Raven Moore's Blog, page 17

Stain

Stain

my soul is stained on the pen

that wrote this verse

jammed by a substance

that prevents me from song

but when will song

from me

prevent that?

I am not a cat in a hat

or a violet that’s blue

I am feeling rivulets of sound

that crash up against my insides

from the outside

that paint my ears red

like air does to blood

that paint my eyes red

when I shift my head to catch a glimpse

of the sweetness clouds make

I’m open to concave, reflecting,

digesting parts of time

whose rhythm does not acknowledge

that of the tick-tock

My words flood my brain

like my blood

like the rain

no breaths to complement the pulse they make

unless they breathe when they evaporate

like cotton candy which is never sweet

unless first you eat

the air around it

If I poured the ink from this pen on my tongue

could I tell if my words were sweet?

Arthur Ashe in My Mind

Arthur Ashe. I have to say that I don’t remember when he appeared to me but he appeared right on time, at a time when I must not have been fully aware of myself. His image and his energy on the screen made me wonder who he was. He was. He existed. He felt. He shared. I remember watching him and knowing that there was nothing in his mind that he would not share because it was genuinely felt. He knew who he was. Where he was. What he was doing. And why he was doing it. I cannot call it assured. It was more than that. Of an absolute being. Arthur Ashe is. Arthur Ashe lives. He is a force field. Something which cannot be overlooked or reinterpreted. Everyone knows what and where it is and what it is there for. That is something I miss. Having people to watch who express what and why they are here without having to explain it. You can see it in their art, their work. It is real.

Diary of a Mad Brown Afro Pick

The afro pick you see here has been with me for over a decade. I bought it in the open-air market of Cocody in Abidjan. The moment I saw it, I knew. It knew too. I eased up on it. I picked it up. I discussed it with the seller. ‘What kind of wood is it made of?’ ‘Who made it?’ ‘Where was it made?’ All these questions I didn’t really care the answers to because I knew it was mine and I was its. It was love at first tug. I had to however show a display of skepticism so as not to be haggled into a crazy American-look-like-rich-lady price.

Year after year, the pick never failed me. No regular comb could match it, withstand the test of over-curly exuberance I have on my head. Even it being wooden, it was water-resistant. Seemed like I could do anything to it and it was always there for me.

Alas, all this is to say that it finally broke. Or, I broke it. I guess it’s a matter of viewpoint. Was it inevitable or did I just not know what I had? Just because I could do everything to it, doesn’t mean I should have. Oh, what regret, for now I’ll have to buy a plastic afro pick made in America and that’s just not going to work for me. The wooden one will sense betrayal. It was all I ever wanted or needed and now after I’ve used it to ruin, I’m moving on. Should I try to fix it or should I just let it go?