Today I feel sadness caused by many things but most newly by the passing of Maryse Condé. I have actually only read one of her novels, I, Tituba Black Witch of Salem, from her rich repertoire, but it changed me and my writing entirely. It largely informs my process before, during, and after intentional storytelling as well as my admiration and value of intergenerational storytelling. It is a beautiful telling of Tituba’s life. One day, before or after I leave this Earth, I hope to tell someone my story the way Tituba told Condé hers and for someone to transcribe it with such love as Condé has.
“Tituba and I lived for a year on the closest of terms. During our endless conversations she told me things she had confided in nobody else.” - Maryse Condé
April is national poetry month so today I will share poems. But before that I have a question; do people use the substack chat feature? Like what is that vibe…would love to talk to you there.
Let me know.
All love,
Vic
First, here a few poems I hold deep in my camera roll because upon reading them I was instantly moved. It is nice to remember how and by what you’ve been moved in the past.
SIMONE AKARI - linktree to instagram, etsy page, and gofundme for their sickle cell treatment.
Now, some poems from me — new and old — all about Spring and all that comes with it.
Where nature is culture: Singing peepers spring, standing above the heart of the World, Spring is a promise Where beavers’ cologne make mud a narrow brook becomes an ocean And the drought stops A miracle, through habit and will, coyotes climb for a buzz from the apple tree The heart of Earth is a place where the scent of kin can always find choke cherries growing along ponds; hunger is always temporary Where each plant their seeds Growing new land; Sacred Respect is primal Where there is no such word – as injustice – only scents and we understand I sit at the edge of existence leading to the center of Earth; Where it all began; And sprouts are coming up. The beginning is here
Dear Doctor,
The only thing I understand nowadays is
my writing.
Not my vision,
I shot myself in the third eye,
nor touch, nor smell, nor taste, nor hearing.
Finally, I am a writer! So I could no longer see truth
I’ve reached paradise! So I could unravel myself for honesty’s sake
But anyway,
Something called an ego
I feel something looming over me… death;
I can’t quite put my finger on it,
a sharp bursting between my intestines
but I am feeling it worsen by the second
sure it is fine.
When I get some free time without reason or rest.
I will get it checked out.
A prickly sensation at the nape of my neck –
a voice is trapped somewhere within.
My baby’s breath sits beside my window and on my arm there is a deep gash bleeding out She looks down on the wind- swept people and greening lawns In the street, a child is struck My baby’s breath gets on her tippy toes to get a better view of the massacre She loses balance and her water spills Soaking her favorite book – My baby’s breath cries My baby’s breath wilts While my wound is sewn shut And grass grows greener My baby’s breath dies And I cry in the mirror to get a better view of the massacre I sit beside my window
Gifts of April April showers bring May flowers. I like this phrase because I was born in May I take a photo of the flowers that bloom, and The grass that greens I like to watch the process of the dead coming to life because I’m so used to watching it happen the other way around I love when dead grass turns green I turn green I’m not sure why But something about April makes me nauseous I love, though, to walk in the rain at night When it’s quiet and breezy And the rain defines the texture of the ground And the richness of the colors I like April because everyone has a pep in their step As they rush indoors to shield themselves from raindrops We huddle into a corner of a small room and talk Making jokes Never touching Sharing stories But we all know when we’re serious and we know when we’re joking I speak in my “clown tone” Some get it and some do not. In April I can say April showers bring may flowers Because I was born in May And I like to watch the grass green No matter how long it takes So I let the rain hit me as I gather with the rest And we chat the night away Until the rain settles into wet stillness And we can wake up to humid pavement
Thank you for reading. If you enjoy, consider becoming a paid subscriber to support me and have access to more creative original work and (coming soon…hopefully) long form writing. Special thank you and good things your way to those of you who are paid subscribers. Paid or free, I appreciate your presence.
Comment below if you have thoughts: do people use the substack chat feature? Like what is that vibe…would love to talk to you there.