Poetry of the People featuring Brooklyn Brown

This week's Poet of the People is Brooklyn Brown

Every year, two or three young poets meander into Cool Beans and adopt Mind Gravy Poetry as their home away from home. They are in love with poetry, but put off by the way they have been taught poetry; they believe the best poetry is from the heart - understandable and not obtuse. 

Brooklyn is a bolt of light in a fearsome night and assures me that poetry is cradled in good young hands.

~Al Black

Twenty-year-old Brooklyn Brown is a student at U of SC and believes that art is activism. She practices this notion through her poetry. She hopes to be a voice for young people who are struggling with the ups and downs of early-adulthood while also confronting bigger world issues. A creative from a young age, Brooklyn often expresses the turmoil of her own adolescence in her writing. Brooklyn is inspired by the classic romantic and confessionary poets that came before her, and hopes to connect with her readers’ senses through concrete language and vivid imagery, believing that good poetry is not only understood, but felt.


Peeling Oranges 

I split my finger 

on a piece of paper 

yesterday. 

today, 

you want oranges. 

you enjoy the way

the pulp does glut 

your shallow throat. 

and if the consumption

should bring you pleasure, 

I will peel and peel–

only stopping for a moment

inbetween, to wince

at the citrusy sting.

____

Question 

I have a question—

for legislators who have

an obsession with oppression, 

and teaching lessons 

that put people in their proper places

assigned by the shapes

of the features on their face, 

or the colors of

the skins 

that they live in. 

I have a question—

for the men in these positions 

at the top of their systems, 

I have question, 

about my body, 

about its most vital organ, 

not my mitochondria heart, 

but my ovaries, of course. 

I think that they are art— 

But, do their brush strokes

maim you? 

because they paint a mirror image of

the same ones that

made you? 

Is it self loathing or a hatred 

for the woman who created the soul

that would grow to rule 

the bones of a man so cruel

as you? 

Is it because your mother put 

her foot down 

since your father was 

never around? 

Do you still feel the weight of 

her on your little head

each night before bed

while you lay to rest

next to your wrinkling wife, 

who you’d stab with a hunting knife

if the decision of that fatal incision 

would not make you

look like a bad guy? 

do you dream that

your work to earn 

the respect of your daddy even

after he’s dead will pay

as well as the price of the 

people you damned to hell,

because maybe, 

in heaven you’ll throw a ball

back and forth and 

and back and forth

with him? 

and your miserable actions

will be worth

the poison of your politics, 

because at least you remembered 

to pray about it?  

oh, and I have a question—

for the righteous and resolute; 

if I don’t believe in the same god as you,  

must I burn for the sins that

killed your savior? 

must I adhere to the rules of a ruler 

who I owe nothing to, just because 

you say that’s what I should do? 

are millions of us wrong just because 

you will die on the hill 

where you took a red pill 

that told you you were right? 

well, what if 

my mother’s words

are my hymns, 

and when I hear them

they give me breath 

like my mind has grown a lung, 

and I worship the earth—

because it is she

 who is my creator,  

I’ve been my own savior 

since birth, and I crucified myself to stand

up straight and tall today? 

Is it not good

enough for you, 

that I am imprinted

on the opposite side 

of your same copper penny?

Will you not rest 

until I pass 

your grueling test, 

until you’re sure that 

I’m a perfect copy

of your idealistic embossing?

 

I’m left deafened by your preaching 

that drowns out children’s cries

who we could have helped

if you’d just be quiet, and listen

for one minute. 

so my question is— 

If you died today

would you die a martyr,

or a failure? 

was your mission for goodness lost 

under your hunger

to indoctrinate innocents? 

Would Jesus be proud 

of your mansion,

while hungry kids imagine 

a fridge full of food 

in a kitchen as big 

as the one that your

god-honoring 

family dines in tonight? 

you make sure to lead 

in saying grace, 

but did you ignore

 your teenage daughters’ 

pale face

as she stares 

at her untouched dinner plate? 

Do you thank god for the meal

that the help prepared, 

and ask for blessings 

before your son runs 

to the bathroom, to hide 

eyes full of acidic tears

because he fears to be 

feminine, so feeling

feelings makes him scared? 

I have a question— 

for leaders who

don’t lead by example; 

is it purpose or power, 

that fuels you? 

is it oath or ego? 

that is my question.

____

Dreams

A river flowing through

my dreams, 

taking pictures far

from me;

good and bad, 

and in between–  

they all float down 

the angry stream; 

until my mind is fresh 

and clean,

and I wake up on my 

sheets serene,

only dampened

by the feelings

that the erosion

left behind overtime. 

I dreamt a dream

 of better things,

and then I dreamt 

I grew white wings 

and flew too close

to a star, ‘till I burned

and turned

torched and charred. 

Lard with color and 

poignant plotlines,

I dream some dreams 

of beautiful things– 

that dense and darken 

before I wake, 

and then my memory

my dreams doth take.

____

TREPIDATION

The trepidation 

of my twenties 

is tilling over my

noisy nerves 

which wont shut up 

about my body,

or the boy

that i'm afraid 

will get bored of it– 

and I think when

I am an old lady

I’ll eat the pies

I bake instead 

of giving them 

away;

I’ll put extra cream

 into my coffee cup;

I’ll write a book

 for young people 

to read;

I think I’ll smell

like nectarine–

and maybe I’ll learn 

to play guitar and sing. 

I think i’ll feed pigeons 

by a fountain, 

and climb

a big mountain;

just to say it’s 

something I did; 

I think I’ll mentor 

a creative little kid. 

I think I might frequent

local art galleries, 

and be known by some

as “that quirky old lady”;

I think I’ll travel more, 

with someone I  adore–

I think I will make a lot

of soup out of peas, 

that no one will like 

to eat but me. 

I think i’ll reach out to a friend

 from high school

and spend more

 of my summers

 in a swimming pool; 

I think i’ll wear 

a cute swimsuit, 

and ignore the way it fits

my herky-jerky divots. 

I think I’ll start to pray; 

not to god,

but to my mother, who

I wish could live forever 

and always be there 

to give me her best answers. 

I think I’ll have children;

 in the form of house cats– 

and wear colorful 

bucket hats. 

I think I’ll care less

 about what people

think, and I will finally love

 all of my body;

because when I wrinkle 

and begin to grey

I’ll thank my bones

 for carrying me 

every day– 

even when my tattoos

 begin to fade

I’ll still have stories

 to tell the twenty-somethings,

 as well

as secrets to take

 to the grave; 

and when I think

 about my face

and how it might look, 

in a few decades– 

I smile at the picture

and wish that

I could hug her

she looks like me, 

but softer;

she’s full of forgiveness

 and laughter

she's a spitting image 

of her golden mother, 

she’s got paleing hazel 

eyes like her father, 

and the confidence

 of her brother. 

But I am her,

and she is me–

 she is everything I can be 

So I don’t have to wait 

to heal my heart,

or create my art;   

I think I just have to start.