needs. And now

I can walk away, hand in hand, with me

and never bother to look back,

trying to find a castle in the sky

that never really existed in the first place.

So whatever the Hell you built up there for me,

just place a sign out front: For Sale, She didn���t believe me,

but maybe you will. And that���s the way it���ll end, for me

anyway.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

scars on my heart

This is just a little something I’ve been working on. It’s the first draft, of course.

i gave u my smile

u promised 2 keep it,

2 protect it like the sun

does its rays, but u gave it away.

traded it like a pair of used

shoes & now she wears my smile.

and she uses my second-hand

smile to kill me softly, carve up

my heart till its shredded to pieces

& she drops the pieces down

my throat till I choke on

the stolen smile. now i know

ur words were dull-edged knives

that couldn���t even carve butter,

but somehow they carved me

into a girl who watched as u

made me choke on the love

i had for u, made me slide down

a frayed rope that left burns inside my

palms and i know u never really

loved me, just wanted to prove to me

that i don���t matter at all.

good job. i have no trouble at all

believing that i mean nothing to u

& that my smile was just a parachute

u used to jump to safety, yet

somehow i ended up with the

broken bones & scars all over my body.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Love is Freeing Me

I spent my whole life running

from the monsters who were

living beneath my bed. At least

that���s the lie I tell myself. In actuality,

I have always welcomed the monsters

who chased me, who held me captive

in never ending dreams. As long as I

focused on the monsters, I never had to

look fully at me and see how I felt so

incomplete. I embraced those monsters

who tried to kill me, fully, allowing them

to block out the light that radiated

within me, the light that has always

struggled to light the way for me. A light

so strong, it worked on its own to break free

in order to show me that Love,

when it shows up, will embrace me, not

strangle me. Love will allow me to be free

within myself. Love will show me, no guide me,

back to my true self. Love will show me

that I was never wrong to trust in the power

of Love. That while I thought I was seeking

Love, I was only trying to Love away my monsters.

That���s why I continued to linger in places

where I never ever belonged. Love will help me

break free from the monsters who terrorized me

with my own willingness to hold on to what I knew

was killing me. And finally, I���ll be able to Love

myself and to Love fully

all those who already have been loving me.

So, excuse me, while I watch Love defend me

against the monsters who���ve been crowding me

out of my own life and taking up space,

cuz I finally want to be free for Love.

It’s no secret I’ve been thinking about love a lot during this past year. Before this year, I’d been waging war after war, trying to get people who loved me within their boundaries to stretch out and love me the way I needed to be loved. I often compare my past relationships to trying to complete a puzzle. I’m down on the floor with all the pieces scattered, trying to see the big picture, the one that’s pictured on the box and I can’t wait to have the mess of pieces assembled so they look like the picture on the box. And, of course, the person who I am in a relationship with is there helping me. Only, it seems, at some point, they realize the puzzle will never come together and look like the one on the box. But, I couldn’t see that. I wanted that picture so badly that I started shoving pieces within the frame of the puzzle, anywhere, and those that fit easily became my motivation to shove those that didn’t fit in the spaces where I was trying to shove them…well, I’d just shove them harder. It never occurred to me that in doing that, I still wouldn’t have the picture on the box. I just didn’t want to let go of the image I had pictured in my head, so I continued to fight.

This week I’ve been talking to a very close friend of mine about love. This person is struggling to let go of the image she saw on the box as well. It’s a difficult fight for her; I can hear it in her voice every time she speaks. Her words say that she’s tired of fighting when the person she’s in the relationship with clearly doesn’t want to fight for her; in fact, the person has never been fighting for her, but for his own needs.

Letting go of something we’ve always wanted is hard. But it’s gathering the strength to face the difficult decisions that helps to put us on the path to receive all that life has in store for us. We have to learn to close some doors, so that other doors can be opened to us. But, in the end, we live the life we do based on the choices we make.

Through one of the conversations we had this week, I realized I harbor no ill feelings toward those people (there’s only been three and one of them is my ex-husband) who chose not to love me the way I wanted to be loved, those people who loved me but kept their walls up because I wasn’t the person they were searching for. I am glad that these people had the strength of their convictions to continue searching for the person who they could fully love without boundaries. I will always value the life lesson these experiences taught me: Just because a person is a good person and you get along doesn’t mean they are the person you should share your life with. It’s important to be equally yoked, to want the same things, to be seeking the same life, and to want to complete the puzzle together. I am in a place of peace. And that is my place of love. A space where I love me and all the people who love me fully and freely.

I hope that you are in that space as well. A space where all things come together and start to make sense. A place where you can look at something that is not right for you and release it. Because it is only through releasing the things that are not meant for you that you can have your hands open to receive the things that are meant for you.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

A Year of Great Memories

At the beginning of 2014, I started keeping a jar of good memories. Every time something good happened, something made me smile, I received a surprise gift, accomplished goals, had “lol” moments, daily blessings, and just had any memories that were worth saving, I added it to the jar. I admit I didn’t always remember to jot down the good things so I’d have these memories to relish at the end of the year, but as I read the slips of paper today, I smiled the entire time. I only wish I had written down all the things that made me smile because this is one way to remember that 2014 was a good year.

Some of the highlights of the year were:

I met someone who changed my life this year, my best friend.

There were lots of moments of being entertained by Cameron. He went through a period where he had not an imaginary friend, but an imaginary son. His wife’s name was Quinsley. And there were lots of “lol” moments from him.

Sharon Draper and Pearl Cleage, two authors whose work I admire, agreed to be spotlighted in my Ten Questions, Ten Answers column on this blog. I was super honored to have them featured on my blog.

I had my getaway at the Garden of Dreams bed & breakfast in Eureka Springs. The time away provided time for reflection and lots of time for writing and reading. I came back feeling rejuvenated. It was my first big girl trip away from home.

I received a surprise royalty check in the mail from Amazon for my book Tattered Butterfly Wings, which was published in 2014.

My son bought me a present for his birthday, a nice pen from Tiffany’s. He wanted to show his appreciation for all I’d done for him.

One of my blog followers called my work, “inspirational.”

My daughter graduated from the University of Memphis.

A fellow English teacher came and sought me out to tell me that I’d made quite an impression on one of my former students. She told me that this student writes about me and how I inspire her in a lot of her journal entries for the class.

On April 4, I was so happy talking to my best friend that “I smiled so hard & long that my face hurt.”  I didn’t know that was really possible.

I got sparkly socks.

My best friend bought me a bouquet of flowers for my birthday.

My former students bought me gifts for Christmas. This was totally unexpected and very much appreciated.

As I read through these great memories, I felt truly grateful for all the moments I experienced this year. As this year is ending, I have experienced more than a few things to leave me feeling depressed. My car is out of commission and I don’t know yet what I’m going to do about it. My vacuum cleaner started smoking when I was using it. But reflecting on these moments keeps me feeling blessed. I’m not ending the year feeling defeated, just hoping for a replay of this year with some extras thrown in.

I wish I had been doing this before and I will definitely continue this through the years. As creative artists, it’s so easy to feel defeated, especially when we are sending our work out into the world, hoping for acceptance, and receive rejection letters instead. And I did receive my share of rejection letters this year. In fact, one of the slips of paper in my jar read: “I received a rejection letter this year that didn’t break me; it encourages me to continue writing.”

I share this with you so that you can come up with your own way to experience gratitude. An attitude of gratitude can make all the difference in the world. It lets the universe know that you appreciate what you have so that you can be rewarded with more.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

My Heart Bleeds (Revised)

I posted the first draft of this poem some weeks ago; here’s the revised version.

My heart bleeds

4 the daughters who

I didn’t birth naturally,

no bruised flesh birth &

no bloated feet birth &

no stretch marks birth &

no result of being fucked birth.

I birthed them thru

the words I created

4 them.

Words 2 tell my daughters

how I came 2 love them

when

I didn’t birth them or

nurse them.

Sometimes I wanna

scream & holler 4 all

the shit my daughters

have 2 go thru.

When I hear how u

beat my daughter so u

wouldn’t feel less a man;

u left her crumpled

&

with the blues flowing thru her veins:

askin’ how u can luv her

when

u leave her so black & blue.

I just wanna scream at u

how fuckin’ dare u

put ur hands on her me she

2 do anything but luv her me she

when we deserve to B treated

oh so carefully so

don’t u dare put ur

hands on me her she

2 smash me her she

in the face—SMASH it,

that’s what u say when

u hav ur woman ur way

so

why r we surprised when

u don’t view us as a prize

but as a trophy ‘cuz

clearly there’s a difference.

I’m not tryna B mean

but dammit

how dare u let that

motherfucka touch ur

daughter in that way,

the way only her husband

should know her, not ur

husband or baby daddy or

just him.

&

My heart bleeds

when I think of the things

our daughters do 2 try &

B free 2 indulge in childish

things like straight hair weaves,

big butt cheeks hanging out of

daisy duke jean shorts & being free

2 sleep with whomever she pleases

‘cuz “if you please,” it’s my business

who I sleep with. It just makes me wanna

scream 2 see my babies this way,

but u don’t seem 2 B able 2 see

that shit do stink

when our girls think

they were created to take

care of others while no one

takes care of them, to be abused

while no one protects them &

my heart bleeds ‘cuz I wanna

protect them all, and hell, I

wanna B the one 2 tell them

“I love you girl, so lean on me.”

But, first, I’m gonna need

someone 2 be there 4 me

so

until then I guess my heart will

continue 2 bleed 4

the daughters I didn’t give birth

2

& that includes me.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Come See Me

My favorite book on poetry writing is Fruitflesh by Gayle Brandeis. It’s full of inspirational poems written by Brandeis, as well as other poets, that use language that is grounded in reality and which appeals to the senses. In the preface, she writes about how a strawberry changed her life. Her philosophy teacher provided an experience that allowed her to perceive a strawberry in ways she never had before. It changed her and her writing, and it changed me as well. Or rather, it is changing me.

As Brandeis points out, “Our whole history is written in our flesh. Every pleasure, every pain we’ve experienced is encoded in our cells.” We need only to tap into that encoded language of our flesh to add new depth to our writing.

Every time I read a passage in the book, I come across an exercise I want to try. Today, I read a poem that Brandeis included by Sondra Zeidenstein. Brandeis uses the poem to show how powerful words are, how with the written word the writer is able to create a space for their wishes to come true, wishes for themselves and for their loved ones. “We invoke a lot of magic when we call words onto the page,” she says.

The following poem was inspired by today’s passage from Fruitflesh. Brandeis’ instructions were to begin each sentence with Let, an exercise to send our words out through the responsive air. Well, I didn’t use the word let. I wasn’t trying to invoke magic as much as I was trying to give words to my flesh and my soul.

Come See Me

By Rosalind Guy

Come see me when

you wish to see nobody else, only me.

Come hold me when

your arms long to feel my skin next to yours.

Come and whisper my name when

I can hear in your voice that you want no one but me.

Come stretch your strong muscular legs underneath

the warm down comforter on my bed,

a place where we create heat

when you’re lying next to me.

We stretch wildly and kick

the covers onto the floor.

Our bare naked skin glistens

with slick perspiration and

our little space in the world

starts to spin, like the world on its very own axis.

Clothes litter the floor, books have fallen

from the shelves built into the walls,

sugared strawberries fall from an overturned bowl,

a Lenny Williams CD loops over and again, and

shoes line themselves, heading toward

various other destinations, none toward you.

Always away from you.

Because I always feel like I’m pleading with you

to come see me, to come be one with me.

So something inside me wants to just walk away.

Instead I stretch my hand out to you, beckon you

to come near and place your hand on my abdomen

where it rests in a shallow puddle of sweat.

Our fingers intertwined dance figure eights,

trying to stir up carnal desire.

I only wanted you to feel life growing inside me,

but you wanted something else.

You climbed back on top of me, thinking only

of what you desire to leave inside of me,

not knowing what you’ve created in me,

a life longing to live and break free.

Just a few months more and she’ll finally come to me

but when she does, I just wonder where you’ll be.

Will you finally call for me and love me with wild abandon

or will you abandon me and leave me holding a garbage bag full of expired memories?

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Photo courtesy of PhotoBucket

Fifty Thousand Dollars Would Be Nice

Just a little something to make you smile.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Honeysuckle & Peaches

When I kill myself, don’t tell anyone

I died because I was feeling sad.

Instead tell them about the time

I visited my grandma’s farm, when

I was about eight or nine

Tell them how I crawled through the hole

in her fence and walked to the place

that smelled like honeysuckle and peaches.

Tell them how I was able to lie on my back

and gaze through the trees and listen

to the peaches share their stories

about kids who bruise their skin when

they reach up in the trees

searching for the perfect peach.

While I inhale the peachy scent that

smells nothing like the candle,

I hear tears laced with their words and

I know they are the ones who are sad.

But just like all the others before me,

I stood up and reached for that one peach

that was way up high, the one silent peach,

the one whose skin had yet to be pierced

by clumsy, fumbling fingers.

Silence engulfed the grove that afternoon

as I held that perfect peach in my hand.

My pride swelled and throbbed

to the beat of my heart.

I was holding something special,

a peach I left sitting on the ground.

I just walked away.

When I kill myself, tell them I returned

to that spot in the grove and the peach was gone.

Tell them how I stood there feeling nothing at all,

not sadness or pain. And tell them I sat down to rest

but couldn’t find the strength

to get up again.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Love Will Be Our Salvation

When I first started giving birth, the older people in my family would chastise me for holding my babies too much. “You shouldn’t run right over there as soon as they start crying and pick them up. You’re going to spoil them.”

Those words of wisdom often fell on deaf ears. My mother heart could not stand to hear my babies crying. I would go through the routine: checking diapers, seeing if they were hungry, etc., and then if they were still upset, I would sit and talk to them. I would play with them. I would spoil them with mother love.

These days it’s well known how important touch and engagement are to newborn babies. Babies who are denied touch and engagement are at risk for developing social, emotional, and behavioral issues later on in life. We all need to feel loved. Even our babies.

Love is one of the most powerful emotions in our arsenal of emotions, without it we can quickly go through the stratum of emotions: anger, fear, hurt, rejection, depression, disappointment, and some people even become suicidal when they don’t feel loved. Yet, as powerful as love is, it is not always given with honest intentions.

In her book, Salvation, Bell Hooks argues, it’s easier to acquire material possessions than to acquire love. “We use the satisfaction of material longing to deny the need to love and be loved.” So, sometimes we love things instead of people. And, not only that, sometimes people prey on those who love them in order to have material comforts. It’s an old song, I know. There’s nothing new here.

We all have seen the stereotypical young girl dating the 70-something year old guy, either on TV or in reality. And, our first thought is “uh huh, he must be rich.” With the low value that is placed on love, some people tend to believe that it’s better not to love at all, so they don’t risk being hurt. Either way, it’s obvious that love is no longer valued and, oftentimes, it’s in favor of satisfying other superficial desires.

A superficial wound doesn’t sustain as much damage as a deep wound.

Love has the power to be our salvation and, so, it’s a shame that we don’t value true, authentic love as much as other things that really don’t matter. But, hey, that’s just my two cents.

I have no expectations about love

is the lie she told me & herself.

In reality, she did have expectations.

She expected love to hurt.

She expected love to end.

She expected love to hide.

She expected love to withhold.

She expected love to lie, but most of all,

She expected love to break her heart

even though it came to love already broken in places.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind

Ode to Another Sleepless Night

“…nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter like unrequited love…” –Charlie Brown

And, of course, then there’s being unable to sleep because the heart is heavy. Heavy with the loss of loved ones you never really knew. Heavy with the knowledge that a two-year old died in a sterile hospital room, the result of a pretend grown-up feud. Heavy with the knowledge that true love is slowly slipping through your fingers. Heavy with the knowledge that sometimes love just isn’t enough. Heavy with the knowledge that little boys can be killed as easily as a pesky insect. Heavy with the knowledge that life is hard and always will be. Heavy with the knowledge that sometimes there are no rainbows, only rainy days. Heavy with the knowledge that you no longer know who you are or are supposed to be. A simple poet or revolutionary? Isn’t it revolutionary enough just to get up every day and try to love those who can’t find the path to self-love? Is it revolutionary enough to get in touch with your natural roots? Sometimes there are just more questions, with very few answers for you. And those are the nights when sleep eludes you. So, you sit up at two a.m. and you make yourself a peanut butter sandwich, but it doesn’t taste quite right, and, of course, you wonder why.

Ode to Another Sleepless Night

My heart is like a boulder

I carry around in my chest;

It hurts to feel it there &

sometimes I just can’t breathe.

The pain of carrying the boulder

obscures all the good

I used to see. Now

all I can see or feel is

how the inability to breathe

is slowly killing me.

Peace & Love,

Rosalind