Natalie Illum: A Remember When Feature

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my friend Natalie is less than two weeks away from the Women of the World poetry slam. She has been spitting in venues all over the city in preparation and her stuff is just hot out the oven. A government monkey by day and the most current past president of Mother Tongue, from DC by way of Upstate NY, Natalie Illum:

just cause...

I wish I could write you a poem
that removes the monkey from your back,
A poem that sends the ghosts in your spine
to heaven. But my words are tiny pebbles
in a much larger ocean of sound; they sink
rather than save the drowning.

The monkey wears a heart-shaped locket.
You cannot reach it to steal it back
into your own chest. Inside
the locket is a picture
of your lover, stolen
from a year you can no longer
touch. Such is the nature
of longing; it's always
behind you.

The ghosts are more proactive.
They haunt daylight from your eyelids,
so that every prism is in shadow.
They drink your tears like water, pull
at your scabs like a fresh stabbing
of pain. But your body is not a trench
for some dying calvary. Blink
Harness the sunshine

like Icarus, for a moment,
the ghosts will melt. Borrow
their sheets for wings. Bribe
the monkey with enough
fruit to sweeten its own hunger;
Breath in

your broken locket heart. Thread
muscle through the metal chain of her
leaving. Exchange suicide for more
oxygen.

Now run to every e-mail, letter, postcard,
hug, story of how your words
kept someone else's soul from limbo,
someone else's mind from shatter.
Your true heart is a tether, strong enough
to keep people from plummeting;
from scraping their fists on
mountains of broken ribs

has they reach for Orion.
This too is your legacy. Look up.

The sky is clear tonight.
The metal cage of your heart
is pumping something that sounds
like music; the ghosts have stopped
invading the marrow of you. The Lover
you carry within you. If the monkey
returns, fill your fist with pebbles.
Throw.

Believe that you will make an impact.
Write it down as a wish, like this poem
for you.

Capturing Fire

For the past month, I have been spending my Monday nights with the wonderful people of Capturing Fire, a workshop of DC poets led by Sparkle's own Mr. Regie Cabico. The nine of us gathered for two hours once a week to write, look at a s-ton of amazing poems and workshop each others pieces. 

And, in the the spirit of Sparkle, we talked about sex. A lot. I honestly often left class more hot and bothered than is apropos for a Monday night.

Anyone who knows me well, knows this is a subject I talk about. A lot. But for some reason it's never translated into poems. I've never written an 'Erotica Poem' in the purest sense, mostly because I feel it comes out trite and disjointed; never the message I'm trying to convey. Still not there yet on a great piece, but it's all about the journey, no? For now, the beginning of something that could be. Based on the prompt of 50 things that turn you on.

beards & boys with a social justice bend

air blown in my ear, even if it’s the accidental
aftershock of a whisper
my face being held by hands larger than my own
built up kisses that feel like they belong
under bleachers

the smell of almond
the taste of beer on your breath
dancing
being pulled in closer
dancing
because this is our element
dancing
because carefree is sexy
deliberate
the first raw attempt at a handhold
mystery

making eyes
for hours
at the black cat

compliments
knowing something others don’t know
knowing something exactly eight other women know
shared showers

hole sings Malibu live
shane on showtime

visual
talkative
messy

the smell of sweat & nature
your sleeping breathe in my ear

rum & diet & a dance floor

Chayay

At 25, I learned that I had grown into a thrashing toddler

Teeth biting down hard on the fist of anyone
who called me girl
Crooked
An oceanliner not yet sunk
but always looking for the next coast
I learned what beautiful looked like
Could hear the Atlantic calling me
back to its waves so I let it
Lived for weekends and solitude
And often became jealous
of my own life.

At 22, I learned about rain and poetry
And the medley of the two that makes my heart pulsate
On nights when they bounce off concrete in chrous
Climbed new heights with fists thrashing clouded air
Caught a fish
Made my apartment into chaos after loved left the city
I was just learning what alive feels like.

At 18, I took shots with my friends to
celebrate Trey’s birthday
We were just sharing in the groove
Slept in southern mud
Read more than my brain’s stamina
could keep up with
Called everyone my best friend
And learned that the Midwest’s drone
was rubbing off on me
And I let it.

At 16, my car and my voice took flight at the same time
I found warmth in the spotlight
Read a book that made me question the girls around me
Questioned every boy around me
and that first one just a year later
I tucked those thoughts in the back of my books
Became the English teacher’s pet
And danced on lakes at sunrise.

At 12, I realized that being fat in middle school was
really going to suck.
So I became alternative instead.
Broke through locker-walled wombs
with Adidas kicks.
J had my back on the tennis courts after school.
Taught me how to share smoke
through a paper towel holder.
Back when Slurpies were just 75 cents
And boys were just people too
And girls only knew your tolerable secrets.

At age 8, my brother and I built sandcastles out of
make believe in the front yard and I
Never understood why Beatrice thought
Ramona was such a pest
Until space was something I needed
But didn’t have the words to claim yet
So I curled up next to books and invisible rocket ships.
Hoping to find myself in them.

At age 4, I knew who I was
Drew pictures of princesses and played
Hide and Seek with my Dad
in our townhouse
Listened to our parents thunder in the kitchen and knew
that would be our forever lives
Like glued-together chaos was a life we hadn’t chosen yet.
But knew we could claim like we were old enough to
possess anything of our own.
Except our fort built daily out of blankets and chairs.