Writer’s Poem: Fear

Writer’s Poem: Fear

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Today’s poem talks about the murder of a harmless spider. I don’t know whats it with poets and the killing of insects. Charles Lamb also wrote a poem (thoughtless cruelty) which was about killing a fly. But I digress. In this poem, Nikki Giovanni briefly contemplates the logic behind her killing of a spider who did nothing to her, except that she was frightened of it. Is her fear a valid reason to cause harm to it.

A lot of people have used this poem to talk about the happenings of today, especially, the killings of black people by some white cops based on the irrational reason of fear. They feared the black person and they shot the black person. Ridiculous, I know, but it happens, sadly. Let me know what you think about the poem below.

Allowables by Nikki Giovanni

I killed a spider
Not a murderous brown recluse
Nor even a black widow
And if the truth were told this
Was only a small
Sort of papery spider
Who should have run
When I picked up the book
But she didn’t
And she scared me
And I smashed her

I don’t think
I’m allowed

To kill something

Because I am

Frightened

On to today’s question. Tam asks: What was the inspiration behind randoms by a random?

Haha I’ve actually answered this question before. But here goes again, there was zero inspiration behind this blog. Like, I don’t even know why I started the blog in the first place, but it most definitely was not supposed to be a poetry or a mental health blog, which it is now. I think I just wanted to try my hands in so many things, inspirational writes ups and other random things. I wanted to experiment, and hence its random name “Randoms by a random”. I really need to get a better name.

I hope that answers the question. Thank you Tam.

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Writer’s Poem: The past

Writer’s Poem: The past

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I came across a phenomenal African Poet today. Her poem was shared by “global citizen”. It fuelled my love of poetry, reminding me of the power poetry has to revolutionise the world. It reassure me that poets are here to make a statement, an impact and as a reminder. Especially, in places where oppression is rampant whether in visible or hidden forms.

I stalked the author and found that she has a blog here. Thank you very much Zuhuru Seng’enge for your poetry.

Do not fear the past by Zuhuru Seng’enge
Do not fear the past.
It is ugly
but it is ours,
Do not hold on to lies
That you were fed when you were young.
Learn the history of your people
Find the truth
to free your soul from evil
Learn the Qur-an
Learn the bible
Find the meaning of life and religion.
Do not fear the past.
It is painful
but it is real
Blood was spilt and people died
but love and unity had survived.
Learn the tongue of your ancestors
Reconnect with the roots of your blood
Find the knowledge
That was stolen
Find the life that was robbed from us.
Do not fear the past.
Embrace it
Let it teach you the wisdom of your race
Take its lessons and live by them
Own the identity that was erased.
Do not fear the past,
Do not hate it.
Do not fear the past,
Learn about it.
Let it teach you
Let it nurture you
Let it remind you, of who you are

Writer’s quote: Langston Hughes

Writer’s quote: Langston Hughes

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Hello and welcome to writer’s quote Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors.

I know I haven’t posted in a few days, but you didn’t think I’d miss Writer’s quote, did you? This week, I am sharing one of my favourite authors whose poem I have shared previously before too. It’s Langston Hughes, one of the poets I do not tire from reading his poems.

It’s amazing to see that in every generation, through every cycle of oppression, there’s always someone using whichever means they have to speak out against it. It makes me happy to read works written by writers and poets, which clearly would have put them at odds against the authorities during those times. But they wrote. They used the one weapon they had, the pen, and its makes me proud to be writer.

Below is the poem, it’s a fairly popular poem so you may have come across it. I hope you enjoy it.

I, too by Langston Hughes
I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed–

I, too, am America.

All I Am-

All I Am-

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They called me black,
When words were
in their possession,
Once spoken,
Was law and order,
They stated-
          I am black.

She’s a woman,
They reassured;
As if the gender,
Possessed lesser power,
They ordered-
         I am just a woman.

She’s Muslim,
And the veil on my head,
Became heavy,
The venom on their face,
Evident.
         Muslim- I was a threat.

So many labels,
One individual,
Am I black,
      A woman,
             Muslim?

The skin they pointed at
Hardened,
Impenetrable to their words,
I grew to accept,
I was all they had labelled.

Now, when I say
I am a black Muslim woman,
They say-
          I am human.
Funny,
How they seemed to forget,
When the words,
Were in their power.

Facebook page: words of a random. Let’s connect!

To my dark sister-

To my dark sister-

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It does not befit-
The ancestors who went through
Ocean and lands,
Sweat and toil,
Blood and sacrifice,
To look down the pigment,
You have been endowed,
And utter the words-
I do not like it.

It does not befit,
The mother who went through,
vigorous nine months,
Housing a young you,
Within her 120 pounds,
While earning her coins,
With menial jobs,
To look down your skin,
Wishing it wasn’t yours.

It does not befit,
The creator- who fashioned you,
Body and soul;
A creation with genes,
Only you have been granted;
A beauty to stand out
Against the universe’s background,
To look down your skin,
Saying- black isn’t pretty.

It doesn’t befit
Your state of mind.
To wish you were something,
Other than what you are.

Facebook Page: words of a random. let’s connect on Facebook!

On being dark-

On being dark-

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She was told as a kid,
To be fair is beautiful,
So she looked down her skin,
When she sighted a mirror,
And they pointed at others,
Saying- that girl is pretty.
And she withered inside for,
She didn’t look like those “pretties”.

8 year old and she’s taught,
To be dark is a sin,
For no man would approach,
A pigmented melanin,
And she’ll grow old and wilt,
In her lone parents home,
Well except, well except,
She did something about it.

And she did, yes she did,
More than something about it,
Now her skin is much lighter,
But she didn’t stop at her skin,
And her nose is a bit Pointer,
And her lips are much fuller,
And they point- see this fake thing,
Forgetting that they made her,
By the words they had implanted,
As a kid of eight years old.

M- memories of past

M- memories of past

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Lets rewind to
Say- 150 years ago,
When my people’s
Wrists and feet,
Glinted of iron sheet,
Under a scorching 45 degrees.

When the sea,
Was a place of terror,
And the shore- a land
Of no return.

When rulers, entrusted
With the right to rule,
Gave it all away-
For miniature return.
Like the lives
Of their men, was nothing-
Nothing but mere goods
To be traded,
Used and abused.

Until the tables turned,
Patience and resilience
Paid off.
Tears and sweat,
Blood and death-
Accumulated a victory.

That-
Is the history of my people
Your people.
Ingrained in their bone,
A will to not give up.
So don’t you give up.

Two weeks of the A-Z challenge done, two more to go. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reply to all of your comments, it’s been a busy few days, but will Get to them. Thanks and have a lovely week ahead. ❤❤

I- I am I

I- I am I

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Have you ever experienced hate,
He asks.

Hate is all I see around,
First for my genes-
For defying the rules,
That schools and books,
Are for one gender group.

Then for this skin,
In which I strut around,
Unhindered by words,
Unreeled by looks,

The scarf on my head,
Hits the trifecta mark.
Judged for the manner
I worship my Lord.

He asks if I’ve seen hate,
It’s all I see around;
I say (to them)-
If you can be you,
Why can’t I be I.

Day 9: Close to her bosom

Day 9: Close to her bosom

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Some women hold stories,
Close to their bosom;
Stories so grave,
they believe,
It could cause a ripple effect,
And upturn the balance of life,
If repeated.
My mother- was one such.

She’d sigh at length and go off,
Staring,
Into space…
Oblivious to three munchkins,
laying on the ground,
Competing,
Who’s got,
The healthiest lung.

She’d go off sometimes,
At the sight-
Of a man in a red shirt,
Or a yell across the street,
Or something so little as,
An innocent question put forward,
By a kid.
My father would say-
Just let her be.

And so I grew older-
Mastered in the art of
Threading lightly;
Till my curiosity,
got the better of me;
And I questioned-
Why does she do that?

That summer morning,
I learnt of the horrors,
Of a young black girl,
Growing up with little to nothing,
At the edge of the sea;
Where being a dark skin,
had a price and being a female-
A burden.
And I knew why, she held those stories
Close to her bosom.


Prompts: Day 9 (a story), Day 10 (Summer). This poem is in response to December Poetry Challenge. 31 poems in 31 days.

the above picture is courtesy of Legend.az

Black History-

Black History-

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The minute she opened
her mouth, He was gone;
He was a criminal,
In the eyes of the world;
A man born from black race,
Against a white skin;
No court of man would,
acquit and free him.
The case was a plain one-
“Her words against his”,
With damning evidence,
Betraying what she speaks,
But the world then was ruled
by prejudiced men,
Who place white color,
Above all else.

But that happened decades
Ago- it’s history,
Depicting the struggles,
Of our fathers to be free.
So when you look down,
On the black of your skin,
Be nothing but proud girl,
You have every right to be.
Black, white are naught but
Colors of the skin,
For, we have the same red
Blood coursing our veins.

The beautiful art above is by Anya Brewley S