Negrotopia #3 (Self Portrait as Heaven)
By Julian RandallCue the Anthony Hamilton/and name me a mansion/tell everyone there is space here/if you
believe in the reincarnated/I am already somewhere/that somebody has gone/
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Julian RandallCue the Anthony Hamilton/and name me a mansion/tell everyone there is space here/if you
believe in the reincarnated/I am already somewhere/that somebody has gone/
By Laurie Ann GuerreroYou must start small as our mothers were small,
our fathers, too, small.
In a pillowcase whip-stitched with roses
or in an old coffee can, collect your abuelos’
teeth; assure them you will not bury them
near the bones of the dog that froze
By Amir RabiyahAs the sun sets—we set our plan into motion.
Our sole purpose to overthrow
any assumptions, to change
the course of ordinary thinking.
By Doritt Carrollthe first time it happened
i thought i was being strangled
four fingers compressing each side of my throat
no air
By Rasheed CopelandIt took us this long to slow our dying
down to a languid and sensible pace
wherein the sugar might claim each our limbs
By Karenne Wood1. A white poet whose work I admire said she feels most inspired on her daily four-mile walk through a forest.
2. I wish I had time to walk four miles daily. I can usually manage one mile with dogs. My dogs are distractible, and they distract me.
By Joseph GreenThe last time I saw you alive
I wish I would’ve talked ugly to you.
Said, “Put the straw down. No,
I don’t want to take another line,
I should be writing them.
By Majda GamaI wanted to be Her Kind, to go out a hennaed hand-
maiden, sneak across the rooftops of Jeddah dome-by-dome,
until I reached the coastline of the eternal bride.
By Tonee Mae MollWe’re looking for that old revolutionary road again
a poet said we’d meet where the grass grows uphill.
I couldn’t think of a better way to describe America
torch in one hand, scrolling through her smart phone with the other
By Deborah A. MirandaWife and dogs have gone to bed.
I sit here with the front door open.
Crickets sing patiently, a long lullaby
in lazy harmony. Rain falls