"The End of a Drought"

U.K. Djembe drummer who goes by the name “Shadow 9” put out a call for poets and spoken word artists to submit nature poems to go with his Naturu Riddem for compilation on a free mixtape.

It looked like a fun thing to do, and since I didn’t have any spoken word poems about nature I took it as a challenge to write one. This was the result.

This was definitely a departure from my usual poetry, but I always enjoy expanding and trying my hand at different things. It is a crucial part of growth and getting better knowledge of oneself. I'm at the tail end of the longest blogging dry-spell I've experienced since I began blogging in 2010. Big changes in my life and routine have left me struggling to find balance. As always, however, poetry and creativity have kept me afloat and I will continue to grow and flourish. As such, "The End of a Drought" is the perfect way for me to end my dry-spell, dancing to a "thousand-step beat".

If you like this poem please be sure to “Like” the video on YouTube and share it with your friends.

Art That Actually Matters

Any brave soul who produces art, and to take it one step further, produces art in lieu of taking a regular stable, 9 to 5 job has quite the dilemma. People often judge them, think that they are just trying to avoid the responsibility of having a real job. But such artists not only have to work against that perception, they also have to face that theirs is a HUGE responsibility. Great art has to be raw honesty & the artist needs to dig deep within herself/himself, dig out their soft mushy parts and show them to the world to achieve that. But even more is the responsibility to make sure that their art matters, that it does more than provide catharsis, that it touches people, maybe even helps people. If in doing something you make yourself vulnerable, then you really better hope it’s worth it.

Especially in times of crises, in times of movement, art can be so much more than aesthetics. When the world has become desensitized to images of violence, war, poverty, starvation, death, art is sometimes the only way to make those images visible again. Art, visual art, poetry, music, mixed media all help us to see the same things with fresh eyes. And when society becomes desensitized to injustice, fresh eyes are exactly what we need. Beauty for beauty’s sake is lovely. But beauty that says something is powerful.

When an artist draws from their personal pain and turns scars into art, they are doing something far more than providing entertainment. When an artist speaks out about the unpleasant realities of this world we live in they are doing more than just making “anarchist rants”. They are making what they do matter. They are chipping away at the world’s desensitization and opening our eyes. Because it’s only when we see what is going on that we are willing to do something about it. You can’t solve a problem you don’t recognize as a problem. You can’t understand other’s experiences unless you feel their experiences.

Art has power. Your words, your doodles, your beats, you… whatever you do… has power. Your weaknesses have power, and sometimes you need to make art from a place of power. You matter. Your art matters. Now show the world.

If I Had One Question: Chris COMRADE Goodman

“Can’t do the same thing then expect to make a difference” ~Chris COMRADE Goodman

I’m not sure how I ended up there, but one day I found myself attending a forum on my then-campus, Morgan State, discussing the “school to prison pipeline”. The discussion highlighted (if I remember correctly) the inadequacies of the education system, the chronic state of underfunding in inner city schools and the low achievement, high dropout rates that correspond with high rates of youth imprisonment in certain communities. Organizing this event was a passionate young activist who I had seen leading protests on campus. That in itself was impressive.

Yet Chris COMRADE Goodman had so much more up his sleeve. This young activist is not only out on the streets speaking out against social injustices, he’s got a lot to say in the booth as well. An extremely talented hip hop artist, COMRADE has combined his lyrical skills and social awareness to create a movement that’s far bigger than hip hop. He has produced some fantastic music videos, using the internet as his medium for making his work known. His videos, which tell great stories, can be viewed on YouTube http://www.youtube.com/officialcomrademuzic. Chris has recently released his first professional album, Raw Re Cord which is available for free on his website http://www.comrademuzic.com.

I had the opportunity to ask this inspiring man one question: What impact do you hope to have through what you do? This was his answer...

Megaphones & Microphones

I remember when I was 15, it had to be about seven of us at the School System Headquarters on North Ave; I was a young organizer for the Baltimore Algebra Project preparing for my first major protest. All of the meetings and civil disobedience trainings helped me feel confident about the situation I was getting into but the emotions were pretty overwhelming sitting in the office of Baltimore City School’s CEO. The secretary asked us if we had a meeting scheduled we told him No, but we were here to meet with the CEO and we were not leaving until we met with her. Within seconds, it seems like, the police stormed in and had us in handcuffs. Six high school students and the Director of the program were heading to the basement of the School System Headquarters which is ironically a Police Headquarters as well. Looking back on the Sit-In, it revealed a glimpse of the power youth hold to really make a bold statement for social justice.

As we were being processed, police officers were insulting us saying we were stupid and were throwing our lives away, not knowing that we were well prepared and spent months organizing the Sit-in. Within 20 minutes we were released and no charges were filed against us because the Police Dept. and CEO Dr. Copeland did not expect high school students to organize a Sit-IN with hundreds of students outside of the School System Headquarters with news cameras on the 50th Anniversary of Brown vs. Board of Education. That following morning we had a formal meeting with CEO Dr. Copeland.

These experiences are the roots of COMRADEmuzic. My writings are inspired by my political frustration. As the writings turned to rhymes at 16 years old, my bold statements took the form of songs. The growth of the “muzic” movement entails the struggles, emotions and happiness of the global, multifaceted, experiences of Comrades and Comrets.

COMRADEmuzic is a global soundtrack, it’s a movement. Before Comrades go out and march, you can listen to a song and get into that warrior mood. You can hear a song that inspires creativity and a new way of viewing things. There’s no real box, just pure expression of natural emotions and social movement. So at the end of it all I want my music and my life to inspire, empower and activate Comrades and Comrets throughout the world around the understanding that we have the power to love, heal and create new realities.

Finding Wings ~ Spoken Word Poetry

From the moment I learned to write I’ve been a writer. When the alphabet was first injected into my mind the letters crossed the blood-brain barrier and infiltrated my circulation turning me into one of those hopeless (or relentlessly hopeful) creatures who compulsively put words in order attempting to create meaning.

But I was only half-formed, a literary Quasimodo. I found my other half in a world I have always looked upon with awe. Spoken Word Poetry. I always loved watching spoken word poets stand on stage and speak their words with passion. It was one of the things I missed about Baltimore… oh that city has poets! I’ve been writing poetry for most of my life but I doubted I could be up there on stage spilling my soul like an ocean washing over a thirsty audience.

I had been dabbling with the idea of trying out spoken word. I even recorded a piece here. But I did not yet think I could get up on stage. One random Sunday evening I wandered into a coffee shop desperately searching for my niche in a strange new city (and also hoping to find a little something to eat). What I found was an accepting, endearing group of people, a sandwich, and a stage. And then my life started changing… again. For someone with anxiety issues (a.k.a. “nerves”) I took to that stage like a baby eagle takes to flying when it realizes it’s been flung out of the nest and the ground is a loooong way down. Yea, like that.

I had been falling. I had not been adjusting to my new life very smoothly. Something had to break my fall stat, and that something turned out to be Kick Butt Coffee’s poetry open mic (no this is not an ad, although Andrea really is the goddess of java). They were the little nudge in my bird brain that reminded me “Hey! You have wings.”

Each time I pour my soul out on stage I am renewed. Each time I perform I rethink my life. Yes, this is what I am made for… poetry. Lost in Thought, Hot Tamale, and Ernie B (the event’s hosts) have no idea what they have unleashed upon the world – and neither do I. All I know is that my world is better for it and I will ride these winds as far as they take me.

Now I know it’s true… every time a mic opens a poet gets her wings.

Trapped in Time

October came and left before I could look up from the loads of research papers I’ve been reading. The pile I have gone through for my grad classes is truly epic, and the pile I have yet to go through is even bigger (sigh). But anyway, that’s not the point. The point is: Time, if you’re not paying attention, slips away quietly and quickly.

I’ve heard the concept that time is man-made, an illusion, something we need to transcend. So if time does not really exist, then what is it that slips by, occasionally causing us to panic that we’re quickly running out of it. Is it life that we’re afraid is flowing through our fingers like sand. Is it that we’re never really early or late, but we are where we need to be at the moment we need to be there? If time does not exist, what am I racing against, always at its heels yelling “Wait! I haven’t accomplished anything yet! Stop going so fast!”?

I’ve recently started wearing a good old fashioned wristwatch. Nothing fancy. Just something I can use because I don’t trust my phone after it decided to randomly switch to some other time zone making me late for everything I did that evening. And this weekend clocks in most of the U.S. get turned back 1 hour. All of a sudden 2 a.m. becomes 1 a.m. Why? Because it made some kind of sense to somebody (not me) and that’s just the way it’s done around here. All time really does is keep us in sync with each other so our interactions with one another can be forged around a common psychological construct.

So what is it that we feel is slipping away and why does it matter? We’re so caught up in this idea of time that we feel TIME = LIFE. We let time control our lives instead of letting our lives control our time. There has to be some sort of balance where we are just living our lives and not rushing to catch up with time. Time is useful, but should it really be ruling us the way it does? Is it not just a tool to help us meet each other, cross paths, synchronize? Yet when we’re not on a timetable, when we don’t have something that needs to get done within a certain time frame, we get bored, don’t know what to do with ourselves, with our time. You know, that way we feel by the second or third day of vacation.

Perhaps that’s an indication that this “time” nonsense has gone too far. We’re so dependent on it that, in those precious, precious moments when time doesn’t matter, we cease to matter. Time has become the master and our lives the willing servant. We’ve been trapped in timetables for so long that when there is no master to crack a whip behind us, we have forgotten that we can run free. Life can be lived without confines of deadlines, and as long as we decide to live every moment, every now, truly and with all we have to offer, we won’t stagnate. We don’t need deadlines to keep ourselves alive.

Here’s a thought: perhaps if we stop chasing it, time will stop running away from us.

Growing Up

I was looking through some of my teen poetry. I started writing poetry at about age 11 and I have over a hundred poems I wrote as a teenager. Looking through them I see snippets of the me I have become in development. Every now and again I would see a line that, though I know I wrote it, would surprise me that I was thinking that way even then. What surprised me even more is that so many things have not changed. If teen Kelene were to see me now would I still recognize me? Would I be happy about how I've turned out? Would I be okay with how drastically I've changed on what used to be the major values in my life? I'm in a country I never particularly cared for, I'm not in medical school, I didn't get married forever... would I be disappointed?

There was one particular poem that makes me think, yes, though things didn't turn out according to plan, I am still exactly where I need to be. I held on to myself and haven't strayed from the fundamental hopes I had for my life. I'd like to think my poetry has grown as I have, but this poem is still poignant, speaking defiantly to the world in my seventeen year old voice.

GROW UP? (age 17)

You, world, say I should grow up to be

a useful member of society

who conforms to unspoken rules of normalcy;

who stifles her individuality;

whose fake smile replaces genuine laughter;

who marries, gets a job, and lives happily ever after;

who settles for dull despair in place of genuine pain;

who ignores a real problem and tries for a quick fix gain;

who loves only for better and runs from the worse;

who thinks life is for pleasure and that pain is a curse;

whose deep desire is independence from all;

who wants to have pride and not have the fall.

Well world I refuse to grow up in this way

and have my individuality stripped away,

and live a life full of false pretence,

and lose touch of truth and innocence.

If to laugh is childish and to cry immature,

to unshackle my emotions against some sacred law,

then keep growing up for those who do not know who they are

and hide behind a mask to conceal any scar.

As for me, I am free and open to what life has to offer

and I am willing to learn from the pains I may suffer.

I will not ransom who I am for who I’m supposed to be.

I may not “grow up” but I will mature and become the greatest me.

(Photo of teen Kelene circa 10 years ago by some random Carnival reveler courtesy Jeanette Awai one of my oldest closest friends from secondary (high) school)

Correction: Jeanette tells me I'm 20 in this pic. Working on finding a teen pic...

Hmmmm: I still have that top and the bead necklace (which I made myself) is the same one in my profile pic.

New Life, Same Old Me

Sitting on my bed early Sunday morning surrounded by piles of papers, I look up for a moment and breathe. September has been a crazy month.

A new city, a new life, a new routine (if winging it can be called a routine), a new me… same old me. There’s always challenges in newness. You have to adapt to and learn all these elements that have now become part of your life.

The most difficult thing for me about moving so far away from where I spent the last few years was letting go. Letting go of friends, my ex, my former life, has been challenging (understatement). Yet the letting go can be most tangibly explained in the difficulty I had packing, choosing what to keep and what to get rid of. It was an excruciating task. Not necessarily because I had fancy or expensive things – I don’t – but because attached to many items are memories or hopes.

Like my tennis racquet. My Mom bought it for me one Christmas, an extravagant gift considering we had little money to waste on such expensive non-necessities. But she got it for me because I loved tennis and had Wimbledon dreams. My reaction? Well like any insane teenager I cried and fussed because it wasn’t the right shape. It didn’t have the shock-resistant handle I wanted. To this day I’m ashamed of my reaction and the racquet reminds me to always be grateful – especially to my loving and generous Mom.

I also held on to the racquet for so long after I stopped playing tennis because I hope to get back into the sport. Memories and hopes… The racquet went into the donation box. It couldn’t fit in any of my boxes or bags. Hopefully someone else will give it a better welcome than I did.

What I’ve learnt though is that the memories and hopes aren’t left behind with the “things.” The memories and hopes, not the “things” make up part of who I am. The lessons learned stay with me. If I really needed a “thing” to constantly remind me of the lesson, then it really wasn’t learned was it?

Now I’m in new situations with all my old memories and hopes. It’s been rough. It’s a challenge that I’m growing to meet, and I am grateful every step of the way (especially for my Mom!).

Photo by Kelene Blake: my piles of paper.