heritage
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I dig with bloody fingernails,
Tearing at the earth’s fleshy core.
I begin to unravel the wooden umbilical cord,
Every celtic knot, every split end, every love affair.
Auburn tressed,
( though I'm no
Shannon or Colleen)
circumstances
have made my home
the desert...
arid,
though never
barren
I have learned
of its
bounty...
Still,
Sometimes I can still hear
the sounds
of yesteryears-
my family's voices,
their conversations reverberate.
And I recall
my father's and uncle's
ardent discussions
of the revolution
Childless, the lineage ends
with me-
poet,
my only legacy-
mere
words.
And the older I've become
the more my ancestry-
the tracing of my roots
holds a fascination
I see her
in the mirror
a chubby-
cheeked
ruddy
imp
she looks back at me
through dark, almond- shaped eyes
a gaze of intensity
- a woodland nymph,
a sprite,
mischievous elf.
I am of those people,
who love
the violin
whether the strings weep
in a dolorous
lamentation
or dance with a leap
of ecstasy.
I am of those people,
who know the taste
An anonymous Katya or Magda
with a simple peasant face, yet with eyes of intensity-
you look at the camera with candor...
There's nothing pretentious here, no flashiness
Once upon a time
(not as far as you’d believe),
they would have called me a monster---
a “griffe”
half-eagle, half-lion.
A quarter of me here,
Dear Edward Said,
What have you done?
What have you done to me
You have torn open my old wounds
Those festering razor slashes
Dozens,
Accumulated over years,
Every time I realized
My grandmother saw America
not as a land of opportunity,
but as a last resort.
Taking off only when there was nothing left
Leaving because a twenty-six-year-old with four children
cannot provide on a dime.
I.
They tell me that I am so lucky to be Korean.
My friends pour their hearts out over celebrities that I cannot relate to
My parents tell me of traditions that I never took part in
I am from hair bands,
From hairspray and bobby pinned strands.
I am from lights hanging above the stage.
(Bright, blinding,
I think it's been almost four years
I've gone through and counted the days, months, years
in poetry
I think it started
with this urge of expression
from the quiet girl
who listened to the calling
I am from my blue blanket
Climbing out of my crib
To always eating without a bib
From playing mermaid in the bayhtub
From always saying "BaBa Bub"
I am from Blue's Clues and Bernstein Bears
Es un trabajo
de pura dedication,
del cuerpo, para la tierra
que ya no te pertenece.
Y para estar mas seguro,
I am from white baking flower,
From Tide and crayons
I am from the cool green grass in the backyard
Soaking in the morning dew.
I am from the lilac bushes lining the yard,
Undress Me!
My lips are thick and full; although smaller than the alluring marshmallows that sit on Asabea’s and Ama’s faces.
an icy fine powderthat made you lamentthe days spent twistedwarpedunder the false ideologythat manliness is to beconfided in yourdead father.
"So what are you?" A question too familiar
Years ago my mind would halt, frozen
My heart would pound. "I do not know"
I did not want to know.
"Are you Asian?" Your ignorance now shows
Because I have imperfect Spanish,
I am never Mexican enough to those who speak better than me
Because I have imperfect English,
I am always too Mexican for those who speak better than me
When you look into my eyess what do you see- a strong black woman looking back at me When you look into my eyes what do you see- a warrior, a fighter, that's protecting me When you look into my eyes what do you see the- heritage of my people that
I look in the mirror
And see the reflection of my papa’s heritage
My Scandinavian father’s father’s father
Towers over me smiling
His eyes, swimming in brilliant colors,
Show me his-story
Darkened in the sun
Like dried up raisins
Sun dried our roots
Plucking our knowledge of heritage
I have no culture,
No background,
No heirlooms;
I have no memories
Of the deceased,
Of the forgotten.
I have some pictures,
Some drawings,
Some presents,
That doesn't mean
What is your Ethnic makeup?
Is it the redness of your lips that speak the words of roots and origin?
Or is it the way your eyelashes curl, accenting your eyes to understand the accents of your homeland?
The flames above me burn, burn,
And before the woman can turn, return,
There’s a sharp knock at the door, the door.
She puts the matches in the drawer, the drawer,
And she crosses the floor.
Indiana candy cake
is a recipe for diabetes
one preferred by far too many participants
of the Smith Family Shindig
My mother and I shuck
Uncle Herman’s green beans-
I was born here
I came from there
My body is here
My soul is there
My words are here
My thoughts are there
My feet walk here
My mind runs there
My bones lay here
Safe, secure
Eyes that allure
reserved and stays in health
everyone keeps to themselves
Exotic foods from all over
Spanish, Italian, Indian, I’ve even eaten gopher
I am from beloved dolls, from bubble wands and crabapple trees.
I am from bright colors and playful spirits,Bookshelves and stacked boxes.
I am from dandelions and low-branched trees.
When I look in the mirror I see so much more than myself, I see Africa.
I tug at my hair and watch it defy gravity, each strand standing tall and proud, refusing to fall like the great pyramids in Egypt.
Music is my life,
it helps me sleep at night
it gets me up and high unto sky,
it gives me courage, when I sing in the choir at church,
I burst into flames of happiness, and
I am from the shores beyond, whose travels for the Dream took so long
I am from heavy New England accents and snow storms strong
I am from busy streets to dirt roads
From tall pines to naked sidewalks
I Am The Waves In The Ocean And The Roots Of The Trees.
I am wind and thunder and rain.
I am the image of my father, Kemet.
I am soil and breath and soul.
I am Africa personified.
In the way I walk
