Black Woman.

Before I begin my post, isn't Alek Wek (pictured) gorgeous?

I love poetry. While I've always wanted to be a writer, I am typically too long winded for what people consider "poetry" to be. I used to perform (and did so on one occasion at an event with one of my poetess idols Queen Sheba when I was 14..and maaaaaaad nervous). I love words, I love being able to express myself in words. I love slam poetry, but somehow lost my voice for it along my growing process.

At any rate, I was doing some African history reading (because that's what I do in all of my new-found free time) and I started thinking about one of my all-time favorite poems: "Black Woman" by the former President of Senegal, Leopold Sedar Senghor. I had an ex-crazy-boyfriend recite this poem to me and while memories of him make me want to vomit tend to be unpleasant, it's a deep poem.

It was originally written in French, but the English translation is moving.

Naked woman, black woman
Clothed with your colour which is life,
with your form which is beauty!
In your shadow I have grown up; the
gentleness of your hands was laid over my eyes.

And now, high up on the sun-baked
pass, at the heart of summer, at the heart of noon,
I come upon you, my Promised Land,
And your beauty strikes me to the heart
like the flash of an eagle.

Naked woman, dark woman
Firm-fleshed ripe fruit, sombre raptures
of black wine, mouth making lyrical my mouth
Savannah stretching to clear horizons,
savannah shuddering beneath the East Wind's
eager caresses

Carved tom-tom, taut tom-tom, muttering
under the Conqueror's fingers
Your solemn contralto voice is the
spiritual song of the Beloved.

Naked woman, dark woman
Oil that no breath ruffles, calm oil on the
athlete's flanks, on the flanks of the Princes of Mali
Gazelle limbed in Paradise, pearls are stars on the
night of your skin

Delights of the mind, the glinting of red
gold against your watered skin
Under the shadow of your hair, my care
is lightened by the neighbouring suns of your eyes.

Naked woman, black woman,
I sing your beauty that passes, the form
that I fix in the Eternal,
Before jealous fate turn you to ashes to
feed the roots of life.

Act 1. Scene 4.

Cotton-candy cloud love
We are the lavender smelling sound, love.
In the deepest gulp of air, I am crying, "love!"
Itching and breathing, dying love.
Unearthed.
The taste of heat, like summer air.
Orange-green afterglow.
Dreamers often lie, says the prophet's mystic soul.
Stretch my love, have your wishes.
Love doesn't ask for much, and yet it does.
but, in bed while they're asleep was the gazer's reply.
Darkened roots, sweet crimson fruit.
Depth and darkness, paradox.

Deep Purple Ride

Your kisses taste like the pale violet blues
of midnight on a city street
It reminds me of the Renaissance in Harlem
I move, motivated, migrating to the north
The northernmost point of my affection, directly
Deep, and meaningful, and precise. Black.
Black as in deep, long. Juicy.
And sweet. Honey-like, mellow sounding
Let's take our desire, delight to the Cotton Club,
Beloved.
Let's get dark, darker than the blues
Warmer than jazz dipped in chocolate
Closer.
My soul scats, stronger than Satchmo and Ella,
the near perfection of
Our flavor's motivation enough
for the tangled rhythms of romance.
Let your naked mind paint shaded pictures
of me
with purples undiscovered
and deep strokes.
Our hearts are the art of our own culture
deep
slow
beats.
Our individual dark-skinned selves
a dancing spirit.
A new route, old fashioned
Let's both take the A Train! To
a new root
a revived Renaissance.

Attempted Double Etheree: Still Writer's Blocked.

Flit.
Not safe,
Yet embracing.
Overwhelming.
Imagination.
Trapped deep inside the mind.
Closed eyes. Deep breath. Vacancy.
Cold outside, damp, dark, and lonely.
Oh, stars, I wonder how you are.
Twinkle twinkle to the jazzy hearts.
Effortless attempts at optimism.
Tick-tock, flying without a safe landing.
Red blushed cheeks fading, gasp but no exhale.
Feel your way through it; naturally.
Confined without a clear thought.
Soulless, whisper to me.
What do I give now?
Listen. Closed eyes.
Supplicate.
Succumb.
Lulled.

It took me three days to get this attempt at a poem out. I'm (obviously) really struggling. Curse this writer's block.

Depression

You were incredible for my poetic heart
but forced my growing mind to mend with tear-filled puddles
Depression was, by far, the most consistent aspect of my life
Throughout my life
And it will never rule me
Or ruin me
Again.

I found post that I started a little while ago, but it wasn't finished. I don't think I can, which is ironic; something that consumed so much of my life is now falling under a category that is very characteristic of the non-depressed version of myself: short, sweet, and to the point. I don't know whether to feel silly for not being able to finish writing this "poem" or proud for having no desire to.

Be Righteous.

Winter Heat.

Snow
tender sinless
flowing falling blanketing
wintery wonderful sweet sweat
pondering heart-pounding burning
passionate fiery
Lust

Ambiance
Elegance
Radiance
Love's own dance
Ambiance. Snowy calm darkness's elegance.
Radiance, burning desire in love's own dance.