My poem “…could abash the little Bird” was published in the inaugural issue of The New Verse Review.
It’s an ekphrastic poem based on Emily Dickinson’s '“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers…”., with a MEH twist.
My poem “…could abash the little Bird” was published in the inaugural issue of The New Verse Review.
It’s an ekphrastic poem based on Emily Dickinson’s '“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers…”., with a MEH twist.
I don’t read longer poems at poetry readings. However, I composed some of my longest poems in said the Frog to the scorpion. Months ago, I made an intention to record these poems because I slaved over them and wanted my physical voice attached to them as they are to the poems I read aloud regularly.
So here is a 13 min reading of longer poems from said the Frog to the scorpion
Poems:
1. "when asked why I believed Her"
2. "who She is" (I screwed up the title in the video)
3. “when asked about toxic amnesia”
4. “take your pick”
5. “when asked why I won't”
And yes, there are a lot of squirrels behind me...
After writing and revising for well over a decade, I am happy that my poem “Paulie’s War” has been published in Mid-Atlantic Review.
I don’t watch or read the news as much as I should. Probably because this is my mind goes when I do. That said, my poem “the Blue Envelope Program” was just published by The New Verse News
For those who want the footnotes I cut out of the poem:
I keep writing creative nonfiction and (for some reason) people publish it. “How to Tell a Pure Rage Story” pays homage to Tim O’Brien's “How to Tell a True War Story,” but is a tale all its own.
It's now published in Mayday Magazine.
In honor of Black History Month, Valentine’s Day, and the publication of my new collection, here is a five minute reading from said the Frog to the scorpion and one other poem.
Poems read in the video (the first four appear in said the Frog to the scorpion):
Hevel
when asked what it’s like to love Her
at some point
My first publications of the new year are from the Decolonial Passage. Each is an ekphrastic work, which will likely be a part of the collection I am slowly putting together. Read them here.
“reflection” is after James Barnor’s Self-Portrait with a Store Assistant at the West African Drug Company, 1952
“Black Men and Women in a Tavern,” is after the painting by the same name from workshop of David Teniers the Younger (1650)
“casually and casualty share a Latin root” draws from Jackie Sibblies-Drury’s Pulitzer Prize winning play, Fairview.
Today is the 250th anniversary of The Boston Tea Party. My poem, “on watching a reenactment of the boston tea party” was published in The New Verse News.
Terrain.org has published both "when asked what might finally lead me to drink or abuse schedule 1 narcotics" & "white History Month" as a part of their Letter to America series.
Both are accompanied by a “dramatic reading.” Click below to read/listen.
My poem "Invisible Man (Two Views)” was shortlisted in Alan Squire Publishing Annual Poetry Contest and is now in ASP Bulliten’s latest issue.
This is a doubly ekphrastic poem, inspired by Glenn Ligon’s canvases (by the same name), who in turn took his inspiration from Ralph Ellison’s novel of the same name. Both Ligon and my work represents the opening paragraphs of Ellison’s work to great effect.
So I’m standing on the shoulders of giants. Black excellence.
My creative nonfiction essay “Inscrutable” was nominated by Redivder for a Best of the Net Award.
This is my first time being nominated for my prose.
My poem “American Civics: 2056” was published in River Heron Review’s Poems, For Now issue.
This is an erasure poem from American Civics: A Text Book for High Schools, Normal Schools, and Academies (1906), employing the only mentions of Blacks (“Negroes” or “slaves”) in the whole textbook.
It’s pretty much what you would think and has implications for our collective future.
As a few people are aware, one of the projects I'm currently working (yes, I said “one of…"“) is a collection of ekphrastic poems: I’m expanding Dust & Ashes into a full-length collection.
To that end, I've spent a good part of the summer visiting a bunch of art museums in three different states (so far) to balance the literary art responses with some visual art. Some fruits of that labor were published today in Fevers of the Mind. Here is the link to the poems:
Below are the links to the works they are based on (each opens in a new window).
Well I can finally announce that my poem “the Banjo Player explains” was chosen by A Van Jordan as the Solstice Literary Magazine Stephen Dunn Poetry Prize winner!
The poem is an ekphrastic narrative based on Henry Ossawa Tanner’s painting The Banjo Lesson: the painting which was the cover art for my first collection, Teaching While Black.
It’s a joy to present the selections for the 2023 Stephen Dunn Prize for poetry. The winning poem is “the Banjo Player Explains,” by Matthew E. Henry, selected by our poetry judge for this issue, A. Van Jordan. He writes:
In one of the most assured ekphrastic poems I’ve read in some time, ‘the Banjo Player Explains,’ grants a wish I’ve had since I first saw this Tanner painting: ‘I wish I could hear this lesson played out.’ The poem goes beyond the canvas and the framing of the two figures by “striking a balance between two worlds,” indeed. There’s also the perspective of experiential knowledge of the boy as man, an old man, looking back on a moment he will never forget, yet not initially knowing the significance of it in the moment. There’s great wisdom and a life lesson here.
[Say Jesus were not your magic negro—] was published today in New York Quarterly. This poem is a part of the series found in The Third Renunciation.
He knows the myth, but he is the model minority. The all-around A-student: attentive, astute, Asian. He’s good at math and science, but also garners excellent grades and respect in my sophomore honors English class. He’s soft spoken, but thoughtful. So as the others call out, he raises his hand and waits patiently. When I acknowledge that he will be next, he lowers it back to his desk, places the other over a delicate wrist. When he does speak, on an average Wednesday, I will swear in front of a class for the first time in twenty years of teaching.