Expanded Poems- Fourth Row
Rising Against Colonialism’s Palimpsest
Nadia Islam
You complain about immigrants coming in today.
They are war-ravaged; they have nothing—
your people destroyed them with guns and treacherous pacts,
like a pack of wolves gouging out the guts of a lone horse.
You,
who live off my people’s blood,
how dare you complain about our state today?
The same state you concocted
by unashamedly cutting off our genitals because you wanted to teach us a lesson— Who was the barbarian then?
By nonchalantly burning our bodies with mustard gas because we were disposable— Who was the uncivilized then?
By eagerly putting us up for show in zoos because we were animals in your eyes— Who, I ask, was the savage then?
You mocked our dark skin and our culture,
yet it is our ancestors
who blessed the world with kaftans and karate, sufism and samba, halwa, and henna. You deemed us backward in our traditions,
but we were and are
the epitome of tradition.
We gracefully spun and cheerfully danced, adorned in our jewels,
while you sat stiff drinking wine and discussing blood politics.
Today, you quote Muslim Rumi and put on bindis to look exotic and get tattoos in Arabic,
but this is ours and ours alone—
you have no right to it.
Did you not steal enough from us,
yet now you want to strip us of our culture too?
We, the people of color,
are the descendants of those who were wronged and abused and murdered in every way. We are still suffering generations later for your crimes, but
since the beginning of humanity,
the reigns were in our hands;
this is only a short period in history.
We will unite against your discrimination and xenophobia,
your corruption and your greed,
your evil, and your devil.
Even if you plant barriers
like racism and college debt
to stop us from achieving
the crushed dreams of our ancestors,
We will overcome
with their soft prayers,
whispered in temples and mosques,
screamed before death and over the dead bodies of their families,
taught to their children and their grandchildren and great-grandchildren: May we rise again.
i’m in a three legged foot race with time and she’s winning
Francesca Fazio
tied and tangled together
we start off at a nice brisk pace
but knowing that this is a marathon and not a sprint, we start to slow down, a mere jog at first, then the scenery distracts
until, without knowing, we were simply walking
eyes wide with wonder of sights never seen before by seemingly a single soul, unfortunately, the awe is cut short
as out of the corner of my eye another athlete appears
soon the competition takes president and the beauty forgotten competitive fervor becomes the only motivation
the world beyond the track a grey smudge
then a stumble
a blink a second too long
a jagged pebble in an ideal location
and everything stops as face hits pavement
even though we are bound together my partner escapes unscathed still running at record-breaking speed
but with no pause to find my feet
i am dragged
the earth
flashes as
i tumble, tugged
always forward
by the race that never stops
my partner, my friends have left me in the dust
me trailing in the craters caused by continuing forwards
always forward
still chained to my partner
no matter how I try to bend, saw, or untie the connection
it's the rule of the race
I desperately wish to pause
only for a second
just to find my feet
catch my breath
or a least readjust, get dragged more comfortably but no
pausing is not allowed in the game
you are competitors till the end
technically a team but each focused on themself on moving
one will win
leaving one clinging on for the ride
hoping the other has steered a good course
The sun doesn’t shine on 149th
Dasharah Green
The sun doesn’t shine on 149th.
I march along,
Snowflakes on noses
Shards of glass sprinkled like rose petals
Corner boys in Canadian Goose,
“Ayo, ma. You can’t smile?”
Their voice heavy,
Like the bricks of their project walls.
Mine cracked,
Like the gum stained sidewalk.
In my mind,
I tell them there's a poem for them
That there’s plenty of corners in the world
That life doesn’t start nor end on 149th.
I whisper my woes; they can’t hear me though,
I march along
Red and blue sirens cry out for us.
The hue doesn’t reflect off of melanin
I pull my hoodie down low
My vision a tunnel
Dark like pitch
Dodging weaving strollers.
I pick up my pace
Vibing to passing Mercedes booming systems,
Dice rolling
Heavy laughter, Heartier yelling
Tired boots slapping concrete
Firecrackers or emptying clips
A ‘hood symphony’
I march along
And continue North.
Who needs the sun?
When we shine better without it
All of the Feels to Give
Dasharah Green
I tried to write a love poem once; it wasn’t terrible.
​
I forced every word on the page.
​
I scribbled in notes about love gripping the hands of time, an abundance of everlasting emotions, two souls intertwined on a park bench, a living room sofa and a gas station. I wrote about stability while using similes about playing love like the lotto. I circled hearts around the words you and I, to up the stakes.
​
I even wrote it with pink ink to make it make sense.
​
I rhymed words like dream and sunbeam. I searched for synonyms that matched the feelings I felt. I wrote of hydrangeas and doves, picket fences and the ocean, hearts racing and jumping into your arms. I slept on it, came back to the poem and added a splash of us dancing in the rain, like the movies.
I poured my heart out about pouring my heart out to you.
It was a very lovely poem.