Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.
Epitaph by Kuamel Stewart
Dear Writer,
The lamp shone on me last night and I was made aware that my death is imminent,
I’m running out of my life’s blood and our rapport is coming to the end of it
From the haiku's’ to the memoirs, it has truly been a pleasure,
From the first the time I saw you through the plastic, to this last letter
Took my virginity in the third grade,
And when fiery arguments left smoke in your house, I let you scribe your rage
Filled books and books, and left anecdotes of raw truth in between the lines of the page
It’s comforting to know that for eight years, I was being held by a budding sage
Remember back in the day when we reminisced about how that girl who used to doubt you,
Despite her pessimism we made journal entries about how the challenge was ideal for arousal,
Had unrequited love in your adolescence, and although that youthful purview was present,
From what we put down, it seemed like you suffered from unadulterated love in its essence
Conjured thoughts on nights when the clock read a.m. and the heat from the radiator had ran
Became nocturnal beings attempting to put a moratorium on the asinine thoughts of man
Went from vowel to consonant that morphed into syllables and became words
Leaped bounds of hate and became constant tidings that evolved into phrases of hope pregnant with nouns and verbs
Saw your truth and light with each and every day that you used me
Swelled with pride after you signed journal entries and prayed that the next day you would abuse me
Just knew that your recordings would be an inspiration to many
Just happy to be the device of your choice and submit to you the liquid that runs in me
Some days you went without me and you lied hopelessly on your bed void of thought
Knew that the block infected in your mind, but trusted your soul not to get caught
When those gloomy days loomed on the horizon and the sun hid from our window
The source of light emitted from what we created and I was proud to see the words glow
Glad you never stopped because a pocket can become lonely
Pushed ball-points out of your Levi’s because I wanted to be your one and only
Though it is impossible for us to always be together
The infinite amount of pieces we devised will be etched in the lore of history forever
So this is one last letter and this time its you being addressed
Quite different from when I was being used to imprint an address
I love you writer and after all that we’ve experienced I can finally put my heart to rest
Just so glad Ms. Wright gave you that pack when you had nothing else to use for the test
Signed,
The Pen
P.S.:
Tell the paper to be still.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
National Poetry Month (Poem#3)
Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.
Re[noun]ed by Kuamel Stewart
When I was eleven.
I met her one late night while discovering that I had a penchant for writing good poetry,
I found out everything about her that evening,
She gave me a feeling that I felt I had never had before,
I went to bed that night dreaming about having her when the school bus halted in front of my house the next morning, just in case the water from the curb rained on me,
I walked down the halls of P.S. 319 with her,
She inspired me to have an infectious smile, and I carried her with me to sixth period,
Everyday she was with me until,
The school bully,
Thomas,
Embarrassed me by haughtily harping on my ever-increasing paunch in front of my crush,
I ran home without her, and landed in front of my mother’s mirror screaming for her while I grappled with accepting that I was burly,
But I sought refuge at the desk where I would scribble my ruminations, and she hastily returned,
From that point on,
I went to school with her,
And while my ominous peers made me the highlight of their parody,
I blocked them out and she stayed with me.
She was pretty coquettish at times, and I didn’t mind,
It would only be some days when I wished that she wouldn’t play with my feelings and tell me that she was here to stay,
Like that one fateful night when my daddy told me I was his favorite accident,
Gave me a sullen smile and a hug,
And left me feeling more empty than a bottomless pit whose depths descended into a black hole,
Or when I couldn’t find the courage to tell Stacy that I wrote sonnets about the potential of our consorting and the affable life-long bond that it could lead to,
Or when I stepped on stage into the eye of the beacon above the balcony preparing to deliver my first poem and Stacy sat anxiously awaiting my rhetoric in the mezzanine,
I cried when she wasn’t around, I didn’t feel like my life had purpose without her,
But I aged,
And the more I began to understand that seeking happiness in others was a futile effort,
The more I became appealing to her,
And she blessed me with her presence,
I began sauntering down avenues with my head perpendicular to the ground,
My voice suddenly had base and the thoughts that I used to whisper now escaped from my mouth in intoned orders,
I was eloquent,
I had more control over my interpersonal relationships,
She kept coming back and back,
I would face my nose to the sky, and with her, I believed that the source of my spirit still lied inside of me,
My stature no longer had significance, and my mind and soul became hegemonic
And this was all thanks to her,
And throughout all of these years she still won’t commit to me,
She still flirts with me from time to time,
And that’s ok,
I’ll be happy just as long as she keeps returning,
And although I know she only wants me for my mind, I want confidence to know that she was the best sexual partner that I ever had
Genre/Type: Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.
Re[noun]ed by Kuamel Stewart
When I was eleven.
I met her one late night while discovering that I had a penchant for writing good poetry,
I found out everything about her that evening,
She gave me a feeling that I felt I had never had before,
I went to bed that night dreaming about having her when the school bus halted in front of my house the next morning, just in case the water from the curb rained on me,
I walked down the halls of P.S. 319 with her,
She inspired me to have an infectious smile, and I carried her with me to sixth period,
Everyday she was with me until,
The school bully,
Thomas,
Embarrassed me by haughtily harping on my ever-increasing paunch in front of my crush,
I ran home without her, and landed in front of my mother’s mirror screaming for her while I grappled with accepting that I was burly,
But I sought refuge at the desk where I would scribble my ruminations, and she hastily returned,
From that point on,
I went to school with her,
And while my ominous peers made me the highlight of their parody,
I blocked them out and she stayed with me.
She was pretty coquettish at times, and I didn’t mind,
It would only be some days when I wished that she wouldn’t play with my feelings and tell me that she was here to stay,
Like that one fateful night when my daddy told me I was his favorite accident,
Gave me a sullen smile and a hug,
And left me feeling more empty than a bottomless pit whose depths descended into a black hole,
Or when I couldn’t find the courage to tell Stacy that I wrote sonnets about the potential of our consorting and the affable life-long bond that it could lead to,
Or when I stepped on stage into the eye of the beacon above the balcony preparing to deliver my first poem and Stacy sat anxiously awaiting my rhetoric in the mezzanine,
I cried when she wasn’t around, I didn’t feel like my life had purpose without her,
But I aged,
And the more I began to understand that seeking happiness in others was a futile effort,
The more I became appealing to her,
And she blessed me with her presence,
I began sauntering down avenues with my head perpendicular to the ground,
My voice suddenly had base and the thoughts that I used to whisper now escaped from my mouth in intoned orders,
I was eloquent,
I had more control over my interpersonal relationships,
She kept coming back and back,
I would face my nose to the sky, and with her, I believed that the source of my spirit still lied inside of me,
My stature no longer had significance, and my mind and soul became hegemonic
And this was all thanks to her,
And throughout all of these years she still won’t commit to me,
She still flirts with me from time to time,
And that’s ok,
I’ll be happy just as long as she keeps returning,
And although I know she only wants me for my mind, I want confidence to know that she was the best sexual partner that I ever had
Monday, April 6, 2009
National Poetry Month (Poem #2)
Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.
The Nearness of Truth by Kuamel Stewart
The mostly highly anticipated match up of the year.
Thoughts stepped into the ring with its narcissistic flare dripping with hubris.
Not fazed.
Prepared to go to war tonight.
Left, right, left, right.
The superego sauntered around the ring preparing to preface the bout with the reading of the sponsors.
Introspection and vagrancy seemed to have provided the subsidies.
But none of that mattered to me.
Focused, I was.
If he throws a verat at you, hit ‘em with denial.
That unyielding truth of his can’t handle this repression haymaker. No sir. We’re going to win tonight.
He had “mores” embroidered across his waist line.
Not fazed.
His training team traipsed around the ring with their jackets that read, “The truth hurts”.
Not fazed.
I could hear the announcers, “Do you think he has any chance Bob?” “Well I don’t know Chip. You know this guy’s moniker is the conscious assassin. And he said he’s been waiting for this one all night. But we’ll see how it goes”.
Not fazed.
The perspiration ran from my pores.
I wiped the sweat from my face and approached the center of the ring.
I shook his hand.
Thoughts looked confident.
He gave me a look resembling that of a matron scolding her son with her eyes while knowing he was trying to cajole her with a sly smile in his attempt to evade her discovery of his mischievous shenanigans.
Not fazed.
Rings emitted from the bell.
I came out displaying my dexterity with an unwavering fury.
But Thoughts was so calm.
Not fazed.
Throw a left, and a right.
Hit ‘em in the body.
I feverishly threw punch after punch utilizing every tactic that I had learned over the years to elude him
Gluttonous left.
Alcoholic right.
I then delivered a blow that was so hard, I could’ve sworn it would’ve left an indelible imprint in his chest that read, “conformity “
But he seemed impervious to it all.
And while I attempted to reinforce my courage, strength, valor, and pride by saying to myself, “not fazed” yet again,
He came.
His decision to become offensive had been made.
What followed the lie I told myself was a flurry of attacks that became increasingly clear I wasn’t prepared for,
Thoughts pummeled me,
Beat me into a submission so gruesome that I couldn’t even cry out that he was killing me.
My limbs fell asunder.
I succumbed to the duress of his truth and landed on the mat with a thud that seem like a cacophony given that I was hit so hard that I simultaneously acquired a heightened sense of sound.
As I lay helpless on the ground, the brain stemmed referee counted off at the tune of my demise,
Sidled next to me outside of the ring was a photographer, and I could hear him profess, “wow, now that’s a lurid image”
I fell into a coma before the ref got to 4.
In my reverie I dreamed of tomorrow’s newspaper, and an article read, “It seemed like he was over-matched in this one, and boy did he go down quickly. After the fight, I asked Thoughts if he’d like to say anything to the screaming neurons in the crowd who so ardently supported him and he retorted, “Yeah, not fazed”.
Genre/Type: Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.
The Nearness of Truth by Kuamel Stewart
The mostly highly anticipated match up of the year.
Thoughts stepped into the ring with its narcissistic flare dripping with hubris.
Not fazed.
Prepared to go to war tonight.
Left, right, left, right.
The superego sauntered around the ring preparing to preface the bout with the reading of the sponsors.
Introspection and vagrancy seemed to have provided the subsidies.
But none of that mattered to me.
Focused, I was.
If he throws a verat at you, hit ‘em with denial.
That unyielding truth of his can’t handle this repression haymaker. No sir. We’re going to win tonight.
He had “mores” embroidered across his waist line.
Not fazed.
His training team traipsed around the ring with their jackets that read, “The truth hurts”.
Not fazed.
I could hear the announcers, “Do you think he has any chance Bob?” “Well I don’t know Chip. You know this guy’s moniker is the conscious assassin. And he said he’s been waiting for this one all night. But we’ll see how it goes”.
Not fazed.
The perspiration ran from my pores.
I wiped the sweat from my face and approached the center of the ring.
I shook his hand.
Thoughts looked confident.
He gave me a look resembling that of a matron scolding her son with her eyes while knowing he was trying to cajole her with a sly smile in his attempt to evade her discovery of his mischievous shenanigans.
Not fazed.
Rings emitted from the bell.
I came out displaying my dexterity with an unwavering fury.
But Thoughts was so calm.
Not fazed.
Throw a left, and a right.
Hit ‘em in the body.
I feverishly threw punch after punch utilizing every tactic that I had learned over the years to elude him
Gluttonous left.
Alcoholic right.
I then delivered a blow that was so hard, I could’ve sworn it would’ve left an indelible imprint in his chest that read, “conformity “
But he seemed impervious to it all.
And while I attempted to reinforce my courage, strength, valor, and pride by saying to myself, “not fazed” yet again,
He came.
His decision to become offensive had been made.
What followed the lie I told myself was a flurry of attacks that became increasingly clear I wasn’t prepared for,
Thoughts pummeled me,
Beat me into a submission so gruesome that I couldn’t even cry out that he was killing me.
My limbs fell asunder.
I succumbed to the duress of his truth and landed on the mat with a thud that seem like a cacophony given that I was hit so hard that I simultaneously acquired a heightened sense of sound.
As I lay helpless on the ground, the brain stemmed referee counted off at the tune of my demise,
Sidled next to me outside of the ring was a photographer, and I could hear him profess, “wow, now that’s a lurid image”
I fell into a coma before the ref got to 4.
In my reverie I dreamed of tomorrow’s newspaper, and an article read, “It seemed like he was over-matched in this one, and boy did he go down quickly. After the fight, I asked Thoughts if he’d like to say anything to the screaming neurons in the crowd who so ardently supported him and he retorted, “Yeah, not fazed”.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
National Poetry Month (Poem #1)
Art Form: Writing
Genre/Type: Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.
Poem #1
The Plan by Kuamel Stewart
(Inspired by "Berta, Berta" by Branford Marsalis)
Berta, Berta - Branford Marsalis
The Plan
Lower the anchor.
Upon arrival, scour the land.
Guard yourself with your eyes. You have been warned. Their dexterity is uncanny.
They can win.
Begin your pilgrimage to the social dominance we have sought after.
Remember your roots to fuel your search. We praised Him, and they tried to kill us.
It is our time.
Rummage through the forest and find her.
When you finally see her, stare at the body that you could never fathom to exist.
Its locks will disgust you. Yes, I know. How could God create such a creature?
Blessed be the damned.
Appreciate its curves. The pigment will be infuriating, yet pleasing. Indeed, they are supple.
Now is not the time to be lecherous. However, if the call from your loins does not subside, quickly, do your business.
Grab her by her ankles. About face. Head back to the vessel.
Along the way, force her into submission.
Raise her higher. Take the nail and pierce it through every vein that circuitously makes up her hand.
Laugh at her cries. Mock her pain. Smell her blood and let her know that it tastes better.
Make her struggle to rise after she trips over your feet. And call the name that you’ve given her.
Stop by the wall where the hieroglyphics are drawn.
Know that your ire will be raised upon understanding that they worship the land.
We all know that Christ frets upon their practice.
And they will soon learn.
Drag her through the mire.
Let the Earth’s fecal matter finds its way through her skin.
Drown out her screams with intoned exclamations about the fortune that will soon be ours.
Make her realize that hell is envious of the experience that you are forcing her through.
What is she saying? We don’t care. She will speak our language, soon enough.
Strike her with the vengeance that God has divinely told us that they deserve.
The humidity will tire you.
Exact your frustrations on her body. You will be calmed.
Once by the shore, make her gather with the rest of her kind.
Make her look at her home for the very last time.
Tell her that the sand, rocks, trees, bushes, forests, and springs of this land are what she will see no longer.
Push her onto the deck. Drag her to the nadir of the vessel. The smell will be foul.
But the future is promising.
Join your brethren. Drink water from the beautiful ocean.
Calculate the time it will take to get back.
It may be best to wait for night. The stars allow for more precise navigation.
The series of outcries will annoy.
Pour water on the lot to quell their expressed suffering.
My brother, it is time, to return.
The takeover has just begun.
Expedite the night by singing our favorite hymns.
Genre/Type: Poetry
In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be attempting to write one poem a day.
Poem #1
The Plan by Kuamel Stewart
(Inspired by "Berta, Berta" by Branford Marsalis)
Berta, Berta - Branford Marsalis
The Plan
Lower the anchor.
Upon arrival, scour the land.
Guard yourself with your eyes. You have been warned. Their dexterity is uncanny.
They can win.
Begin your pilgrimage to the social dominance we have sought after.
Remember your roots to fuel your search. We praised Him, and they tried to kill us.
It is our time.
Rummage through the forest and find her.
When you finally see her, stare at the body that you could never fathom to exist.
Its locks will disgust you. Yes, I know. How could God create such a creature?
Blessed be the damned.
Appreciate its curves. The pigment will be infuriating, yet pleasing. Indeed, they are supple.
Now is not the time to be lecherous. However, if the call from your loins does not subside, quickly, do your business.
Grab her by her ankles. About face. Head back to the vessel.
Along the way, force her into submission.
Raise her higher. Take the nail and pierce it through every vein that circuitously makes up her hand.
Laugh at her cries. Mock her pain. Smell her blood and let her know that it tastes better.
Make her struggle to rise after she trips over your feet. And call the name that you’ve given her.
Stop by the wall where the hieroglyphics are drawn.
Know that your ire will be raised upon understanding that they worship the land.
We all know that Christ frets upon their practice.
And they will soon learn.
Drag her through the mire.
Let the Earth’s fecal matter finds its way through her skin.
Drown out her screams with intoned exclamations about the fortune that will soon be ours.
Make her realize that hell is envious of the experience that you are forcing her through.
What is she saying? We don’t care. She will speak our language, soon enough.
Strike her with the vengeance that God has divinely told us that they deserve.
The humidity will tire you.
Exact your frustrations on her body. You will be calmed.
Once by the shore, make her gather with the rest of her kind.
Make her look at her home for the very last time.
Tell her that the sand, rocks, trees, bushes, forests, and springs of this land are what she will see no longer.
Push her onto the deck. Drag her to the nadir of the vessel. The smell will be foul.
But the future is promising.
Join your brethren. Drink water from the beautiful ocean.
Calculate the time it will take to get back.
It may be best to wait for night. The stars allow for more precise navigation.
The series of outcries will annoy.
Pour water on the lot to quell their expressed suffering.
My brother, it is time, to return.
The takeover has just begun.
Expedite the night by singing our favorite hymns.
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