communion with the earth offers no gloves

the father of the mother knows his place

study the man and notice what he does

outside the light of any smiling face

he clarifies his three piece suit to two

leaving the jacket sitting on a chair

and walks through grass in fine Italian shoes

investigates the fruit trees that yet bear

and places golden apples (i count eight)

into the background of the celebration

the rustic ceremony of his fate

born in an orchard in another nation

and thus the child is blessed beyond her knowing

the weight of golden orbs already growing

(This sonnet is for my Grandpa Joe. Grandpa Joe is a shadowy figure in my memory. A quiet person who spoke in proverbs. A person who, even when he was present, wasn’t necessarily social. It makes sense then, that I learn more about my Grandpa Joe studying the background of pictures of other people the day of my christening than I do from the picture of us together, his face obscured by the shadows of the trees. It turns out, that while other people were posing and smiling, my maternal grandfather, born on a citrus farm in rural Jamaica, performed his own ceremony: harvesting fruit from the wild apple trees in the yard. In this poem I imagine that moment, the ancestral presence he made space for by turning to a practice that may have felt more resonant for him than standing and talking with people. And for all the tiny ceremonies that we do or do not notice. And for all the necessary work happening right now that sustains me, though it may be in the background almost beyond recognition. I see you. I love you. I thank you.)

the love within him infinite and free

my uncle ties his tie and suits his suit

godfather though the sharp young man may be

his life had not yet borne religious fruit

one day he will stand up and lead a church

heart big enough to hold a million souls

but now he is still leaning in the lurch

he’s barely more than twenty-five years old

did he decide on this bright sacred day

to make a wry commitment though divine

to practice play as love and love as play

both god and father claimed and redefined

yet who can tell the meaning of his smirk

all I know is I’m grateful and it worked

(This sonnet is for my Uncle Duane. Daddy’s younger brother, and cherished confidante and my beloved wise and playful godfather. The one who used to get me in trouble in church on Sunday morning making funny faces and then quickly shifting back into a serious mode. Other people in the congregation must have imagined I was laughing in the face of God. Uncle Duane, you have always been there for me and for my Dad and for our family. I could not ask for a more loving, honest, joyful and compassionate godfather. It seems to come naturally to you. But studying your face in these after-christening photos, two very different countenances, I wonder what it meant to you that day, as such a young man to take on the name of “godfather.” So this is a poem of gratitude and wonder, honoring your journey to become the person you are, exactly who I needed you to be, while still protecting the youthful playful spirit that we love! And I know that the love within you has always been divine, and open to a great purpose. Within and beyond form and structure. )

already i must clutch my own heart

and look to the sky

the door to the house is open

behind us

and look to the sky

remembering what is

behind us

a dream i am writing you into

remembering what is

before all of this

a dream i am writing you into

with my eyes

before all of this

you traveled the ocean

with my eyes

and by hand you made family

you traveled the ocean

the door to the house is open

you made family already

by hand

my hands clutch at my heart

(This poem is really for my Nana, Joyce McKenzie who is—always—in the process of telling me her life story, but now I am recording and transcribing it. One of the beautiful things about Nana’s life is that she made it by hand. She created family by choice and care and need as an orphaned child who didn’t have access to safety or home in Jamaica after her grandmother passed away. My Aunt Bunny and my Aunt Jenny, pictured here are two of the many people who became her family through the process of migrating together and keeping each other alive. They became kindred in and across the ocean. My grandmother’s migration story has profoundly shaped my life and our family and I also dedicate this poem to all those who are loving each other across oceans and other borders and for those who have usually been able to traverse borders freely who are now learning what it means to have to do your caring long distance, not by choice, but by necessity. And what will be the evidence one day in the future of the families we are creating and nurturing now. Of the ways we kept each other alive.)

grandma made this dress with her hands

made the baby indirect by salt and stay

pop-pop grows his beard to match

the length of grace the lace of claim

made the baby indirect by salt and stay

made the brown in sun and softness over days

the length of grace the lace of claim

the strange perpetuation of a name

made the brown in sun and softness over days

to come to borrow and believe in both

the strange perpetuation of a name

that doesn’t claim them either

to come to borrow and believe in both

the breathing and the thickness of the blood

the wild unclaimed

tenacity of sand

the breathing and the thickness of the blood

pop-pop grows his beard into

tenacity of sand

grandma made this dress with both her hands

(This poem is for my paternal grandparents and yet it is also against normative ideas about paternity. My grandmother designed and made this christening gown for me and it has also been worn by my sister, by cousins, and other babies in our family. As a grown queer rebel who now knows more about my paternal grandparents fathers and their harm, and also the limits of patriarchy that left my grandfather unclaimed even though he used and passed on the name of his father, I focus on the gown as a handmade claim. Another way of holding. And look at my grandmothers hands. Yes. They have made worlds. So this is for Lydia and Jeremiah. And also for you, relearning how to make the world by hand right now. For all of you discovering which claims are in name only and which ones come with care, that can actually clothe you, shelter you, hold you in this moment. With love and tenacity.)

if your sleeve were the ocean carrying me to sleep

would i dream myself your smile

if the waves of fabric woke me

i would be dressed in love

would i dream myself your smile

your beard the cleansing cloud above me

would i be dressed in love

your raining joy

your beard the cleansing cloud above me

your smile the source of poems

your raining joy

the soon and coming words

your smile the source of poems

your face the welcoming earth

the soon and coming words

my head upon your shoulder

your face the welcoming earth

the waves of fabric waking

i float upon your shoulders

ocean carry me to sleep

and never leave

(This poem is for the sweet trinity of my godmother Auntie Jennifer, my father’s godmother Cousin Floss and my Pop-pop and the renewing resource of their smiles. For me this picture is evidence to dismantle my internalized capitalism, the individualist mythology that life is a struggle and I am in it by myself. But look. I am held and supported, not by one, but by many. Not only by the living but also by those who lived before. Not only within the nuclear model of family, but within chosen and extended networks of care. Looking at the photo today I notice that the trinity of adoration and care holding me in this picture are wearing red, white and blue, like that opening scene of Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon. And actually all three of these angels in my life chose to leave the United States and lived in other jurisdictions for most of my life. I accept the necessary reminder in this moment that though this country does not support life in general and also does not support my life or the lives of those I love in particular, that reality cannot override the fact that the universe does and has and will support us through each other. I love you. I gotta let myself be the baby in this picture, held, supported loved. I want to invite you to be the baby in this picture. Rest. You are loved.)

thank you

for the small god of sleep

for the trickster god of dreaming

for the slow and yet resplendent god of sunrise

for the warmth

thank you

for the longing god of comfort

for the easy god of beauty

for the glamour god of style

for the altar of this outfit

thank you

for the growing god of food

for the working god of hands prepared

for the moving god of transport and of share

for the nourishment i find

thank you

for the waiting god of work

for the coy goddess of poetry

for the ample god of purpose

for this labored life of love

thank you

for the sweetest god of song

for the heartbeat god of rhythm

for the sweating god of dance

for this body

thank you

for the changing god of every face

for the sometimes god of smiling

for the pulling god of need

for my community

thank you

for the slick god of reflection

for the plodding god of duty

for the craving god of kinship

for my family

thank you

for the purple god of sunset

for the cooling god of evening

for the blinged out god of nightsky

for the moon

thank you

for the lingering god of light

for the soft goddess of rest

for the salt god of satisfaction

for my best

god

mother

thank you

(This poem is for my divine godmother Aunt Rashmi. We lost contact with Aunt Rashmi many years ago, so if anyone here has seen her and would like to be part of the miracle of our reconnection, my mama and I are so open to that miracle. My memories of Aunt Rashmi are vague, but I have a birthday card from her on my first birthday where she wrote the words “God Bless You.” This poem honors all the ways that I fully receive that blessing in its many forms. And this is for all of us who are remembering exactly what we are grateful for right now.)

we could be singing

a duet in a forgotten language

i look into your open mouth

and know

a duet in a forgotten language

remembered ancestral face

i know you

i have known you before

remembered ancestral face

tell me how i got here

i have known you before

what are the passkeys to this time

tell me how i got here

and who brought you

what are the passkeys to this time

what is this place

and who brought you

this open mouth

what is this place

come let us sing it

into life

(This poem is for my fabulous Aunt Lorraine, my grandmother’s sister, lover of all beautiful things and laughter, lifetime member of the NAACP and YWCA. Can you see her halo? Thank you Aunt Lorraine for teaching me to dance by living your life as an opening for joy. This is for everyone who is looking for the song right now, learning how to harmonize across distance and lifetimes. Love teaches us the frequency we need. )

only one of us has teeth

but you could say

we see the same world

looking forward

and you could say

our fates are intertwined

forward facing

and bright

our fates are intertwined

your hair is cornrowed

and bright

with gold

your hair is braided

and mine is wispy

with gold

with bright and waking thoughts

my mind is one with thee

with teeth of us

with bright and waking thoughts

see? the same world.

(This poem is for my sweet Auntie Veronica and our alignment of spirit which is already evident in these pictures. Aunt Veronica your hopeful loving energy is exactly what I am inviting into my life right now. And always. Thank you for holding a place in your heart for me as pure potential, as bright and possible love. And I also dedicate this to everyone who is reaching to be their best selves at this time of change and adaptation. Remember? This is what it feels like.)

i was sleeping while you were smiling

i was fat and you were thin and young

we were brown and the sun knew us gently

my ribbon matched your dress

i was fat and you were thin and young

you would be yet thin and young still when you died

my ribbon matched your dress

my hands your hands

yes you will be yet thin and young and gone

when i become the age that you are here

my hands your hands

i would take on the art

when i become the age that you are here

i write and think that means that i can live

i’m taking on the art

you left behind

i write and does it mean that you yet live

brown and gentle in the rising sun

you left us, sleeping

are you smiling now?

(This is dedicated to my beloved godmother Aunt Andie, also known as the great author, journalist and woman of profound faith Andria Hall. She also made the most amazing Sunday breakfasts in the universe. I know that right now she would be making space for compassion and divine love with every word. I also know she is smiling upon the beautiful joyful lives of her children and family. Thank you Aunt Andie. Your life taught me that “angel” was not an idea or a metaphor. Angel is a way of being. The way you be. Eternal love.)

*if you know you know. shout out to Natasha Tretheway.

for soprano, mezzo-soprano or alto voice

am i the one

who looks most like you

in the world?

who looks most like you

eyes or hands

mouth or song?

in this whole world

is there one

as yours as me?

i am the one

who holds your song

inside my skin.

(This love song to all of my ancestors is inspired by this picture of me twinning with my dear Aunt Una, the great opera singer. Right now my aunt and my other relatives in Anguilla are dealing with a complete shut down of an economy seduced and betrayed by tourism. Their food supply, almost entirely imported is a major question. Aunt Una’s voice could break windows, has opened doors. And sometimes she will face the ocean and sing. )

the difference between a yawn and a smile

the small muscles

near the cheekbone

the jaw in its depth

not width

near the cheekbone

there is a yes

not width

a knowing

there is a yes

you have to reach for it

a knowing

stretching your baby face

you have to reach for it

the love you need

stretching your baby face

and grown heart

the love you need

the jaw in its depth

this growing heart

the smallest muscle

(This is dedicated to everyone who is relearning their face after days of not seeing or smiling at strangers in passing. This is dedicated to us, the ones relearning movement in smaller spaces. This is for us, navigating the difference between restlessness and rest. And of course this is dedicated to three of my gorgeous godmothers, three of the sisters my mother chose. Aunt Cecilia, Aunt Rashmi and Auntie Jenny. Divine. And dreamy.)

nana touches the back of my father

the hem of my garment

looks out of the frame

blood red nails

the hem of my garment

white lace stitched by love

at home red fingertips

as well

white lace stitched by love

like this is a wedding

as well

something someone gives me away

like this is a wedding

but my father is holding

something someone give me a way

to hold onto him now

but my father is held

now out of the frame

and yet I hold him here

touch back

(I dedicate this to all of us with the impulse to hold and be held by people who we cannot hold or be held by right now, for reasons of social distance or spiritual plane. I dedicate this to my father who I just wish I could hug, it’s a daily wish and a daily heartbreak. I dedicate this to my Nana who is living, but far away and also who it would not be epidemiologically wise for me to hug at this time. Even this christening gown made by my other grandmother the great designer exists somewhere where we can’t touch it. Towards our transformed relationship to touch. And not taking touch for granted ever. Again.)

at last the people face each other
in the open mouth of a child
greet each other gently
curious about the world to come

in the open mouth of a child
the people find not teeth but questions
curious about the world to come
they raise the high pitch of their voices

the people find not teeth but questions
they make not weapons but water
they raise the pitch of their own voices
to meet the hope they suddenly remember

they make not weapons but water
with their skin and with their eyes
they meet the sudden hope
with salt and fresh renewal

with their skin and with their eyes
the people greet each other gently
with salt and fresh renewal
at last the people face each other

(Part of my curriculum of homeschooling my inner child and balancing this social distance is returning to images of my first social event. My first official ceremony. The ceremony of godparents. A memory of being held. Some of these folks are far away, like my Mama across an ocean now. Some, like my Pop-pop, Aunt Mary -who is holding me here-and Aunt Andie-right next to my mom-are ancestors now.)

Are you homeschooling your inner child? Adapting through rebirth? Finding a ceremony here?

Last week we gathered for the “Set Me Free” ancestral accountability intensive and wrote together not only about our role in elevating and liberating our ancestors, but also about how listening to and learning about them reveals our own current entrapment, by external systems and internal patterns. In honor of my great grandmother Edith Henry who was an organist and spiritual worker in the AME church, and who also died in a mental institution after a mental break caused by the death of her disabled son in an institution for the containment of disabled children in the early 20th century we explored our organs, the breathing of the church organ, the organized chaos of our longings and fears and supported each other in holding space for the rage, love, guidance and clarification of our ancestors.

As I have been building my relationship with Edith Henry and acknowledging her and her son, my great uncle who I never learned about until I found his name on a census record and broke a multi-generational family silence, I think about what it means to be in “our place.” Great grandmother Edith was a Black woman who did not survive the patriarchal constriction of the time in which she lived and the dominating socialization of my great grandfather. And ultimately she was confined in a mental institution. My great uncle was one of the many children with disabilities who was forced out of view. He died within 24 hours being placed in an institution. My great grandmother, who never wanted him to be sent there, died from the heartbreak of losing him. The consequences of Black women being forced to stay “in their place” and of disabled people being forced into backrooms is profound suffering, silence and death. I have had to reimagine the places my ancestors inhabited, constricted in multiple ways as the center of the universe. The place from which wisdom, accountability and impact radiate out even though multiple systems of oppression tried to contain their uncontainable lives.

And right now, many of us are newly negotiating containment. Many abled people are for the first time developing empathy for disabled community members who have to self-quarantine on a regular basis. The conversation about freedom of movement, lockdown and isolation is expanding. And right where you are, right now, is the center of the universe. It is the place where you get to learn about the internal and external limitations that shape your days, and the structures that were already in place. In our late efforts to contain the consequences of a pandemic that the systems that harm us daily have allowed to run rampant, we are learning something new about our “place” or the extent of our displacement, here at the center of the universe.

Our offering to you is the group poem that we wrote together on the first night of our ancestral accountability intensive. We offer what we are placing at the center and what centers us in this time of anxiety and uncertainty. Use it when you need centering. If functions as a repetitive meditation. If possible, read it out loud. Right where you are.

The Center of the Universe

by the participants in the Set Me Free Ancestral Accountability Intensive

“the center of the universe.  her place.”

                        -from “Edict” in Dub: Finding Ceremony

breath.  the center of the universe.

love.  the center of the universe.

joy. the center of the universe.

women. the center of the universe.

mycelium. the center of the universe. 

the seed of what is left. the center of the universe.

grandmothers healing hands.  the center of the universe.

deep knowing.  the center of the universe.

your heart.  the center of the universe.

a heart that gives, receives, holds, gives again.  the center of the universe.

the warmth of strong arms embrace. the center of the universe.

our bodies where we live and breathe.  the center of the universe.

her womb.  the center of the universe.

body to body.  the center of the universe.

water. the center of the universe.

her eyes, looking at me. the center of the universe.

releasing flowing tears. the center of the universe.

a well. the center of the universe.

the grounding rhythm of the drums. the center of the universe.

vibrational healing. the center of the universe.

purple light. the center of the universe.

sacred caves. the center of the universe.

ammonite fossils. the center of the universe.

stone. the center of the universe.

tree. the center of the universe.

fire. the center of the universe.

burnt root and smoke.  the center of the universe.

standing under the moon. the center of the universe.

play. the center of the universe.

organ. the center of the universe.

handwritten notes. the center of the universe.

black feminist brilliance.  the center of the universe.

your beautiful bright smiles.  the center of the universe.  

journey towards the center of the universe.

this. right now.  the center of the universe.

---

If you want to be among the first to hear about April’s online intensive you can join the email list here:  http://brillianceremastered.alexispauline.com/contact/

Our next two online workshops this month are:  

Friday, March 20th  7pm eastern Audre Lorde online workshop “in order to go on living”: an equinox ceremony https://www.eventbrite.com/e/in-order-to-go-on-living-an-equinox-ceremony-in-the-time-of-epidemic-tickets-99715916992

Tuesday, March 24th 7pm eastern Toni Cade Bambara online workshop “Take Care of Your Blessings”: Toni Cade Bambara and a Spell for Mutual Survival  https://www.eventbrite.com/e/take-care-of-your-blessingstoni-cade-bambara-a-spell-for-mutual-survival-tickets-99711794662

 And if you specifically want to be notified as we roll out the Black Feminist Breathing Reboot Upgrade you can add your email here: https://mailchi.mp/c4130ae92edb/keepbreathing

Photo by Dagmar Schultz

Last night some of the lovers of the Lorde gathered to celebrate her birthday. We did what Audre Lorde asked of her communities again and again, we allowed ourselves to meet ourselves newly. We took responsibility for the depth of our longing. We tuned into our ancestral selves and opened ourselves up to receive love from all directions. With dedication to the powerful entities in our lives and in the ancestral realm (especially Audre Lorde and Toni Morrison beaming down on us from that great writers retreat in the sky) we followed the example of Audre Lorde’s The Black Unicorn and created time travel guides and glossaries to meet our ancestral selves across lifetimes and within this one. We participated in the transformation of a stone machine into a stone museum, releasing what was weighing us down and inviting the power of the sacred stones Lorde invokes in her poems. We found ourselves in each other and emerged renewed. Our offering in gratitude to Audre Lorde for all these lifetimes of love is below. We encourage you to read it out-loud with special emphasis on the lines that also resonate with what Audre Lorde has provided you.

And if you want to learn about Undrowned Sun: An Ancestral Listening Intensive taking place online Feb 29 to March 1, here is the info: http://brillianceremastered.alexispauline.com/2020/02/09/undrowned-sun-an-ancestral-listening-intensive/

Love,

Alexis

Happy Birthday Audre: A Woven Poem

After Audre Lorde’s poem "Sahara" in The Black Unicorn

By the participants in “Ancestor Audre: References for Rebirth”

Weaving: the work that is finally recognized, the work that is necessary an skilled, and soft and wise, joyously celebrated by all.  An honor to offer-thank you Audre.

You is the light Audre.

Love everlasting Audre.

Radical truth Audre.

Take off my clothes Audre!

Powerful and vulnerable Audre.

Grateful for your alchemy Audre.

I vow to listen to you Audre.

Thank you for sharing your eyes Audre.

Thank you for radical self-love Audre.

Keep on beaming, we feel you Audre.

Your gaze keeps me honest Audre.

You make me know I can exist Audre.

I am more expansive because of you Audre.

You came for me in my time of need Audre.

Your words center me every time I spin Audre

Moonlight beams reflecting off ocean waves, Audre.

You have become the ancestor you dreamed of Audre.

You are remembered today and always Audre.

Thank you for helping me learn about who I am Audre.

Dismantling the master’s house because of you Audre.

You keep teaching me how to survive and I thank you Audre.

I am who I am doing what I came to do Audre.

Everpresent wisdom reverberating always

Audre.

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 11x17

$45.00

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 22x28

$100.00

Wendi O’Neal gathers the people during the Southerners on New Ground Anniversary Celebration in Durham, NC

Nobody in my African dance class wants to celebrate President’s Day. “What is there to celebrate?” We collectively believe that the buildings where we dance should be open to us on this municipal holiday. Because as one wise dancer pointed out “There isn’t a president.” The truth of this is glaring at the moment. And the impulse for us to come together and move is ancient and it is as necessary now as it is has ever been.

Last month a group of us came together to write about coming together drawing on the Black Feminist Precedent of June Jordan’s book Living Room. We wrote about what home is and what it isn’t. We revisited the horrifying clarity of the Greensboro Massacre and the Atlanta Child Murders. We thought about the simplicity and complexity of our basic rights. Clean water. Safe living space. We reflected on the difference between making demands for accountability from systems designed to eradicate us and tapping into the actual source of our supply, that which makes the flower bloom. We reclaimed our blooming y’all.

In 1979 in the face of the Atlanta Child Murders, June Jordan asked her community “What kind of a people are we?” She wanted to know if her community would transform itself to save it’s own children. She wanted to ask about a collective capacity to respond ethically in a flagrantly violent context. And we still need that. Our workshop was dedicated to and inclusive of parents facing violent neglect and environmental poisoning in Durham Public Housing. Our basic needs, our fundamental rights will not come from a president. That type of only love can only be activated by a people. When fear threatens to isolate us further, and when our isolation only benefits those few who seek to control the many, we have to learn to become a people. What kind of a people? Our closing group poem from the Living Room workshop offers an invocation. Again this is best read aloud.

P.S. Tomorrow is Audre Lorde’s Birthday aka High Holy Black Feminist Rebirth-day you can sign up for our celebratory workshop Ancestor Audre: References for Rebirth here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/93658770905

And my new book Dub: Finding Ceremony came out last week. On Feb 29/March 1st join us for an intimate 12 person online experience: Undrowned Sun: An Ancestral Listening Intensive. Learn more here: http://brillianceremastered.alexispauline.com/2020/02/09/undrowned-sun-an-ancestral-listening-intensive/

Invocation: For Becoming a People

by the participants in the Living Room: Housing as a Human Right Webinar

“What kind of a people are we?” – June Jordan in “The Test of Atlanta 1979”

 a people who put love first

a people who change the world

a people who collectively protect our children

a people who uplift one another

a people who say what they need to say

a people who follow through

a people who seek out all the forbidden lost histories

a people who will not sit idly by

a people who make good food

a people who will give a glass of water

a people who rest

a people who know the material power of dreams

a people who use joy as resistance

a people who use love as our weapon

a people who renourish the soil

a people who drink as we pour

a people who warm each other

a people who ready for birth

a people who sing to our babies

a people who honor our elders

a people who pay attention to the moon

a people who LISTEN TO BLACK WOMEN

a people who engage in sustainable support and care

a people who actively heal generational trauma

a people who remembers our medicine

a people who know we need each other and say it out loud

a people who abolish the prisons

a people who restore and repair

a people who love learning

in the living room

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 11x17

$45.00

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 22x28

$100.00

Like an endowed chair, but you were chained to it. Like a long-term artist residency with minimal chores and access to an historic New England house except, you belong. Except you cannot belong. I often think about you Phillis Wheatley, first of our kind, the only reason we remember the name of a particular slaveholding family Wheatley, a particular profitable slaveship Phillis, and whoever the boat was named after. You were named after the boat, and the family that bought you before your front teeth came in. Those who would imagine themselves as your benefactors, make themselves more interesting than their neighbors because dinner at their house meant you, not only serving the table, but creating poetry, performing on the spot, offering hosts and guests alike a chance at immortality. And they live now through your words. Like the names on buildings, endowed funds or attached to the salaries of my mentors. Like the names of the fellowships some of us apply for every year. Names that ring with our desire to be chosen. I think of you, first of our kind. Arriving without your front teeth. Which means what? Are your baby teeth among the bones of those who did not survive the journey with you, washed out of the hold with so much blood and matter?

Yesterday I found out that one of my teeth is dead. Way in the back, a molar, like those teeth you didn’t have yet, when John and Susanah named you when they claimed you on the dock. It will stay there in my mouth though. What they call a natural implant, deep rooted and about to undergo a root canal. No, I don’t have dental insurance anymore. That was only for the short time that I was a named chair at a midwestern university. A time when I was far from home and cold. I know you know enough about that. How after Susanah died and freed you, you could not afford the heat to live in a harsh New England climate. And no one would publish your second book without their esteemed names to frame your bio, your biology. You couldn’t afford anymore to get sick. But you did get sick again and died. Free. First of our kind to follow love, be the brave the first, the free the independent scholar. I love you. And I wish I knew your name.

I made this collage, a revision of the frontispiece from your book. You know my books too have the name of a slaveholder on the front inside page. What happens next? I wanted to make your bonnet into a feathered crown and so I did. I wanted to make your writing plume plush and purple so I did that too. I wanted you to have so much more than the bare minimum. When I was seven years old I played you in the Black history month play at a school that was all white except for me. They put gray construction paper chains around my wrists. I made you this collage with scissors and with glue. I put black glitter all around your face. I offered every form of printed fabric, like there could be a relationship to print that was worthy of you and us, that was soft and supported you, a fabric that linked you to me by choice, that supported you as if you could be at home. This collage (I keep changing the title of it) is a ceremony where I insist, with not a little bit of desperation that I can rename your chair, reclaim the place you sit from thieves. What is your name?

The frame of your frontispiece portrait says who owns you, calls you servant, I want to serve you and I want to break you out. So the one place where I break the frame it is with teeth. Yes, the same teeth you didn’t have. With teeth no one can see. The smile of a of a young black girl, but her mouth is closed. And I pray that no one steals whatever she might say to call themselves the coolest white person in history. And her smile, let it break the frame that now encircles you. Closed mouth, the smile of knowing something no one knows, and if you tell me I won’t tell them either. This smile can hold your freely given name.

P.S. Prints of my collage for the artist provisionally known in capture as Phillis Wheatley and 20 other ancestral collages are now available in multiple sizes as an ongoing fundraiser for the transformation of independent scholarship into communal abundance known as Eternal Summer of the Black Feminist Mind. Click on the images below to see the range.

And Thursday is our workshop inspired by June Jordan’s Living Room on Housing as a Human Right. Relevant to artists and to all of us. The artist provisionally known in capture as Phillis Wheatley died as Phillis Peters, a black mother in unlivable housing. June Jordan’s essay “The Difficult Miracle of Black Poetry in America” was the subject of my first ever essay in college. You should read it. And sign up for the workshop here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/living-rooma-writing-workshop-on-housing-as-a-human-right-tickets-89969484149

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 11x17

$45.00

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 22x28

$100.00

*photo by Dagmar Schultz

Last Thursday, some of us, those of us who could access electricity and battery power gathered for a digital writing workshop on energy and transformation. We gathered to remember Audre Lorde’s wisdom on the relationship between natural and social disasters, based her experience revising her whole lifetime of poetry by candle and kerosene lamp and listening for the generator to cut off in the months after Hurricane Hugo when St. Croix, a colonial territory of the United States, had no electrical power, just one demonstration of an ongoing lack of accountability. We gathered with Puerto Rico on our minds. During the aftermath of Hurricane Hugo, Audre Lorde was terminally ill and we gathered with disability justice warriors on our minds who raised awareness about the impact of California’s pre-emptive power outages during the wildfires on those members of our communities who depend on electricity to live. We were vulnerable with each other and explored the rawness of the interruptions not only in our access to utilities, but in our relationships, our practices, our interrupted sleep, our anxiety. We cataloged our longings and following the lead of Audre Lorde, engaged revision. We moved through the past tense, subjunctive, tense, present tense, inspired by Lorde’s practice later in her life of putting line breaks within lines, we made space for ourselves to breathe. We let ourselves learn about the relationship between interruption and reconnection. Space between, and space to generate something new and necessary. Some interruptions are sudden, some are recurring. Audre Lorde reminds us that “wind is our teacher,” in the forms of elemental changes that prove the illusion of the status quo, the structures that operate as if the world is not changing right now.

Our offering to you is a group poem we created inspired by Audre Lorde’s poem “The Winds of Orisha” a reflection on what the edges of our experiences are teaching us about expansive contradiction, persistence and adaptation. We invite you to read it out loud.

P.S. There are still some spots in next week’s online workshop Living Room: Housing as a Human Right, inspired by June Jordan’s poetry collection Living Room and the work of Black mother’s in Durham and the Bay Area to create a homeful reality. More info here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/living-rooma-writing-workshop-on-housing-as-a-human-right-tickets-89969484149

And check out the video below to learn about next weekend’s Black Feminist Speculative Documentary Intensive in Durham: https://documentarystudies.asapconnected.com/CourseDetail.aspx?CourseId=215629

Even This

by the participants in “Of Generators and Survival: Listening for Audre Lorde When the Power’s Out”

“When the winds of Orisha blow

even the roots of grass

quicken.”

-from The Winds of Orisha by Audre Lorde

(revised by Lorde for Undersong in the aftermath of Hurricane Hugo when the power was out for months)

even the hands of children bleed

even the humility of hero is fault 

even the perfection of the rose fades

even all that is most true dies

even the bark of the tree feels the mycelium

even the trunk of the tree buckles

even the generator power needs

even the atoms feel the interruption

even the full-bellied laughter tells us stories of pain

even the depths of frustration teach

even the waves of grief dance

even the heart of freedom fights

even the love of the world laughs

even the voices of those unheard scream 

even that which breaks us heals us

even the divinity of healers expands

even the dreams of the enslaved unfold

even the sleep stolen dreams

even the faces of the dead smile

even the facsimile of your face soothes

even the possibility of peace heals

even the sound of breathing blesses

even the mountain lion teaches

even the wounded dog kisses

even the soil of stolen land holds promise

even the soil of war feeds

even our bodies contain the memories we cannot feel

even the broken bodies grow

even the frozen water moves

even the lashes of eyes soften

even the eyes of a foe protect

even the eyes of new life see

even the end of the day wakes

even the edges of space sing

even the blast of the explosive rebuilds

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 11x17

$45.00

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 22x28

$100.00

On the King Holiday, a group of folks gathered online to write together and to listen to our ancestors and our dreams. We honored the birthday of the Black lesbian feminist poet Pat Parker and her critical and crucial stewardship of the dream of feminism. We poetically gathered the artifacts of “our people” as we claim, remember and create them. We began to inventory our dream archives, both our night dreams and our daily aspirations. And we were inspired by Mahalia Jackson’s demand to Martin Luther King Jr. to “tell them about the dream” an important historical interjection that made a night dream King had shared with Jackson into a collective aspirational dream for beloved community that we still gotta create. In our group poem we wrote about what it means to honor what our own ancestors are telling us to do, and how we can speak their ancestral wisdom with our actions. As usual, I recommend reading the poem out loud. You may even decide to choose a line or stanza that particularly supports the dreams you are making real in 2020.

And speaking of what’s coming up in 2020 there are still a couple of spots in tomorrow’s workshop “Of Generators and Survival”: Listening for Audre Lorde When the Power’s Out: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/of-generators-and-survival-listening-for-audre-lorde-when-the-powers-out-tickets-89086513159

Next Thursday we are gathering inspired by June Jordan to write in honor of housing as a human right: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/89969484149

Our second LOVEBIRDS Cohort for LGBTQ BIPOC who are opening themselves up to love starts this weekend and there are a few spots left: https://www.mobilehomecoming.org/lovebird-registration-application/

AND my partner Sangodare and I are facilitating some in-person and online activities for Queer folks in love with each other check it out here: https://www.mobilehomecoming.org/loveship

And in also Durham first weekend of February I will be teaching a 12 hour weekend intensive for artists who are interested in how the idea of “speculative documentary” (an ancestor accountable future) supports the art, writing, and intellectual work they are doing. You can learn more here: https://documentarystudies.asapconnected.com/CourseDetail.aspx?CourseId=215629

With Love

After Mahalia Jackson who said “Martin, tell them about the dream.”

by the participants in “Who Taught You How to Dream” an ancestor accountable writing ceremony

tell them with a knowing

tell them with your voice bold and quivering

tell them with your well-hydrated days

tell them with humor

tell them with song

tell them with your laughter

tell them with the rhythms of drums and dances

tell them with a deep bellowing roar

tell them with the vibrations of all your sacred sounds

tell them with sweat

tell them with dreaming

tell them with your most generous breath

tell them with your whole spine and every rib you breathe with

tell them with bold truths that will shake the others

tell them with a gentle nudge or a hard shove depending 

tell them with a whisper to “keep going” when the day is dark

tell them with the depth of your relationships

tell them with an invitation to dinner, laughter and leftovers to take home 

tell them with a love note

tell them with giggles

tell them with your eyes

tell them with compassion

tell them with fire

tell them with food

tell them with baked bread right out of the oven

tell them with books

tell them with a hug that was hard to accept

tell them with clear boundaries

tell them with unexpected moments of grace when we think we can’t keep going

tell them with open breezeways 

tell them with hand over heart

tell them with your heartbeat

tell them with infinite curiosity

tell them with patience

tell them with forgiveness

tell them with your misshapen sculptures 

tell them with relaxed shoulders

tell them with soft eyes

tell them with the ebb and flow of the ocean waves

tell them with a “keep on going”

tell them with organza, tulle, silk and satin

tell them without expecting to hear anything in return

tell them with luminous silence

tell them with a yawn before a nap

tell them with the momentary dissolve of the lines of your self

tell them with bees dancing where the sweetest flower is

tell them with prayers to the water, to the land defenders to the sleeping

tell them with water whispering thank you I love you it’s safe now 

tell them with fierce love

tell them with your deep practices of self-love

tell them with your heart as loud as you can

tell them with your fearless energy of unabashed love

tell them with love

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 11x17

$45.00

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 22x28

$100.00

Aisha sent me a message on Instagram while the continent burned around her. She told me she was reading M Archive and witnessing the end of the world while politicians refused to respond to and acknowledge the reality of the bushfires raging in what they call Australia. And what was for me numbing powerlessness in the face of climate injustice became a call to remember my own responsibility to write through and to create ceremonies for truthtelling. We gathered across the planet over many timezones to write about this time of fire. By the time we convened earthquakes had taken out the power in Puerto Rico and one divine participant used their remaining computer battery power to be with us in ceremony.

In these times, people like to say “in these times” and in most cases is expresses an urgency too bewildering to call by its full name. But during our writing workshop we decided to listen to fire and what it is teaching us, transformation and what it is making impossible to ignore. Our group poem below names these times in their specificity, power, demand and possibility. For me this listening has led to a set of urgent writing ceremonies in solidarity with people most impacted by the natural and social disasters that are already waking us up for a decade of change as a way to contribute materially and energetically to their leadership.

Coming Up:

Online

Monday (MLK Day) 1/20 2pm-4pm Eastern

Who Taught You to Dream: An Ancestor Accountable Writing Ceremony

Thursday 1/23 7pm to 9pm Eastern

Of Generators and Survival: Listening for Audre Lorde When the Power’s Out (benefiting the Maria Rapid Response Fund and with a free option for folks in Puerto Rico)

Thursday 1/30 7pm to 9pm Eastern

Living Room: June Jordan and Housing as a Human Right (benefitting DHA vs. Everybody and Moms 4 Housing

In Durham

Sunday 1/19 Indigo 2020 Vision: Black Queer Feminist Sunday Service at Northstar Church of the Arts

Saturday and Sunday Feb 1 & 2 After: Black Feminist Speculative Documentary Intensive

See you soon.

Love,

Alexis

In the Time of Fire

by the participants in the Archive of Fire: Climate Justice in the time of the Australian Bushfires writing workshop

 In the time of fire

In the time of firecraft

In the time of broken metal

In the time of smoke-filled lungs

In the time of broken earth

In the time of rising water

In the time of reckoning

In the time of facing undeniable truth

In the time of mourning

In the time of surrender

In the time of deeper listening

In the time of visionary organizing

In the time of ancestral tough love

In the time of eyes being pried open

In the time of upheaval

In the time of open hands

In the time of heart centered movement

In the time of freedom practices

In the time of indigenous practices

In the time of Ifa

In the time of unknowable love 

In the time of Elders teachings remembered

In the time of our roots finding our feet again

In the time of earth sovereignty 

In the time of love screaming her own name

In the time of young people’s brilliance

In the time of liberation

In the time of slowing down

In the time of gently blowing on embers

In the time of learning how to speak without our mouths 

In the time of the coqui calling

In the time of auto-tuned offerings

In the time of prioritizing vibrations

In the time of movement and wind

In the time of joy

In the time of dreams 

In the time of our kin

In the time of returning to right relationship

In the time of sacred balance returned

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 11x17

$45.00

Black Feminist Breathing Collage 22x28

$100.00