To Black Women by Gwendolyn Brooks

Sisters,

where there is cold silence

no hallelujahs, no hurrahs at all, no handshakes,

no neon red or blue, no smiling faces

prevail.

Prevail across the editors of the world

who are obsessed, self-honeying and self-crowned

in the seduced arena.

It has been a

hard trudge, with fainting, bandaging and death.

There have been startling confrontations.

There have been tramplings. Tramplings

of monarchs and of other men.

But there remain large countries in your eyes.

Shrewd sun.

The civil balance.

The listening secrets.

And you create and train your flowers still.

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I am a Black Woman by Mari Evans

I am a black woman

the music of my song

some sweet arpeggio of tears

is written in a minor key

and I

can be heard humming in the night

Can be heard

humming

in the night

I saw my mate leap screaming to the sea

and I/with these hands/cupped the lifebreath

from my issue in the canebrake

I lost Nat’s swinging body in a rain of tears

and heard my son scream all the way from Anzio

for Peace he never knew….I

learned Da Nang and Pork Chop Hill

in anguish

Now my nostrils know the gas

and these trigger tire/d fingers

seek the softness in my warrior’s beard

I am a black woman

tall as a cypress

strong

beyond all definition still

defying place

and time

and circumstance

assailed

impervious

indestructible

Look

on me and be

renewed

To a Dark Girl by Gwendolyn B. Bennett

I love you for your brownness

And the rounded darkness of your breast

I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice

And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens

Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk

And something of the shackled slave

Sobs in the rhythm of your talk

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow’s mate

Keep all you have of queenliness

Forgetting that you were once were slave

And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

Who Taught You to Hate Yourself

Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair? Who taught you to hate the color of your skin? To such extent you bleach, to get like the white man. Who taught you to hate the shape of your nose and the shape of your lips? Who taught you to hate yourself from the top of your head to the soles of your feet? Who taught you to hate your own kind? Who taught you to hate the race that you belong to so much so that you don’t want to be around each other? No… Before you come asking Mr. Muhammad does he teach hate, you should ask yourself who taught you to hate being what God made you.

We don’t steal, we don’t gamble, we don’t lie and we don’t cheat.

You can’t get into a whiskey bottle without getting past a government seal. You can’t buy a deck of cards without getting past a government seal. Here the white man makes the whiskey then puts you in jail for getting drunk. He sells you the cards and the dice and puts you in jail when he catches you using them.

The most disrespected woman in America, is the black woman. The most un-protected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America, is the black woman. And as Muslims, the honorable Elijah Muhammed teaches us to respect, our women, and to protect our women. And the only time a Muslim gets real violent, is when someone goes to molest his woman. We will kill you, for our women I’m making it plain yes, we will kill you for our women. We believe that if the white man, will do whatever is necessary, to see that his woman get respect and protection, then you and I will never be recognized as men. Until we stand up like men and pays the same penalty over the head of anyone, who puts his filthy hands out, to put it in a direction of our women.

-Malcolm X

Power by Audre Lorde

The difference between poetry and rhetoric

is being ready to kill

yourself

instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds

and a dead child dragging his shattered black

face off the edge of my sleep

blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders

is the only liquid for miles

and my stomach

churns at the imagined taste while

my mouth splits into dry lips

without loyalty or reason

thirsting for the wetness of his blood

as it sinks into the whiteness

of the desert where I am lost

without imagery or magic

trying to make power out of hatred and destruction

trying to heal my dying son with kisses

only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens

stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood

and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and

there are tapes to prove it. At his trial

this policeman said in his own defense

“I didn’t notice the size nor nothing else

only the color”. And

there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37 year old white man

with 13 years of police forcing

was set free

by eleven white men who said they were satisfied

justice had been done

and one Black Woman who said

“They convinced me” meaning

they had dragged her 4’10” black Woman’s frame

over the hot coals

of four centuries of white male approval

until she let go

the first real power she ever had

and lined her own womb with cement

to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch the destruction

within me.

But unless I learn to use

the difference between poetry and rhetoric

my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold

or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire

and one day I will take my teenaged plug

and connect it to the nearest socket

raping an 85 year old white woman

who is somebody’s mother

and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed

a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time

“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”

TDOV

Today is Transgender Day of Visibility and the reality is one of the things I often wish for most in life is to be invisible. Its unexplainable what we as trans people enure living on the cusp of being hyper visible, but shut out and turned away from people, services, opportunities, chances at survival. This day nearly marks three years to the day I created my blog The Cis Jungle. And through this blog I have been able to sharing my experiences and experience growth as a writer and person who walks in vulnerability. I am a product of my experiences as well all are. Today I stand in solidarity with all transgender, gnc, and folks living art varying degrees of or outside of the binary. Let’s transform Transgender day of visibility into a day where we are not simply seen but also heard.

-XOXO CCOJ

Why We Can’t F*ck In My Room

This is why I don’t let men into my room, into my sanctuary because to them my room is just a place to fuck. A place for me to make them feel good and tend to their needs and when they are gone that selfish and lustful energy lingers

Men don’t see my room as the place I spend my morning rituals getting dressed in or the place where I read to feed my mind and soul, they don’t see it as the pace where I come to cry when life is throwing fucking bullets at me; the hypocritical dudes, the racism, the sexism, the transphobia, hearing the news that yet another one of my black trans sisters were murdered.

I don’t want my space my place of refuge and peace interrupted by some dude that just wants to cum and go home. This is why I offer you my couch, my kitchen, my floor, the bathroom, because you can’t have my bed you can’t have my room. What a lecture right? I’m just complaining, ungrateful and angry black bitch.