5 Hours of National Poetry Month

For the uberx driver who thought it a coincidence that my name was Yolanda like the Yolanda Adams he was listening to on the radio at the exact moment my request came through. For asking me, is this music okay with you? Gospel music, fine. Not my first choice, but fine. For my mama, who calls to tell me she saw me in the local paper, who tells me to burn it down if they don’t fix my quote. For my mother who reminds me of my sister’s five-hour operation on Monday in Pittsburgh. For Yvette.

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1. 4/16, 9:30-10:30am: “Morning Feed” on G-town Radio with Ed Feldman, Germantown/Philly
For the little radio station tucked between Greene Street and Germantown Avenue. For Karen, queen of vegan pancakes, who showed up with her killer drum. For Jill who got me some sweet green tea on Germantown Avenue. For Ed who’s smarter than Howard Stern and plucks watermelon seeds and home-birthed babies from our on-air conversation. For the man caning a chair in the store across the way as I ride up. For the signs in the studio I made four years ago that are still there.

2. 4/17, 10-11am: Camden Community Charter School, New Jersey
For the little kids in Camden who call themselves the heart of it. Who snuggled up to me and asked me questions about my son and my diary from third grade. Who traded limericks and exquisite corpses. For the little girl who asked me when Theo was born and the little girl who said, “That’s the year my brother died.” For all the kids in the room who then sighed with knowing and compassion. For the girl in the fifth grade who had her head down as I talked but stood next to me for the picture at the end and whispered, “I heard everything you said, though.” For the teachers. And the other white uberx dude blasting DMX and doing seventy on the way home to Germantown. And did I say for the babies? I promised to write a poem with all of their names in it and call it “The Heart of Camden”:

The Heart of Camden
For Ms. Gorski’s Fourth Grade 2015

In the heart of Camden
There lived a Poem
That didn’t have any images
To make it shine or sing.
It was a tired, washed-up Poem
With words that made your mouth dry
And lines that made your eyes pinch up.
All it had was a little bit of rhyme
To keep it cool.
Lucky for that poem
In the heart of Camden
There lived 25 young wordsmiths
Who could make it shine and sing
With images so fine, too fine
For this world.
These 25 young troubadours
Set out on a mental pilgrimage
To bring the Poem
In the heart of the Camden
Some brand-new, shiny, singing images:

Samantha brought a golden gardenia
Marcedes brought a hilarious horseshoe
Jayda brought a sappy salamander
Julio brought a pair of golden galoshes
Annaya brought a dubious dingo
Savannah brought a rare rutabaga
Dazulmarie brought a sassy stingray
Taj’Meir brought a talking tarantula
Nathalia brought a floppy flamingo
Abigail brought a giant jackfruit
Amayah brought a laughing eggplant
Quadeir brought a debonair dolphin
Anthony brought a swallow-tailed sequoia
Zyasia brought a silver-tongued zephyr
Esmeralda brought a miraculous mango
Darren brought a ramshackle rhinocerous
Jace brought a nickel-plated night-owl
Joseph brought a voluminous vulture
Love brought a lucid llama
Isaiah brought a hibernating hyena
LaShae brought a dawdling dandelion
MaKayla brought a jumpy juju bean
Daevon brought a caroling cantaloupe
Treyvon brought a pin-sized piñata
Tayshaun brought an oblivious octopus

And when the Poem
In the heart of Camden
Ate up all of these rich and wacky images,
It started beating like a heart
Full of fun and color and imagination.
No more dry mouth, pinched-up eyes.
No longer tired and washed-up.
Now that Poem makes your mouth water!
And that Poem was so thankful,
So very thankful,
For those beautiful young poets
Who made it beat and shine and sing
In the heart of Camden.

3. 4/17, 8:30-9:30pm, Sanctuary Live, South Philly
For V. Shayne on the keys and Paul on the trumpet and Donna and Karen on percussion and Mark on bass and the “Afro Blue” we coaxed out of 16th Street. For Oscar and Abby and Erykah and all the versions hanging above us. For the “Blue Monk” y’all did while I sat next to my baby Thelonious, and he was unconcerned. For the baby-black-panthered timbre of sister Sa Fa's voice that made me think of black-and-white Ella singing “A Tisket, a Tasket” in the back of a bus full of cowboys. For the sister who sang “My Funny Valentine" and went home to nurse a baby. For the nerves that love a glass of white wine and a banana. For the feeling on the sidewalk, packing up the car after a gig, of purpose, of being where you’re supposed to be, doing what pays your rent in the world.

4. 4/18, 12-1pm, Maplewood Mall, Germantown/Philly
For Philly Poetry Day. For the Gtown Artists Roundtable. For Paula and Lenny who picked me up with my mic and amp and poems for the clothesline, who lifted up the palimpsests girdling Gtown as we rode past what used to be. For Monique who set up chairs with her dog Endo in tow. For the older ladies who came ornery and left loose. For the free electricity from IMPeRFeCT Gallery. For the tripping and trippy bricks in Maplewood Mall, make you stumble over the past. For the open mic readers who were just walking by off the avenue and signed the list. For the spasm in my back as I hung our “Celebrate Poetry” sign. For Paula who offered me her thumbs. For Rocio who made space for Corey, and Corey who made space for his brother. For the clothesline blowing easy, for the clothespins holding it down. For the Victor Hernández Cruz poem Allison read--I can't remember the title, but I remember the feeling. For Nzadi's Lucille poem and the handwritten poem by little Makayla called “A Grocery Store Full of Thighs.” For Ms. Monique who took this poem home and promised to make a shadowbox with it.

5. 4/18: 6:30-7:30pm: Philly Youth Poetry Movement Slam Finals, Broad Street/Center City
For Kai who used to be stingy with her words—now I see why. For Taurean who’s grown into his bravado/vibrato. For the kids who forgot their lines, for the conniptions and contortions they wriggled out and away from, for the audience who snapped them back to confidence, to bravery. For the judges who were tickled and thrown. For the DJ. For the DJ. For Frank Sherlock, our Philly Poet Laureate, for blending in. For the young poets telling secrets, airing dirty laundry just decades old. For the fishnets and combat boots and naturalheadedness (á la Ed Feldman), the war paint, the bad-ass chucks, the t-shirts cut-up and restyled. For youth. For the teachers. For the teachers who received crumpled hearts beneath crumpled dashikis. For the Mayor who came on stage to tell the kids he was listening. For the ecstasy of young poets. For the judges swag of pinot noir. For the poetry of theater. The poetry of remembering. The poetry that it is a rite of passage, an education unto itself. For the poetry that is both vengeance and redemption. For the girl in the front row with her arm raised and her head bowed. For the poetry that is a religion, the poetry reading that is a church. For the woman who said in the hush before the girl’s poem, “It’s okay, daughter.”

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For this poetry life. For this quiet and unabashed joy. For this kinfolk all over. For my sister. For the poem I want to write but won’t come yet. For what cannot be taken. For what will have words someday.