poem poster


Jackie On My Mind by Steven J. Hyde 

you’re all i want | wear my arms | so don’t lose hope | love making | jackie on my mind | you’ll find somebody great

Happy Valentine’s Day, @jacquelineshyde!

You asked me who I
am in my ideal world,
where I can create and
be whoever I want to be.

And I tell you, in another
life I’m bold, I tell the kid
in class to quit interrupting 
the lecture because we are so 
goddamn tired of him acting
like he knows everything.

I don’t text my mother telling
her that I am crying, I don’t sit
on the corner of her bed sobbing
at 3 am about someone that doesn’t
like me back or how much I wish
I could sleep,

I dye my hair pink and blue and
purple and I get a fringe and wear
dark lipstick and remember to file
my nails rather than let them break
and I dress in all black one day and
the next day in colors as vivid as my
dreams of you.

I travel wherever I want without a
worry in the world and I don’t think
twice about moving constantly and
I pack only a suitcase and I go to coffee
shops early in the morning and sit next
to someone in the sunlight and we talk
about politics or just good stories we
have heard.

I take some time off from school and
I work and I live in a small apartment
with a faucet that drips but I keep the
windows open constantly and my neighbors
are so unconventional but they are still so
beautiful and they have the greatest stories
and they drink during the weekends and
during my free time I fill my walls with
pictures and poems and posters and I am
so bloody passionate that it drips through
the windows,

I have many friends or I have absolutely
no one and I am content either way and
I go to parties and get to know everyone
but no one exactly knows me and they
try to describe me to others asking if
they’ve seen me too but they cannot
find any words that can describe the
way I held their hands.

And I tell you, in another life I’m crazy
and happy and weird and I talk a lot or
sometimes not at all and none of their
words ever hurt me because I am too
caught up in my own love, I am too 
busy creating myself. 

And I ask what would you be if you
could be anything?

And you tell me of all these divine things,
you’d ride the train and never get off and
see where it takes you, you would drive until
you ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere,
you would swim until your skin looks like
apple peels, and as you tell me of all these
wondrous adventures, where you are always
going somewhere, I realize you are just running

You have always just been running away
from me.

—  In another life I’m bold and you’re cold.
De nuevo

Me he escuchado quejar tantas veces
de los caminos que me han traído a cada encrucijada,
a cada callejón sin salida,
y he llorado 
maldiciendo cada piedra en el camino,
he ocupado todas mis fuerzas
odiando esa herida abierta
que llevo hace ya tantos años
en el costado izquierdo,
recuerdo haber pasado noches enteras
pensando en lo que pudo ser,
tratando de olvidar lo que fue,
y de qué ha servido eso,
de qué ha servido;
sin importar qué,
el dolor y el miedo
siguieron conmigo,
se quedaron en mí,
casi imperceptibles para los demás,
casi necesarios para mí,
como faros que iluminan un camino
que nadie quiere seguir,
un camino
que he recorrido sola,
en silencio,
aún cuando las personas a mi alrededor,
aseguraban estar conmigo,
yo seguía sola
bajo esos faros,
sola en medio de la carretera vacía,
cada vez con más preguntas,
cada vez con más letras sobre el papel.

No he dejado de creer en mi maldición,
no he olvidado ni por un instante
todo el dolor por el que he pasado,
en el dolor que fue mío,
y en el que hice mío,
no ha pasado un solo momento
en que haya olvidado
ese mundo oscuro,
ese monstruo
que salió del armario
cuando yo sólo era una niña.

Es triste sentirte parte de un mundo
que sólo te trae pena
y soledad,
pero es el mundo que se escogió para ti,
y al que terminaste aferrándote después,
porque sentiste
que si le abandonabas
ya no hallarías ningún lugar para ti,
en ninguna parte,
y así es como acabaste
con las manos llenas de tinta
y el corazón hecho pedazos como el papel,
así es como acabé aquí.

Ahora respiro por las heridas abiertas,
y cuando tratan de cicatrizar
vuelvo a abrirlas,
para no morir asfixiada
por algo mucho peor que el dolor.

No quiero ahogarme
con las palabras
que me oxigenan el alma,
no quiero contenerlas,
no quiero sepultarlas conmigo,
dentro de mí,
quiero soltarlas,
quiero vivirlas.

No me creerás,
pero hallé la respuesta,
mientras te hacía las preguntas.


Day 3 of #BlackFuturesMonth comes with a double punch from two heavy hitters: Alexis Pauline Gumbs @alexispaulinegumbs & Tatyana Fazlalizadeh @tatyanafazlalizadeh. These two weren’t playing around with the Black feminism convo. 

Tatyana describes her poster: “Black women and girls fight against a lot of things in our daily lives. Misogyny and anti-blackness to begin. My poster depicts a teenage black girl wearing the names of black women who have lost their lives due to state-sanctioned violence, street harassment, transphobia, misogynoir, sexism, and racism. Paired with an excerpt from Audre Lorde’s poem “Harriet”, my poster illustrates the fight for black women and girls to live freely, to speak and be heard, to be seen, to be valued.”

Read Alexis’ article here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/radical-legacies-black-feminist-living-room_us_58949e91e4b0c1284f25734c



Hoy amanecí antes de que el sol saliera
y caminé bajo la lluvia
sin paraguas,
sin mojarme,
sin sentir frío,
y entendí
que el único diluvio del que debo preocuparme
es del que brota del pecho 
y escurre por los ojos.

Hoy amanecí antes de que el sol saliera
y le susurré al silencio en el oído 
que me muero de ganas 
por gritarle al mundo que se calle.

Hoy amanecí antes que el sol saliera
para probarle al despertador
que el sol no sale siempre a la misma hora,
que a veces ni siquiera sale,
otras veces en cambio,
le cuesta irse. 

Hoy amanecí antes de que el sol saliera
para aprender
que a los miedos
es mejor tenerlos domesticados
y que las mañanas son mañanas
cuando dejamos ir la noche,
aun cuando se lleve una parte de nosotros.

The new blasphemy attacked my trappings as well as my core. Feminism eliminated dirty dancing; leading my partner was “heterosexist”; bumping and grinding was plain ‘ol “sexist.” The Lesbian-Feminists said it was wrong for femmes to wear makeup, patriarchal to indulge in monogamy, and “male-identified” (a mortal sin) for butches to wear ties. In fact, the Lesbian-Feminists insisted there was no such thing as butch-femme. It was a “heterosexual cop-out.” (By then I knew that anything heterosexual was anathema.) These frizzy-headed, unshaven interlopers decreed that “womyn” who acted like men (butches) or like girls (femmes) were not even lesbians! Feminism’s only analysis of “butch” was as synonymous with “male” – which meant thoroughly politically incorrect. I didn’t have a political analysis to explain my butch self, so I gave myself up to “the larger struggle.”

It wasn’t too hard to adopt the new uniform of my faith. I already had hiking boots, 501’s, and several denim jackets. (All I needed was a few political buttons on my chest.) This had not been my everyday outfit, but I had to admit, denim wore well for the decade. It was cheaper than replenishing my tie-and-suspender collection. So, on the outside, I became an instant androgyne. 

The dress code was hard on Gayle, whom the Lesbian-Feminists labeled a “female impersonator” because of her polished nails and make-up. Gayle said she wanted nothing to do with a women’s “liberation” movement that bound her.

My own chains had become something of a problem. Doing reconnaissance on my favorite chain-link black leather boots, Radical Rita Right On had advised me, “You can’t expect to retain a position of leadership with male-identified chain on your shoes.” My dark night of butchdom came one evening as, with pliers, I pried off the gold chains slung around the ankles of my boots. Looking up at my bedroom wall, I read Judy Grahn’s poster poem, “A common woman is as common as a common loaf of bread.” Snapping the chain off my second boot, I almost cried and wondered if Grahn’s persona, Edward the Dyke, would have liked my boots. I reached into the back of my closet, pulled a piece of black velvet out of my sex-toys box, and gently wrapped my chains in it.

Reshod, I stood in requiem in my boots. They were naked. I was stripped. I’d spent my life learning how to take my power through my feet. I’d drawn strength through the ground, through my boots. Felt the energy shoot out through my words, my hands. Now a link in my butch power chain was severed. What did it mean to live as a butch without chains?

—  Jeanne Cordova, Butches, Lies, and Feminism