February262012
How do I write
poems to God
who knows
my sentiments before they bleed
imperfect onto paper?
This ink, so insincere
as pen prays to page
after page
trying to say
what this heart feels.
Self-consciously I craft a stanza,
dance around slanted rhymes
and everytime
the words are left wanting.
And as I try to fill the space
between here and there
spinning and stitching thoughts
together,
this poem is still about me.
How do I write a poem to God—
praise and pray instead of
pray for praise?
When the heart runs murky dark,
what good are these watery scratches
before they wash away with the dust?
-1/30/2012
January182012
She said I probably don’t use soap
which is why my skin is so dirty,
Brown.
Why can’t I just wash my genes clean,
wear my face, arms, back, legs
in the shade like forsha girls.
I learned to hate the sun at a young age,
and my skin long before then.
No amount of scrubbing and bleach
could fade this dirt, this hurt,
when I
would scrub my hands until hot water
scalded and fingers turned red
like sunburn,
if i could sunburn,
and not turn brown instead.
I discerned confusion.
“But you live in America, you should be white!”
Sorry to disappoint.
That my straight A’s don’t stand for “Anglophile”
and I don’t fit your fair-complexioned profile.
California sunkissed skin
translates to it’ll be harder for you to find a man.
There was an uncle, whom I had never met,
‘what was he like?’ I asked.
Kalo. Dark.
Not dark like he was broody, or found morbid humor amusing.
Not even tall, dark, and handsome,
because that word doesn’t belong among the others—dark.
They say dark chocolate’s an acquired taste.
How long will it be before my bitter flesh
turns sweet?
Then one day,
‘You look lighter than before!’
and so I’m loved a little more.
The dark shadow crossing my dark eyes,
pales next to a paled cheek.
I can’t remember the color of my skin.
It grows dim, brown paper bag,
paper thin,
for you to wash me with color
or wash me clean.
Bleaches and creams,
I tried them all,
not eight years old,
but old enough to hate
this shamla chamra, ki nongra.
In my land of brown bodies,
I must be fair of skin to be lovely.
©Farhana Jahan
October32011
I said it. It is mine. You are witness to the making of this copyright.
Good day, I say, good day.
July52011
“
I have often wished that Jefferson had not used that phrase, “the pursuit of happiness,” as the third right…
I know that happiness has been the real, if covert, goal of your labors here. I know that it informs your choice of companions, the profession you will enter, but I urge you, please don’t settle for happiness. It’s not good enough. Of course, you deserve it. But if that is all you have in mind—happiness—I want to suggest to you that personal success devoid of meaningfulness, free of a steady commitment to social justice, that’s more than a barren life, it is a trivial one. It’s looking good instead of doing good.
”
Toni Morrison, to the graduating class of 2011 at Rutgers University
http://llanoralleyne.com/2011/05/toni-morrisons-commencement-address-to-rutgers-university-class-of-2011/#.TfZAtlxykjE;facebook
(Source: thatisallshewrote)
7PM
“And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy”
Kahlil Gibran(Source: thatisallshewrote)
June302011
I am a wasteland, a tired hand
that carves bars around my chest,
poetry into my flesh.
I design the lines that bind and cut,
construct
the walls I fall against.
My chains weigh heavy
gilded in blue,
but are borne with broken smiles
painted over
like so many cracks in my masks.
Dry eyes can’t water,
can’t make love grow
out of quicksand,
with empty hands
like winter’s touch.
Stone-cold heart,
you are light-years apart
from the fires that burn beside you.
-06/30/2011
©Farhana Jahan
