Category: English

Kiss the back of your hands

Wading through the stalks of grass,
I arrived to the place,
Where I swore to never return.
Meeting you where the horizon blurs,
The sun and I,
Would sit for hours,
Eating oranges, grapes and pomegranates,
Waiting for our time to come.
Let us hash out,
Why one decided to live without the other,
Let me give you the fruit I’ve picked.
Come and sit,
Choosing your delicacies,
Ones we’ve waited a long time to eat.
The sun and I,
Sat until royal blue, satin curtains
Brushed across the sky.
Come,
My past self,
I am learning what it means to love now.

The Repercussions of Loving Too Deep

The Repercussions of Loving Too Deep
By Aginetta Mulima.

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Writing is my escape.  My first published book ‘Whose to Say: Confessions of Teenagers’ contains a collection of poems I had written from Middle School to my Junior year in high school. It was one of the rare occasions in my life, where I would allow others to pull up a chair to examine who I was on the inside. The poems addressed the  shaky ground from childhood to adolescence in writing.
‘The Repercussions of Loving Too Deep’  however became the turning point, the world and its contents were still shaky but life had changed.
In this memoir (embodying poetry and fiction), love is the topic. It is one where I discuss platonic, romantic and familial love. It welcomes the the self-discovery process on how we love ourselves and the people around us. ‘Repercussions’ notes how much of the past we rely on to keep us strong.

This book contains a manuscript I had kept under wraps out of fear and denial.
However, DD Wright, an editor lended a helping hand to go through the text and encouraged me to share what I had to say. In fact, what I had to say was not only necessary but important for myself.

I encourage you to buy it on Amazon, CreateSpace and Kindle. Also, please share your thoughts/ reviews regarding it. Spread the word also!

It is available for sale here:
http://www.createspace.com/5504132
https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00XT6KOO4/ref=aw_ss_kndl_dp/

Author’s note:
DD Wright is available as an editor and a wonderful resource for writers at @poetry2life on Instagram. Also, her website is http://www.poeticsoulinc.com. Her rates are affordable for budding authors of all backgrounds. She is an engaged teacher and poet located in New York.
Her work: Poetry2Life: Youth. Struggle.Love

Skipping stones: an existential crisis

Mindlessly, we kicked our legs back and forth sitting on the chair. How many times had we gathered around here just to sit and make peace with ourselves. We never said anything besides static between conversations. Did you see how high the winds were? This year I’m done letting people walk over me. How have you been?
I know how it’s been with you because I’ve been the same, once happy and then distraught. Our emotions tethered behind us and we let our rags wrap up our arms as to hide our scars. We’re really tired of trying to pinpoint our whole lives but we continue to do so.
Mindlessly, I stared into distance. Everything began to blur and the colors collided into one another. They looked the same as when someone takes their glasses off. The whole room is fuzzy and while you can make out the couch and the windows it’s not the same. I knew this summer would be like the rest, a temporary high.
Our days became numbered, as we counted the years off of our fingers. I envisioned how this year fled away from us and the next five years were too close. I wanted things that I felt I wasn’t ready for but I wanted them still. I wanted them to feel right and fill the holes in my life right. All of these things I spoke of with you during the static. Our silence said a lot about us and our dreams formed haphazardly. We drew near to the river, skipping stones across the pond that seemed much deeper when we were kids. Sometimes during the humid nights, we waded out holding our pants and skirts above our navels letting the cool water envelope us. I wanted to shiver off my fears, watching them fall around me.
Between our white noise,  I said to myself more than I ever had whilst speaking.

Oppression, never at arm’s length

The older I get, the angrier I am. It’s not just singular things creating chaos in the world. No, in fact,  it is trying to pry things out of people who will never care if certain oppressions do not happen to them. The older I get, the more I wanted to tear at the screen dividing some from really feeling what is in this world. I wanted to cut out the screens in windows and make all around us see the destruction. See how people weep while their blood runs through the street like ominous rain. See how the churches are set ablaze with the hymnal pages incinerated and faith tested. See how the living still call for the dying or ones who have passed on, while clutching at their insides. See how the Black and Brown children hold sadness and anger in their chest, all the while their lips quiver and shout that they are hurting. See how people hold their hands on both sides of their face and go through life, a tunnel vision gaze. See how the uneasiness is questioned. See how the “let us take action” is questioned. See how they are both are housed in each body who has not seen a world without persecution.

Listen,  the children are laughing in their neighborhood and suddenly their laughs turn to terrorized screams. Listen, how the newscasters are standoffish. The news network pride themselves that they have initiated clarity on what “these people” have been through. “Let’s listen for forgiveness.”
Listen closely to our parents retracting their grasp, then suddenly pulling us back, afraid. Listen to how we must emboss our children with what has happened before to know they deserve to be here.

The older I get, the angrier I am at the on/off switch to what is important. The older I get, the angrier I am that “opinions” have been fought for but they have never been mine. The older I get, the angrier I am, that I must be intentional in not being boxed in as a play-thing or that “one black friend.”
The older I get, the angrier I am that my people’s tears are cupped and filtered as we cry through our drought.

The truth will set… a metal trap on your foot

I try to breathe quietly
Keep my breath, faint
As a ghost clinging to such walls
That contain secrets.
I resound quite conspicuously
The things that ail me
Carry my ancestors open sores
Along with their dreams
Some tangible
Some not.
I lay them down at the feet of those
Who must choose to stoop
So we can both do this, together
Looking over things of the past
Eye to eye
With our mouths twisted
How uncomfortable it is to hunch
But one must hunch to pick others up
I concave my chest,  cat – like
Ready to hurl back
For I show those the things that ail me
Aware
They too could do the same
It is a choice
To wound openly
Take the sores and revisit them
Only so they will not close
Heal
I shout in the dark
Bewildered,
Scratching with my claws retracted
I peel paint off walls
Tear up entire furniture
Only to wrestle with the outcome.
I hunch again
To show my trinkets and dignity
I say: “come here and look”
“Look upon this with your own eyes, trace it with your own fingers, our hurt.”
I place the sack over one shoulder,
And smile between my teeth,
That pain is a visitor
Who comes at all hours
Yet some claim to have not seen the frosty breath
Leaving us like smoke.

Out of body

They’re quarreling for no reason. Look at them young and naive, rubbing at their knuckles as if hard times have overstayed their welcome. They have no sense.

Oh, I think that I do though. No, I know that I do. I know that next year can feel the same as the one before. The good times can dance around us until those times make us dizzy and upset that there’s now a mess all over the floor. We push our belly laughs back into the storm cellar and push mighty hard for the closet door to stay closed. Yet, I suppose if you’re gonna act right and do as I say, I’ll retreat back to pushing the dollar store witch broom across the floor. The bristles pick up dust balls that are trapped between each straw like bristle. The next pile of trash I make on the floor won’t catch on the bristles as well as it did the first time. Life is like that.
I ought to stop throwing my fishing pole-line into the murky lake, pulling out shoes and shit. I never really did learn how to fish but I know what it entails.
A rod
A line
Worms
Waiting
A sturdy chair
An old boat from one of the older fellas who can teach detailed things with their eyes closed
And a whole lot of waiting

You see them kids. When we was young, I’d parents switch us if we talked back.

We grab-bagged what felt good and stuffed it down our shirts. Sometimes we had it in one of our hands that was behind our back. We use to do this when we were real little trying to steal snacks we weren’t supposed to have before lunch or dinner. Tiptoeing we prided ourselves how stealthy we were but they knew. Sometimes the bag was left open or the milk jug had moved slightly to the left, oh they knew.

You’re not that old yet.

Oh, I do remember how I am young but will not continue to stay young. Oh, how the summer humidity starts to get to one and instead of fidgeting, we let out exasperated sighs. Oh, I am quarreling with what I have learned and what I have or haven’t done. Oh, I am out of body.