Some sign of nature
By Monica Hand
That day on the laundry bench outside, an escape
from heat of dryers people folding; that day
the homeless man from the park nearby out his mind
out half his clothes can’t chase me back inside
where people spin and washers moan; that day I see
two baby birds burrow their beaks in cracks
they want for food, unearth crumbs the absent-
minded drop as they rush away; that day
at the Long Island Railroad station every seat taken
by someone down on her luck waiting
as police sweep through with their sticks, demand
those sitting show their tickets or leave –
the woman next to me gets up, men from the back
where it’s dark leave; a woman with the wrong ticket
leaves – mad, pushing her bags; someone else
with the right ticket has to stay awake; that day
he overlooks me – just my luck;
in the news pictures – smiling pundits, the famous
poems read on the subway – bear, wolf
that day I walk aside half-starving trees
Freedom speaks
By Monica Hand
I am
a. what you say I am
b. sold like gold, ivory, spices, skins or precious stones
c. sold on auction block, with shackle lock, whip and chains
d. butler, cook, mammy or maid
e. all of the above
f. none of the above
Rank in order of importance
__ bomb, pyre, petrified flames
__ four little dead girls in ponytails
__ scarred tongue, combustion-tongue, no tongue
Fill in the blanks
Somali pirates on the open sea
Gangsta rappers love
Blacks on Wall Street give
Clarence Thomas didn’t
Langston Hughes is
Multiple choice (circle one)
a. no hands, no feet
b. blink, cataracts
c. transformation by the renewing of the mind
d. good fuck, okay fuck
e. none of the above
f. all of the above
Sounds like
a. riot
b. belly laugh, side split, thigh slap
c. joke, gag, jest, jape
d. debauchery, revelry, bacchanal ritual
e. none of the above
f. all of the above
dear Nina:
By Monica Hand
she tells me that the slave cabins
are still there…and the graves of the slaves
are there, unmarked….the graves of my family
– Lucille Clifton
When Lucille died, it was as if I heard God’s voice
– I suddenly knew what I was missing
Not like the woman across from me on the subway
– missing her front teeth
Or the homeless man with his scary voice
– missing the threat of a loaded gun
Lucille knew where she come from she comes
from Dahomey women, women with one breast
The women I am from are wild; beautiful
This is what I know
When Lucille died, I tell my grand daughter
We are like Lucille trouble in the waters can’t kill us
Monica A Hand is a poet and book artist currently living in Harlem, USA. Her manuscript, me and Nina received a 2010 Kinereth Gensler Award and her poems have appeared in Aunt Chloe, Black Renaissance Noire, The Sow’s Ear, Drunken Boat, Beyond the Frontier, African-American Poetry for the 21st Century, Gathering Ground: A Reader Celebrating Cave Canem’s First Decade and elsewhere. She holds a MFA in Poetry and Poetry in Translation from Drew University, and is a founding member of Poets for Ayiti.
Oh, my. These are exquisite torture. Yes.
Monica,
I have been searching for you. If you remember me from Beaver College, please get in touch with me. Your poetry is exquisite just as I remember you and London and Morroco. Susan Trimble
Susan, of course I remember you. I often tell stories of our adventures. I’ve mentioned you a lot recently with the passing of Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones.) Remember you performed with me in my direction of his play, “The Dutchman.” I gave a reading at Beaver, February 2012, when my book first came out. I would love to reconnect. Monica
Monica, your poetry is stunning. Bravo!
Your work is as descriptive as a painting. You capture words and assign them places in the formulation of ideas. When are you releasing the C.D.? Smile
Amazing poet & person. Goodness. Miss you, friend . Rest In Peace
You are sorely missed, my friend.