This week's Poet of the People is Susan Madison. I first met Susan at an early event hosted by the Pat Conroy Literary Center in Beaufort, SC. We periodically re-connect over poetry and literary projects. She is a gifted poet and writer and is a well-respected force in the South Carolina poetry and literary community.
~Al Black
Susan Madison is a poet, essayist, and short story writer who merges visual artistry with literature. Her work explores culture, history, and consciousness. The author of two chapbooks, if i sing the blues and Gullah Paths, Madison has been published in local and national publications, including Chicken Soup for the Soul.and Ukweli. A native of Chicago, Madison studied fiction and poetry at Columbia College of Liberal Arts in Chicago. She lives on St. Helena Island, South Carolina.
True Red
Don’t try to paint me off-red,
a muted,
distilled version,
of primary red.
I am not doped-up with the flighty spirit of yellow,
made into an orange-
red.
Don’t water me down and tint me with black,
and make me into a funeral-drapery sad,
maroon red.
And please don’t whitewash me and make me,
a soft namby-pamby,
unassuming pink,
nonthreatening,
unrecognizable-
red.
Paint me a straight-no-chaser,
warning label red,
a clueless of how to handle type of red,
a bleeding out,
unassailable,
no excuse,
unapologetic-
red.
Paint me red- red,
draped on a jet-jet black woman,
type of red-
strutting down a church aisle
of an all white,
pure white congregation-
late
red,
that stand-alone,
hush-your- mouth
sit-down-and-catch-your-breath
red.
Home
All she wanted were fingernails the color of orange rinds,
a one room cottage that witnessed the sea,
with a path paved with river stones,
a weathered-beaten door,
behind which sat a simple bed,
curtains the flapped in the wind
and a desk,
haunted by an unknown poet
she would paint the shutters often to amuse herself,
when breezes kicked up their heels,
and families of stars littered the night sky,
she’d sit outside and write letters to dead lovers,
or conjure up friends and cousins,
she could have loved more carefully,
and brush their cheeks with her finger tips.
if sadness burglarized her,
she’d sip bourbon from a bottle,
and chew ice to chase the sting,
or maybe she’d entered the water as she came into the world,
or pause and indulge in its pain
when joy gave her parties,
she’d danced without trying to keep beat,
and answer it with a holy ghost prance
But mostly,
she’d examine her shiny orange nails,
turn her hands,
until the light bounced off the shine,
and listen to the echo of the sea
rise and fall within her womb.
Now
My poetry is ugly now-
It sifts through garbage
for proverbs now,
it's the merciless place between George Floyd's neck,
and the cop's knee who knelt there now.
Irreverent of religion now-
It goes to the mountainside and argues with Jesus now,
Takes up arms with the devil now,
Sits in alleys with drunkard whores now.
It's no longer diplomatic with liars now,
It's the click- click-
fuck-you walk,
of high heels on pavements now,
it’s the jazzed-up junky's-
don't give a shit twang now.
It stopped socializing with the righteous now,
Doesn't look away from adult crack-babies now,
Sleeps under tarps with the homeless now,
Interviews dying dope dealers now
My poetry is ugly now-
It stopped beautifying the womb of tulips now,
Ceased feeding the chickadees and listening to cardinals calls now,
It makes music from the wails of children now,
It's the moaning in old gospels now-
the vacant look in the eyes of hopeless now
It's the song of ugly now.