My eighth Poet of the People is Yvette R. Murray. Yvette writes without fear in the language of her people. Her poetry is both jarring and refreshing at the same time. She is truly a poet of the people.
I am also excited to host Murray on Saturday, 09/30/23, at 2 pm at Richland Library Southeast, 7421 Garners Ferry Road, Columbia, SC at my quarterly poetry series, Words, Words Words.
My Nostalgia Ain’t Like Yours
It’s wearing a brand new pair of feet,
The old ones got worn out,
My nostalgia has been against the law,
Still is in several of these united states,
My nostalgia has water added to dilute it,
My nostalgia has been lied on, lied on, lied on,
My nostalgia has a shot of espresso,
My nostalgia is brick,
My nostalgia is wool,
My nostalgia flows like the Nile,
My nostalgia ain’t blue,
My nostalgia lives in the inner city,
My nostalgia also lives behind God’s back,
My nostalgia is the singularity that you drool.
~~~
The Poem in Which I Finally Say Their Names
(An Unending Verse)
It is with sorrow, no wait. Sandra Bland Start over. Rayshard Brooks I am here today to. Eleanor Bumpurs *shakes head* Michael Brown Wrong. Michelle Cusseaux The skeleton of a poet sits wearily by a boiling river. Philando Castile She watches words flow instead of blood. Deborah Danner He etches the stone tablets on his knees. Jordan Davis No more tears. Janisha Fonville Yes, more. George Floyd There are more tears than I can cry. Darnesha Harris Fresh death weekly. Eric Garner And the echoes grow louder. For concrete pillows. Kathryn Johnston For Skittles and ice tea and cell phones in pockets. Trayvon Martin So what if my music is loud? For feeding hungry people. Cynthia Graham Hurd, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Rev. Dr. Daniel Simmons, Sr., Ethel Lee Lance, Rev. Sharonda Ann Coleman-Singleton, Susie J. Jackson, Tywanza Sanders, Myra Thompson, Rev. Clementa C. Pinckney My wallet is in my pocket. Do not take me into custody. I am already in custody. Aiyana Jones The created glitch is in the system. I am not who you think I am. Am not. Charleena Lyles I have been on the ground for four hours. Me? Twelve. Dreasjon Reed Minding my own business is not enough. Jogging in the morning is not enough. Breathing is too much. Gynnya McMillen Wish I could jump overboard into a sea of forgetfulness and still be alive. Tamir Rice I was playing with a toy gun. But I’m just trying to go to work. Tyre Nichols Blown out like a candle. I was sleeping in my own bed. Breonna Taylor Sleeping with my grandmother on our couch. I was selling loose cigarettes. James Scurlock Have a bachelor party. Get a cup of joe. Alesia Thomas What was his name again? Walter Scott I must remember her. Can’t forget him. Don’t forget. Remember. Remember. Remember. Please forgive me for not knowing all of your names! How. Can. I. Ever. Fly. Again?
“Poem in Which I Finally Say Their Names” Emrys Journal
~~~
Line Street
corner stores, candy ladies, and dirt,
grandmothers with eyes all over their bodies,
a yad man*, fush man** and Barbara, the woman who
did hair in her kitchen.
In this kingdom, lived
magnificent energies of one purpose.
Grandchildren of bondage
watering little sprouts with love,
and scolding as if the two were one.
Some with less; some with more.
Enough was always enough there.
Working men eating lunch on a stoop
cashiers struttin’ to the second shift at Edward’s
and the flow of Friday five o’clock laughter
over a plate of hot, fried fush*** and a cold one!
I etch stone tablets
because those at the bottom of the mountain
bask in a lovely unknown.
Hush now. I must tell it right.
Ghosts are listening
in the silence of rusty locks.
Gullah Dictionary:
* yad man [yad man]-Noun; yard man or gardener
**fush man [fush man]-Noun; fish man; man who sells fish
***fush [fush]-Noun; fish
“Line Street,” Catfish Stew
~~~
Old Photos
. . . Brionna Taylor, George Floyd, Jordan Davis, Eric Garner, Cynthia Graham Hurd, Rev. DePayne Middleton-Doctor, Rev. Dr. Daniel Simmons, Sr., Ethel Lee Lance, Rev. Sharonda Ann Coleman-Singleton, Susie J. Jackson, Tywanza Sanders, Myra Thompson, Rev. Clementa C. Pinckney, Gynnya McMillen, Walter Scott, Donovan Lewis, Amir Locke, Fanta Bility, Tyre Nichols Ahmaud Arbery. . .
A fresh death no matter what I do.
Chased up, then a cold Georgia shootdown.
There will be no new photos of you.
Men and bullets split our time in two:
Before and after your run in that town.
A fresh death no matter what I do
In good ole Georgia, these cowardly two
called you outta your name; followed you ‘round.
There will be no new photos of you.
Again. Again. Stillness governs our view.
One mother now wears a mourner’s crown.
A fresh death no matter what I do.
Ceremonies go long; life’s now a different hue.
A still smile flashes in skin deep brown.
There will be no new photos of you.
There will be no new photos of you.
Not your voice; not nary a sound.
A fresh death no matter what I do.
There will be no new photos of you.
“Old Photos,” Chestnut Review
~~~
Ode to the Creases in My Pants
You, meticulous detail of mine, garner admiring looks; sit with me at the head of any table. You open doors for me like a Southern gentleman. Your power never ending. You put my fear in its place and lock it there. I feel particularly powerful when the creases in my pants are so sharp they cut the palms of my hands. Mountain ridges created by heat and spray starch on my blue linen slacks. That’s that casket sharp. That conquering-a-world-that don’t-want-you-sharp. I get this from my Mama. Although I, in sheer defiance, rebelled like the Russian citizenry in 1917. It was actually 1975 and that teen thing told me I didn’t need no creases in my pants to make it. I could raise my fist and do anything I wanted . . . Except plow through that wall in universities or bank offices trying to get mortgages if I looked liked yesterday’s newspaper left on a park bench. She insisted. And like all good rebellions mine came to an end or I came to my senses. Or I went back to my future. Generations have been wired in violence, tuned for this moment right here. She was one of the first to raise her fist by plowing through walls with creases and the magnificent intelligence, talent and wit that are in our genome. Who am I to argue with that?
“Ode to the Creases in My Pants,” The Petigru Review
Yvette R. Murray is an award-winning poet and the author of Hush Puppy (Finishing Line Press 2023). She has been published in Chestnut Review, Emrys Journal, Litmosphere, A Gathering Together, and others. She is the 2022 Susan Laughter Meyers Weymouth Fellow, a 2021 Best New Poet selection, a Watering Hole Fellow, and a Pushcart Prize nominee. Find her at missyvettewrites@gmail.com or on Twitter at @MissYvettewrites.