Poetry
Poetry is the lifeblood of rebellion, revolution, and the raising of consciousness. - Alice Walker.
For us the work these amazing women creators do everyday with their hands, eyes and minds to make beautiful handicrafts is their Poetry. It is their expression not in words but in their work.
Thus we dedicate our poems to them. Each time we win a contest 100% of the proceeds are donated to charities.
I remember wanting to tell you that burnt sugar is waves,
to wash over you, but not swallow you. it’s quicksand,
take a misstep, and you sink. it’s a cigarette that you let burn
in between your teeth, until you burn. and how a young child
holds out their hand for money, until it’s snatched
right from their fingers.
you have to care,
but not care too much. you have to work,
but not too much. you have to learn,
but not too much. you have to breathe,
but not too much. not until it’s snatched from you.
my mother’s hands were old parchment as she watched the stove
smoke and rattle and burn. the smoke coming from the pot
is walking on an endless hike only to see it end with a cliff leading
to the abyss. our kitchen is a garden with blooming flowers all
with different scents. smoke swirls like children running around on a
too-perfect day, their laughter echoing and running together in slurs.
a deep rich brown caramelized substance grows in my mother pot,
as she continues to stir. she looks to make sure I am not around,
because she says it will hurt me. but I love watching her make it.
i love the way the darkness oozes on all sides, transforming into
something new. like a phoenix.
so, i hide under our scratched kitchen cabinets. she adds the boiling
water and steps back. dark matter rises from the pot as it splashes.
the fire is on high, surrounding and tempting the pot. the dark,
sticky substances leap from the pot, making skeletons that all parade
in the air. i can't seem to remember what they want from me. i have
dreams of sailing on a black, oily sea with these shapes chasing me.
i sail in loneliness, dodging the bodies dropping on all sides
of me, until I reach the end of the universe. the place where all
things come to an end. the sea of shadows stop, and the shapes
stop chasing me. i am alone at the edge of the world, letting the
waves determine the beats of my heart.
i want to remember how burnt sugar smells. it is bitter,
like how you would imagine death to smell. or cotton candy that has
been dipped in overly roasted coffee. it's about mastering the art
of existing, but not going far enough to be living. my mom quickly turns
the gas off when it is ready.
she sighs a breath of relief.
i remember wanting to tell you there is a very slim margin of time where
the burnt sugar is at the right stage. to miss the margin of time would
burn the sugar. each of our lives are as short as the margin before we
make the fall off the cliff as well. i remember wanting to tell you burnt
sugar becomes ashes if it burns too long.
Burnt Sugar by Amani Shroff, Published in Telling Room magazine.
My mother wraps our American dream into nice folds and kisses the top like it’s a baby she’s nurtured, on the kitchen counter. My sister plays funny English words again in her mouth, she says words kids told her at school like “eat dirt” but they never make sense. They lean together, giggling like old friends. We will never get the inside joke. My tongue is split into two, my heart shattered every day. I carefully glue it together every night only for it to be chewed up the next morning
by some folk and then spit back onto the ground and laughed at. The pieces land on American dirt, like a lot of our things do and how we sometimes do. In this sweet land of liberty, in this soup of America we are the salt. Needed to survive, ignored, dirt, stepped on. I clench my fists and think of the girls in my class, dishing the dirt on me. They say I will be nothing when I grow up. That I will be buried underground and my dark skin will be unrecognizable and blend in with the dirt around me. Nobody will
remember me.
The moon waxes and wanes, letting waves wash over its cosmic ground.
My mother waters the dirt every night and every morning. She watches our bodies bloat and redden. She picks out the weeds and keeps us in a bowl by the windowsill, overflowing from one side. Sometimes our skin puckers under the sunlight, then she will close the window and draw shade. She watches us bloom from the dirt, slowly and carefully.
American Dirt by Amani Shroff published in The Weight Journal.
I bleed red
every drop sinks out of my body and goes into yours
I feel myself losing more and more of myself because of the gashes and the way you cut me up.
My blood goes to you,
making you stronger and louder
with every drop
you become stronger
you speak louder
and you don’t stop
my voice is buried under the layers of your skin
my quaint red heart
slows down
as blood drips out of mine and into yours
you tell me it’s okay
you tell me I am going to be fine
I believe you
my eyes flutter
like the leaves of a butterfly that doesn’t want to fall
you tie a red ribbon on my cots, like I am a present you are giving to someone.
you stroke my forehead and tell me it is going to be okay
you tell me to let go
you tell me to stop
I grip your hand harder
I don’t want to go
you put dark red roses around my bed and your hand on my shoulder
But I don’t want to go
Not in the world of plump cherries and not in your arms
fire crackles in my throat
as my delicately kissed eyes see red for the last time
The Dangerous Color of Love by Amani Shroff. First Price National Poetry Contest, Monroe Library. Published on website.