Once upon a time I was a poet. Words for me were like melodies morphing into orgasmic symphonies. I danced with them. I clothed my skin in its regurgitated afterglow. I use words. I am a progeny of words. I am…words.
Before this momentous discovery, like many people, I didn’t much care for poetry. In fact—I hated poetry. For one, I didn’t get them. And like all lazy readers, I resented that fact. But the second reason stems from the fact that I was forced to study them. One of the most mind-numbing and disastrous things schools to do to creative thinking is that they dictate a work’s significance. If you are studying it, that means there is something you’re supposed to get, and you’re either told what to get, or if you’re “smart” enough, you’ll analyze, decipher, or simply “get” it yourself. So for the usually bored or unengaged student, all things not self-evident become immediately relegated to personal insignificance.
A tragedy, depending on whose perspective, but one that usually remains into adulthood. But if you think about the motions that exist within poems, you’ll realize that they are much more deeply embedded within us than we think. From nursery-rhymes, to Dr. Seuss’ prophesizing or Hip Hop’s powerful sway, the ability to play with words has been with us, probably since there were words. And our ears, as well as our eyes, have a keen appreciation for beauty.
The real essence of poems is rhythm; and rhythm is one of the founding elements of music. And music is a harmony of sound, we esteem to be beautiful. If that sound moves us, then we move our bodies. And to move our body is to dance. So that is why I describe poetry as a dance with words—because it can move us.
Of course my appreciation or foray into this genre wasn’t life long—probably a little over twelve years. I recognized that I was a storyteller much faster than I saw I was a wordsmith. The day that I did write my first non-coerced poem was just a simple day, after reading a book. I was moved…so I wrote. To my surprise, I continued to be moved, and continued to write. And before I knew it, I was a burgeoning “poetess.” I performed, and published a few pieces (under a different alias) and carved out another facet of my persona.
What emerged was various facets of myself. Elements of my cultural-heritage, passions, beliefs and of course my womanhood. My femininity, my intellectual femininity is what I prize most. And in perhaps one of my favorite testimonials—something which I’ll happily share.
Why Can’t I Be
As Well As Sexy
as fluid as my curves
And I love
every ounce of it
My Fleshy coated womanhood
in my prideful strides
And from my sensuous lips
nurtured a thousand times
For in reality
the mind is just as sexy
I ain’t that bad either.