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The Serpent and The Rainbow: Poetry Anthology by Tyrah Chery
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Acknowledgments I would like to thank and acknowledge the University of Indianapolis for awarding “The child says nothing, but what it heard by the fire� second place for the Lucy Monro Brooker Poetry Award in 2018. Thanks to Liz Whiteacre for making me want to try. And thanks to Michael Johnson for pushing me to achieve.
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pou fanme mwen
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Table of Contents Motherland 11 The child says nothing, but what it heard by the fire 12 Sandman Monologue 13 These seeds 14 Dizwit 15 Golden Hour 16 YĂš YÄŤ 17 Kenopsia 18 Frankincense 19 Summer Nights 20 This tongue 21 A Song for Two 22 18-year Old Boy Who Cries Stardust 23 Morii 24
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For You 25 Cradle Song 26
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Motherland My feet have never felt the sands of my mother’s land but in her stories, I can see the fish in the clear blue water and the gardener in the front yard, tending to hydrangeas. My hands have never held that of my great-aunt’s in greeting, but in my mother’s memories, I feel her soft skin and the warmth in her smile. My mouth has yet to sing the songs my grandmother has whispered in my ear into the wind of the palm trees, but in my mother’s lullabies, I hear the wind whisper back.
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The child says nothing, but what it heard by the fire I know death well. She sat with my ancestors on the slave ships kissing their lips as they were thrown overboard, whispering lullabies to make the fall a little softer. She raised my family in her bosom, feeding them anguish for so long that spiders pooled in their bellies, famished. She held their left hands as they killed with their right and held the flag of their independence above their blackened heads. I wouldn’t consider her a friend, but she knows me better than a mother. For years, it felt like we had finally evaded her shadow. Yet here, we find her as our matriarch. I know death well, though she has yet to touch me.
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Sandman Monologue "Don't be downcast, soon the night will come” - Hermann Hesse, “On A Journey” And stars will find their seats near the stage To leave their dust along the deep navy sky. The scene is you, asleep in your bed As they clap, the powders of dreams Fall to lay along your eyelashes and Streak your hair. Don’t be afraid, Those dreams are your own, they Know where to kiss your cheeks and Keep you warm.
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These seeds are sown by two lovers in bed with their mistakes.
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Dizwit She’s done this before. So often, her hands Didn’t sweat anymore, her heart didn’t Run like a hurricane through Place L’Ouverture, her body didn’t Shiver under the weight of his When he shook like a tap-tap, full of desire Overrun by an unseen urgency She knows there’s not much time And she feels the nerves building, but She’s wanted this for so long. He’d never know what this meant to her And how it’d never leave He’s not the first and she thought he wouldn’t be the last, But as his cold hands move along the silhouette Of her thigh, away from tradition, inching close Like the Tonton Macoute late at night To the future they never wanted, stroking the Pain she never asked for. But this was love, years Of young, angry love. Disobedient and thrilling and Unlucky and destructive and never will they Stop regretting this day, never will they regret a day more, But for right now, this was love.
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Golden Hour My grandmother holds my hand as we sit on the front porch and in the warm dusk whispers in my hair Bote enteryè. My skin drinks in her words, parched from the American Dream drought. Her blessings are potent in the golden hour of the sun. I remember the superstitions my family carved into my skin; to fear the dark and stay weary of stranger’s homes. Their demons cling to your clothes like beggar tick seeds and plant themselves in your aura. I also remember the way they weaved the prophecies and prayer through my braids. How my lullabies told me that dreams were omens of times to come and to heed their words, no matter how bitterly they went down. I learned that revenge and spite is okay, though no one else believes so. Bay kou bliye, pote mak sonje, the one who strikes the blow might easily forget, but the one who wears the scars must remember.
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Yù Yī1
1. I remember the Blue House in my dreams. Not the house they stay in now, dilapidated and falling apart. A husk of what it was when fireflies lived in its bones, and the shutters opened almost on their own at dusk. 2. I have forgotten the girl who had the birthday parties that I wished I could have, but I know now she’s 21 and a woman, yet she’ll always be the one who held my hand when I was too scared to move forward. 3. I wish I knew the color of his eyes, the boy that gave me my first kiss underneath the dirty bus seats and stopped looking at me when I got angry and made his nose bleed. 4. I will always remember the attic with the fairy lights strewn across the wooden ceiling and how they would tell me bedtime stories of art soon to be created and worlds closer than I could imagine. 5. I wish to forget the millions of lies I’ve told, yet they stick to my skin like a million thorns in my skin, suffocating me until I breath nothing but petals and pain 6. I remember my sweet cat. When he left, I forgot how to cry. 7. I remember the day I met the boy with stardust as tears and a universe bubbling under his skin. I remember thinking he would do better things 8. I have forgotten the feel of the pit in my stomach, all consuming and ominous 9. I wish to remember the feeling I felt when writing this poem. Because I know in an instant I’ll forget.
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n. the desire to see with fresh eyes, and feel things just as powerfully as you did when you were younger-before expectations, before memory, before words.
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Kenopsia2 I wonder what ghosts have made their homes in the walls of my grandmother’s house. And I wonder, when my time is up, if I’ll find my way back to the attic where I once lived. It is not abandoned now, yet it remains but a husk of what it once was. Once there were cousins, aunts, uncles, family friends bursting from the doors, through the wood floors, out of windows. There were people in the backyard, in the pool, in the basement and the porch. Every inch was filled with someone new. I remember my sticky hand covered in flour Mushing flour into doumbrey like Play-Doh as my grandma hums church hymns under her breath. Now there is only the abandoned daycare I chose not to remember. The basement where my grandmother once lives and a cold reminder of the first home I knew. I hope when the days are over that I find salvation in those empty walls, with all the other ghosts.
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n. the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet 18
Frankincense I remember wondering what The smell of frankincense would be like. Would it smell like Baby Jesus and Mother Mary or a mix between the oregano in my mother’s spice rack and the olive oil the pastor slathers on your forehead? Instead it smelled like the beach. Like when the seaweed left behind in low tide gets warmed by the sun and leaves pieces of itself stuck to your skin. It smells like the car ride home. Hot car, windows down, wondering if your life was a movie, would this be the ending scene or a deleted one. It smells like orange groves too close to the beach and citrus mixing with sea water. It smells like Florida. Maybe Baby Jesus was actually from Orlando.
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Summer Nights I don’t care for summer days, filled with groggy mornings and scorching afternoons. Yet, in the night, when the city lights can sleep, and amongst the trees, I find the beauty in it all, like a midsummer’s night dream. Soon the lightening bugs come out to play, blink once “I’m here”, blink twice “I love you.” The crickets lull me to sleep with their sweet song. “Dear moon, dear moon, dear moon.” Saccharine and dazzling are the summer nights as Zephyrus dances through and kisses us all. But again, I don’t care much for summer days.
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This tongue speaks for the boy with a papier-mache lips. 1
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A Song for Two All along the watchtower 3 A sleepwalker4 and shadow man5 Find paradise6 in empty swimming pools 7. They learn that fruitflies 8 know Sad songs9 stay a while10 in ghost towns 11, And raindrops 12 have places to go. It’s been so long13 since they’ve seen The sunlight touch the heads of Evergreens 14, but they remember how the tulips Raise up like rockets15 from the fresh spring grass When they are together.
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Jimi Hendrix Emily Jones 5 Noname 6 Rex Orange County 7 Kendrick Lamar 8 Gabriel Garzon-Montano 4
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Elton John Gibbz
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Radical Face Moglebaum 13 Benny Sings 14 YEBBA 15 LION BABE 12
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18-year Old Boy Who Cries Stardust I don’t think I’d ever seen a boy cry. He had sat on the stoop of my house his head in his hands, crying so ugly I felt as if I should be embarrassed for him. Except I couldn’t be. It was oddly beautiful, his tears under the streetlight. He named each of the stars as lovingly as if they were his children. Depression, Aggression, Heartbreak, Loneliness, Death. Six months ago, we weren’t supposed to be here, alive under the autumn twilight. We had told each other that we’d just have some fun and that would be that. But instead I was watching him as he told me he didn’t think he’d be alive this long. Now, I don’t think I ever wanted to see Any other boy cry.
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Morii16 You’ve stayed, I’m awake, thank God. So many colors remain glued to the walls Of our minds. Golden Topaz, Chrysanthemum Pink, Happy. Lavender, Lilac, Loss of the Lonesome. We lay intertwined underneath silent stars Who find themselves Millions of miles away. But hopefully we die out together.
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v. the desire to capture a fleeting moment 24
For You I wonder if you know how envious the stars are of your valor and bravery. How they wish they had hands to sculpt scenes of you to keep near them, eternally. How in the night sky they twinkle with whispers of tales of you. They sing for you. How they cry for you, weep new galaxies for you. How the Milky Way dreams new colors for you every new moon. I wonder if you know the planets turn for you, longing to get a glimpse of you. I wonder if you know that this was all made for you.
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Cradle Song May your sleep be filled with dreams May you have visions of star-filled streams I’ll hold your hand, don’t be afraid I’ll lay near you under the night’s shade. Lullaby, and dear one sleep tight. Soon, we’ll see the morning’s light.
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