Selected Poems
from Oakes' Spring 2018 Course, Diverse Voices in Contemporary American Women’s Poetry
The students in this class became remarkable poets in just ten class sessions. I was amazed by the honesty, emotion, compassion, and support that I read in these students’ poems and witnessed in our classroom.
I was honored to teach this class, and am so grateful to Oakes College for this opportunity, and to each student (and our honorary class members) for their individual contributions to the happy place that was our class.
You are all remarkable, world-changing artists, and I am proud that I got to be in the classroom with you.
A number of the students in the class chose to share one or more of their poems with the wider Oakes College community here, and we invite you to experience their powerful work.
Lindsay Knisely, Instructor
Short memories on being brown, confined, (and poor)
Yasmine Rodriguez
1.
Watching fireworks with grandma and
waving around sparklers
acting like Uncle Sam wouldn’t
deport her brown ass if given the
chance.
Splintery wooden platform
perched on the tree
Nails sticking out here and there
Our tree ‘house’ had no walls.
We weren’t allowed to have
secrets.
But it was okay for me to fall 12 feet from the
air.
3.
I grew up brown, called a white girl
by white Latinas
I couldn’t get it on their Spanish convos about the
ugly ass boys in our class, Rebelde, Chivas, or that puta
they wished would piss herself when the teacher said
she should have gone at recess.
4.
I went to that private school for tutoring and
some bushy haired white boy overheard me tell
the teacher I had no graphing calculator because I couldn’t afford
one and he said:
“Why? They’re cheap”
5.
Crushing on a red-haired commie upper-crust white boy
he got 2300 on his SAT and no matter how much I liked him
and wrote school-girl crush diary entries with his name
he intimidates me and he popped in to get his
blonde-haired upper-crust white girl when that boy
didn’t understand people
could be
poor.
6.
I wrote about the continuing segregation
and educational
disparity in
Pasadena schools for my
senior project.
District administrators came to our
cracked-concrete school and
graded them.
PLAGIARIZED
was written in red ink next to my name
Gentrification of My Soul
I’m walking. Across the block
I feel under my feet the crunch of cracked concrete.
The smell of wet asphalt hot and heavy in the summer air.
The steam seeps through the holes in the soles of my shoes.
I’m walking. And as the summer sun sinks into my skin
I see a house across the block.
Lock eyes with the new “for sale” sign.
It’s a surprise, since I remember it a time ago.
Not knowing the renovation growing inside
I forgot to watch its “progress.”
This house used to look a lot like the others.
Like another one I’d call home.
A single-story but held so many more than that.
A single-story whose stories were told
in chipped wood and stained sentiments.
But this single-story is now a two-story,
all its old glory washed away by new paint and plaster.
I’m walking. Faster now, past the porch and through the threshold.
This open house opens up questions when I mention to myself
that I knew the neighbors who lived here.
I wonder whether we shared the same faded family memories-
Like being welcomed by the smell of spices sifting through the screen door.
Not needing to see la cocina to know mom’s at the stove,
browning onions and peppers in hot oil.
Foil crinkles and pans clank, but above the spatula scrapes
the loudest sound is mom’s voice.
At full range she’s boldly singing 60’s oldies.
I’m walking. And my mind returns from where it’s wandered.
My eyes begin to water when I realize
the sterile stench of bleach has reached my throat.
I note the hollowness of this new house.
Surrounded by these long white walls, I feel as if I don’t belong.
This house that was once a home is now a shell.
This pastel hell might sell well to those who can afford it.
Remodeled to remove any life, love, or culture,
Its value went up with the erasure of our existence.
And maybe mocking our resistance,
all they left behind was this vile Spanish tile.
-Miranda Stuart
The Quiet Truth
one of the most difficult things
I’ve learned
is accepting the truth
sometimes it’s quiet
moments that carry soft like a prayer on a warm Tuesday afternoon
but pass like a winter storm on the crowded coast
sometimes it’s loud
amongst the prodigal crowd yelling to the sky
and yet I hear nothing beyond your prostrate stare
I want to believe that what you are doing
is simply misguided, a product of what was
brought upon us by the power that chose
to destroy, instead of create
but when I look into your eyes
Brown man
Brown woman
I can’t help but feel like you have already crucified me
the world remembers Pontius Pilate for one reason
your mother, your grandfather, workers on the field
your daddy, your grandma, laborers of a union
you, another virgin birth of the hood
yet you think you’re so different
all of a sudden you’re the one with your hand on your holster
while my palms are bleeding out
you, all of a sudden above the ghetto
you, once destined to be our savior
you, now our reckoning
the world might forget your name
the people you knew might forget your actions
history will remember
-Ray Decadiz
My Faith
Jasmine Yip
I fight to be remembered
No matter what you say to me
I will fight
Recklessly I will get hurt
But I do not learn
My heart is pure
No matter what you say to me
My heart will be pure
Curiously, my heart will get hurt
Untouched by your words
I tell you this to have faith
Have faith in me
I fight to be remembered
How is it that we can live and forget
But not remember the times when you stayed up crying yourself to sleep
How is it that we can live and not recall
Recall that time when you felt your heart in your stomach
Because of how much pain you put yourself through
How is it that we can live and not remember
Remember who we dreamed of becoming
My heart is pure
How can a heart be pure after all the scars
After that night you wanted it to stop beating
How can a heart be pure after you stopped breathing
After drowning yourself with regret and emptiness only to forget
How can a heart be pure after your own self hate
After hating yourself for who you are and will be
I tell you this to have faith
Have faith in me
SOLARE
In Italy I learned that the word “solare”
Is used to describe a person who is warm and good and cheerful.
A sunny-natured person who worries about others,
A person who brightens the room.
I think about how nice it must be
To be so warm and welcoming
That people compare you to the sun.
Long before Italy, I once met someone
Who made me feel like the sun was in my heart.
I did not realize there was a word for it,
Ma era una persona solare.
Yellow became my favorite color.
I see it in the flowers that grow,
And every Spring brings me back to you.
My rosy cheeks are too delicate for the sun.
When the sun tries to kiss them and warm me,
They are only inflamed by it.
I reach out my palms and offer those instead,
But it is not the same.
And when I think of you,
I can feel the sun again
On my cheeks, in my heart.
But you do not burn them like she does.
You are warm and good and cheerful;
A sunny-natured person who worries about others.
You brighten up the room.
Sei una persona solare.
-KH
Piernas Queridas
Piernas que brillan como la arena a la hora que el sol dice su último adiós del dia
Piernas que crecen raíces tan pequeñas que no hay necesidad de cortar las, un regalo que solo puedo agradecer a mi ama
Piernas que se estremecen al sentido de tus manos
Pierna que se mueven al baile del beeper pero que no saben caminar al baile del mundo
Piernas largas que se han estrechado a través de los años enseñando me que solo tiempo me dirá el final de mi cuerpo
Solo para ver que son una replica de mis ancestros
Pierna mias y solo mias
Gracias mami.
-V.M
YOU!
You HATE me
You tell me I’m WORTHLESS
You tell me I’m UGLY
You tell me I’m STUPID
You have TAKEN so much
You have STOLEN everything
You have KILLED so many of my people
Yet you NEED me
You would have NOTHING without me
You built NOTHING without me
You may have OWNED my people
But you OWN NOTHING
Despite these things WE continue to extend a hand
You are the one to SLAP it away
Imagine what we COULD HAVE BEEN
But your Selfishness erases these POSSIBILITIES
-MW
Mama
Her eyes are seas of caramel.
Her smile portrays rays of sunshine.
She has this distinct smell,
Home.
There's still so much left to tell.
Her hands are rough and weak,
From years of cleaning after the wealthy.
She comes home tired everyday.
The amount of work she puts in is not healthy,
But it brings home the pay.
Her love goes farther than the moon. .
Her voice is comforting like a familiar tune.
Once you're with her,
All your troubles seem to be far away.
She is the strongest woman I have ever known.
When she cries,
It seems like everything in the world is dark.
If you tell her lies,
She will get disappointed.
Nothing else will seem to matter after that.
As a child, I would see her as my hero.
In my eyes,
Everything she said was right.
When she would have to leave,
I made sure I held on tight.
As of today, I still see her as my hero.
Because of her,
Everything seems bright.
Even now as I prepare to leave her,
I still make sure I hold on tight.
-NG
White is Gold
I used to think I was special
It was shown to me in magazines, movies and toys
And then it was written out in books, articles, journals, everywhere
I thought I would help to save the world
Until I realized I was a part of the problem
The world is red, blood on the hands of the men in suits
I always knew this world was cold
Where ice freezes the air and no human can live
I just didn’t know how cold it was
It pierces through me, all over my body
I will never be the same
What was taken was the truth, hidden away under layers of snow and ice
It would pierce your skin if you got too close
For some, it would rupture through your whole body until there is no you left
There’s evil here and it’s covered in layers of white
So deep that not even bullets can pierce through it
{We are all stuck here}
In different places with different things but we should all fear the ones covered in gold
Their skin so shiny they can’t see the blood dripping from their hands onto their
Feet, they can’t hear the screams around them, shouting at their
Bodies, They are not blind, they choose not to see
I am not blinded by their skin
Their words written in books, articles, journals, everywhere
Their faces shown on magazines, movies and toys
I used to think I was special
Until I realized I was them, covered in aluminum skin
I thought I was shiny, too
But I rip the aluminum from my skin and I see the blood drip down to my
Feet, I can hear the screams around me, shouting at my
Body, I am not blind and I don’t want to be
The world is red and there is beauty here
It was taken when they stained this land with greed
it lives somewhere deep in the roots, under the water, up in the air, right under our skin
But we are not meant to be here
In a misguided trance that says “White is Gold”
And that Gold is more precious than breath
I hate how cold this place feels
When I see them laughing, unaware that over the ocean there is blood on the hands of men in suits. They through clouds of smoke, poisoning the rest of the world
and We, We are all covered in gold
-TM
Our Country
Why are black men shot down
even though their hands are in the air
just cause they’re a little more brown?
America is putting black men away in its prisons
trying to continue the white man’s power
hiding that this new Jim Crow has arisen.
Why does someone’s color hinder your vision?
it makes me wonder if you were blind
would that lead to you making better decisions?
Why are women only useful in the kitchen?
can they wash your pants and raise the kids
But are not able to have true ambition?
America says feminist is just ‘our time of the month’ fury.
is paying women 79 cents to a man dollar.
thinks that it can “grab ‘em by the pussy”.
Why does true feminism strike such fear?
Cause you’d have to admit the overt advantage Well, the women will no longer adhere.
-- S.M.
Sorrow Cycle
I stand beneath a storm of sorrow
Invisible in this world of immutable pain,
Cemented by anguish and despair.
It engulfs me as I drift through the pit of darkness,
Helplessly unable to hold on to hope.
I have no power.
Others take their own power.
How is it to govern one’s sorrow
and keep grips on such elusive hope.
They will stay unaware of my buried pain,
Never knowing the reality of my overbearing darkness
that pulls me to despair.
There is no point in fighting the monster of despair.
He slaps me down from any false sense of power.
I’m back, wandering adrift the darkness
Surrounded by the cold, consuming fog of sorrow.
Again, trapped the pain
No inkling of hope
With no hope,
it is like my soul has been taken by despair,
fed to an already abounding pain.
Yet it devours all power.
Aware of its control, I am forced to be lost in sorrow,
Thrown back, screaming, to be left, tangled with the darkness
Tears are all that remains, erupting and washing clear a light in the darkness.
The relief forms, maybe, a glimmer of hope.
In that moment, is an ignorance of sorrow,
A restraint of the burden of despair.
“Please give me power…”
“Strength to kill the ever relentless pain.”
Will there always be pain
Can I ever truly escape the darkness,
have any chance of wielding my power.
It has evaded me, the presence of hope.
It could be only a trick of despair.
Why can’t I forget these sorrows
I want to ignore the opaque sorrow, break the steady pain.
I must let others help me free from darkness, to exist beyond despair
I need to find the power, and finally claim the warmth of hope.
Consuming Fire
Love is fleeting, love is unconditional
Love is magic, love is an all too harsh reality
Love is fire… tempering your soul to uncover who you are
It consumes your possessions, your family, your heart
It burns away all you ever were
In those scorching flames your bonds are loosened
and you are shaped and molded
into something, someone new
And how you crave those flames….
The tingly sensation when they lick your skin
The surrounding smoke filling your world with their scent
The comfort of its heat in the cold, lonely winter
The shining light through the blackest of nights
And when your pulled from those flames….
….ripped away from that searing heat
And dunked into the icy waters of solitude and life
Your weaknesses have melted away
And you shine bright and brilliant under a new light
Stronger and sharper than you ever were before
A new blade forged in the all consuming fires of love.
- Brianne Cesario
Soy
Siento el contacto de la tierra a mis pies,
conectándome a personas que nunca conocí
Not names, not faces
But i feel vibrations by the touch of my feet
Breathe
Start from your head down to your shoulders, feel the tension
Soy--
Artista
You are
A DIY project, todos me ven y asumen cosas de mi
Cisheteropatriarchy, asumeasumeasume
Ve me por mi
Gritolloronopuedodecir
ichokewiththeknotinmythroat
Soy--
undocumented and afraid, yea you read that right
Pero nunca me para
My body numbs and my mind wonders
Breathe
You are
An abandoned shell washed ashore
That belongs elsewhere and is never home
No se que soy--
Confusion,
A universe of experiences
Queerpantrans
You are
Overemotional
Can’t make up your mind
Too femme
That does not exist
You fake
Breathe
Yo soy yo
Cambiando como las olas del mar
Fuerte como las olas del mar
Calming like the waves of the ocean
Hurtful like the waves of the ocean
Flooding like the waves of the ocean
Heartbreaker
From my mother
I gain my sense of wonder and Intellect
My love for animals and all things tiny
The desire to clean every inch of my house
From my father
Comes bad choices and insecurities
My hate for alcohol and false hope
Fear that my love will walk out the door any second
And leave me and my daughter behind
The phone rings, a man’s voice
Making promises
About going to a Beach Boys concert
Next weekend
Next weekend comes, the phone doesn’t ring
Eight years old
I sit on the steps outside
Learning the harsh realities of my father
Tears falling from my eyes like a thunderstorm
The thunderstorm brews, like a fresh pot of coffee
In my mother’s soul
As she calls the man who makes empty promises
And screams at him
From the bottom of her broken heart
-KT
Her Unfinished Testimony
Cancer tried to defeat me
and it failed
“A tumor in your chest,
Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, Stage II, Type B”.
My mom was filled with disbelief
yet I was unencumbered with peace
This was an ultimate life-changing moment
for me
My entire world flashed right before my eyes
The Devil tried to take my life but
he failed
I survived.
God’s love empowered me to share His blessings upon others
But still while sharing my testimony
I sometimes begin to stutter
Then I remember…
I am the strong woman who looked cancer in the face and conquered it.
The Devil wanted to take my dignity but
God intended more for me.
Little had I known that it was done; the battle was already won.
-RA
creating my reality
personal growth what does it mean exactly?
to be better how is that measured?
what is taught status wealth titles.
to be unlearned is what is internalized.
it begins you will know and there is no turning back
a metamorphosis untouched by social constructs
emerging slowly into a world that is mine
so fresh and ready live in a different light
i begin to observe from nature how to thrive in these conditions
take after flowers their beauty and radiance
learn from trees persistence and patience
lose myself in bodies of water wading in ambiguity
meandering streams of thought make their way onto this page
flow onto a canvas creating a world i never knew existed-
drowning in my imagination
peacefully in between then and now
A.L.
Collateral Damage
By: RS
While we read the news about another Taliban leader
successfully ‘eliminated’
Children, women, and other innocent lives are lost
But as we know, they are only remembered as
collateral damage
Somewhere outside the land of the “free”
Drones are committing killing sprees
Of course our government wouldn’t agree
They will claim that the outsiders asked for our help
Surveying above the sky
Stealthy and unheard
Target located, waiting for permission to eliminate
Granted, shoot without hesitation
“Terrorists” successfully annihilated
Death, injuries, trauma
Suffered by the innocent
But at the end, they are menely collateral damage
Of course our government wouldn’t tell us the real reason
why they survey the foreign lands
They will claim that it was for ‘security’ purposes
Little we know, they are looking for resources to take
Trying to protect the people of the “home of the brave”
Doesn’t mean it’s okay to hurt other people
Apologizing and bribing the family
All the family want is for their loved ones to be remembered
Not as collateral damage, but as human being
