Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts

Thursday, April 6, 2017

Dinosaurs in the Hood

Dinosaurs in the Hood

Related Poem Content Details

Let’s make a movie called Dinosaurs in the Hood.
Jurassic Park meets Friday meets The Pursuit of Happyness.
There should be a scene where a little black boy is playing
with a toy dinosaur on the bus, then looks out the window
& sees the T. Rex, because there has to be a T. Rex.

Don’t let Tarantino direct this. In his version, the boy plays
with a gun, the metaphor: black boys toy with their own lives,
the foreshadow to his end, the spitting image of his father.
Fuck that, the kid has a plastic Brontosaurus or Triceratops
& this is his proof of magic or God or Santa. I want a scene

where a cop car gets pooped on by a pterodactyl, a scene
where the corner store turns into a battle ground. Don’t let
the Wayans brothers in this movie. I don’t want any racist shit
about Asian people or overused Latino stereotypes.
This movie is about a neighborhood of royal folks —

children of slaves & immigrants & addicts & exiles — saving their town
from real-ass dinosaurs. I don’t want some cheesy yet progressive
Hmong sexy hot dude hero with a funny yet strong commanding
black girl buddy-cop film. This is not a vehicle for Will Smith
& Sofia Vergara. I want grandmas on the front porch taking out raptors

with guns they hid in walls & under mattresses. I want those little spitty,
screamy dinosaurs. I want Cicely Tyson to make a speech, maybe two.
I want Viola Davis to save the city in the last scene with a black fist afro pick
through the last dinosaur’s long, cold-blood neck. But this can’t be
a black movie. This can’t be a black movie. This movie can’t be dismissed

because of its cast or its audience. This movie can’t be a metaphor
for black people & extinction. This movie can’t be about race.
This movie can’t be about black pain or cause black people pain.
This movie can’t be about a long history of having a long history with hurt.
This movie can’t be about race. Nobody can say nigga in this movie

who can’t say it to my face in public. No chicken jokes in this movie.
No bullets in the heroes. & no one kills the black boy. & no one kills 
the black boy. & no one kills the black boy. Besides, the only reason
I want to make this is for that first scene anyway: the little black boy
on the bus with a toy dinosaur, his eyes wide & endless

                                                    his dreams possible, pulsing, & right there.

Found here:  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/57585



Monday, April 4, 2016

In the elementary school spelling bee


In the elementary school spelling bee

when you intentionally
misspelled heifer,
he almost had a cow.

You're the only kid
on your block
at school
in THE. ENTIRE. FREAKIN'. WORLD.
who lives in a prison
of words.
He calls it the pursuit of excellence.
You call it Shawshank.
And even though your mother
forbids you to say it,
the truth is
you
HATE
words.

From Kwame Alexander's novel in verse, Booked. Excerpted here.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

My Dream

My Dream
by Eunice Akoth

Eunice Akoth is a 6th grader at an all girls school in Kibera, a slum of Nairobi. She recited this poem on stage at the Women in the World Annual Summit in 2015. Watch the whole video, it's amazing.

Every mighty king was once a crying baby!
Every great tree was once a tiny seed!
Every tall building was once in paper!
And so I dream my dream.


Read more here.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

One Fine Day In the Middle of the Night

One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight, 
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,

One was blind and the other couldn’t, see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout “hooray!”

A paralyzed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye,
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all,

A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came to arrest the two dead boys,
If you don’t believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!

This goofy folk rhyme has as many variations as there are little boys who love reciting the silliness. Learn more here. 

Friday, April 17, 2015

Speak Up

Speak Up
by Janet Wong

*You're Korean, aren't you?
Yes.
*Why don't you speak
*Korean?
Just don't, I guess.
*Say something Korean.
I don't speak it.
I can't.
*Cmon. Say something.
Halmoni. Grandmother.
Haraboji. Grandfather.
Imo. Aunt.
*Say some other stuff.
*Sounds funny.
*Sounds strange.
Hey, let's listen to you
for a change.
*Listen to me?
Say some foreign words.
*But I'm American,
*can't you see?
Your family came from
somewhere else.
Sometime.
*But I was born here.
So was I. 



Found here. 

Friday, October 17, 2014

For My Son, Reading Harry Potter

For My Son, Reading Harry Potter


How lovely, to be lost
as you are now
in someone else's thoughts
an imagined world
of witchcraft, wizardry and clans
that takes you in so utterly
all the ceaseless background noise
of life's insistent pull and drag soon fades
and you are left, a young boy
captured in attention's undivided daze,
as I was once
when books defined a world
no trouble could yet penetrate
or others spoil, or regret stain,
when, between covers, under covers,
all is safe and sure
and each Odysseus makes it home again
and every transformation is to bird or bush
or to a star atwinkle in some firmament of light,
or to a club that lets you, and all others, in.
Oh, how I wish for you
that life may let you turn and turn
these pages, in whose spell
time is frozen, as is pain and fright and loss
before you're destined to be lost again
in that disordered and distressing book
your life will write for you and cannot change.


http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2014%2F10%2F13