womanifesting

My name is Alisha Sommer and this is my womanifesting story. Something inside of me changed with the birth of my daughter. I wanted her to grow up with a strong sense of self. I wanted her to be fearless - to be able to stand up for her beliefs and to not be afraid to express her opinions. I wanted her to know that she is divine - to know that her dreams are worthy of pursuit. However, I needed to believe all of these things for myself.

So I set out on a path of self-recovery. I read The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and began to write everyday. Through the process of journaling, I remembered all of these dreams that at one time filled my heart, but had been stuffed away, packed up in boxes, and shelved for some indeterminate time.

Every page opened a box, each one containing the same dream that seemed unfamiliar, and yet felt so comfortable, that it could no longer be ignored. I was supposed to be a writer.

***

Last fall I spent 4 weeks in New Orleans napping, eating cake, laughing with family and watching Alfred Hitchcock every night before bed. I really needed this visit. My body needed it. My mind needed it. My heart needed it.

One Wednesday, I visited the New Orleans Museum of Art. Though housed in a beautiful building, with a nice collection, I was disappointed that a city with such a large black population did not have a significant representation of black artists.

I left the museum frustrated that once again I could not find a reflection of myself. And these feelings of disappointment and confusion have plagued me for the past year. I was so tired of not finding more work by more women who looked like me. After having a conversation with a friend about the need to help women of color gain access and give them exposure, I decided that it was time to act.

Blackberry is born out of my passion to giving others a voice. It will give African-American women a new platform to share their art. Our voice is one that is often silenced. Ignored. Pushed aside. And I am tired of feeling invisible.

This new age of publishing is an opportunity to make our voices heard and it is an opportunity not to be squandered. Our experience is a varied one and by giving our art more exposure we will enrich the entire creative community.

Blackberry is not just the fulfillment of my own dream, but the breath of life into the dreams of other black women.

***

Submissions for Blackberry www.storiesofsommer.com/blackberry/are now open for the first issue which is set to debut no later than June 2012. My Kickstarter proposal was approved and I will be kicking off my campaign in February 2012. The goal is to raise enough money to fund print and digital editions of the magazine as well as a corresponding website. However, regardless of funding, I hope to see this vision through.

Alisha Sommer is a 20-something mother of three and a writer on a journey to examine the power of her words by sharing stories from the soul. She is a truth-sayer, a soul-whisperer, a seeker. She is a deep thinker, an illuminator and a dreamer. She is an encourager, an inspirer, a word-crafter. And she bares it all at www.AlishaSommer.com

Gertrude

I’m thinking of rooms,

A large resemblance of rooms,
All the hours spent in rooms.
Someone has been downstairs

In the kitchen soaking chicken flesh
And skin in a steamy bath,
Vegetable oil seeping into napkins

Thin squares, cubed, six of them
Make another room in which
A baby is sleeping, his skin is full

Of soft, repetitive leaks, licks,
The orange cat is cleaning its fur,
Violent, mechanical head throws

To catch all sides of its coat,
Raspy cartilage of its tongue,
Housed in the dark room of its mouth,

A box of moving images buzzes
So steadily it hums, in a room
With no occupants or time worth record.

Good Hair

I scrape the dead,
      dirty loveliness
from his fatted forehead,

Roll the night’s story     
      from his eyes,
& set him on the closed toilet seat.

Under his soft weight,
      air whistles from the sky
blue cover.

I reach over aged porcelain,   
      water the bristles
until dripping is rushed to ease

The widening of his binding
     strands, raise the boar
above his head of still-closing plates,

Unravel brief fuzzy rivulets, again   
     & again, and when
all is smooth & shiny,

I part my son’s hair,
     just above the left temple
like the older women tell me

               It is right to do.

Elegies for New York Avenue poems by Melanie Henderson

ISBN:978-1-59948-330-6, 96 pages

Cover/List price: $14 (Only $12 if purchased from the MSR Online Bookstore)
Release date: November 27, 2011.

Melanie Henderson was born, raised and lives in Washington, DC. She is an alumnus of Howard ('04) and Trinity ('07) Universities. Prior to earning an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University in Cambridge, MA, she studied poetry at the Voices Summer Writing Workshops (VONA) in San Francisco, CA. Her paintings, photography and poems have appeared in Drumvoices Revue, Fingernails across the Chalkboard: Poetry and Prose on HIV/AIDS from the Black Diaspora, jubilat, and Southern Women's Review among others. She was selected as a featured reader for the 2009 Joaquin Miller Cabin Poetry Series and as a recipient of the Larry Neal Writers' Award (DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities). She is the Managing Editor of Tidal Basin Review and the mother of a charming little boy.

Supreme Suite

I.

Sisters of call response

and silver spangles

born to sing of love

with tambourine

and violin.

You let Roma woman bleed

through bell and handclap.

But mama raised good girls,

so you hip dip, two step to the side,

flamenco your hands, and extend your

desire through the line of a fingertip.

II.

Flo,

what did you know of riding

in cars with boys after the show?

What do good girls know

of shame? of new disgraces?

And sisters left untouched

what can they do

but hum you into living

then carry your blue note

of a body

home.

III.

You were girls together

like Nell and Sula.

What do blood sisters know

of unraveling desire from a lyric,

holding a smile over

ooooo babeee,

faining heartache with a handclap?

Flo, did you grant forgiveness at the grave?

Did they say your name

like Nell said Sula’s?

Oh Lord, Flo then

girl, girl, girlgirlgirl.*

Blue Light Alchemy

(for Michael Jackson)

a rotation

an orbed

path

inside a circle

inside a

circle

revolutions

into

a groove

worn in the floor

where you

spun

like a

planet

worn

into new element

spun into a black

Saturn

light and gas

into sulfur

blue light

alchemy

a spinning top

of memory

you will

lock and pop

your vinyl self

that sweet tenor

and terror

into the blur

of a black boy’s

body.

Dr. Kelly Norman Ellis is an associate professor of English and director of the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Chicago State University. Her first collection of poetry entitled Tougaloo Blues was published by Third World Press. She is also co-editor of Spaces Between Us: Poetry, Prose and Art on AIDS/HIV. She is a Cave Canem Poetry Fellow and founding member of the Affrilachian Poets.

WOMA celebrates the release of  PATRICIA SPEARS JONES' poetry collection, PAINKILLER, (Tia Chuca Press). Jones is January's Featured artist for both her poetry and womanifesting spirit that keeps her grounded in community and able to face her truth whether clothed in beauty or anguish.

Jones Poetic Statement:

Painkiller is to me the final book in a trilogy of collections that started with The Weather That Kills (CoffeeHouse, 1995) and Femme du Monde (Tia Chucha, 1996).   Of these three collections, the poems in Painkiller are the most emotional and intimate, and yet they are also the most universal as they look at the consequences of love found and lost; passions unleashed; terror from human conduct and the awesome power of natural disaster. 

While this is a collection that responds in part to 9-11, many poems were written prior to that event, to the injury to the city and our psychic well-being.  Those portents and that injury set the collection’s tone.  Painkiller explores one poet’s vision of the city, her friends, her lover, her losses and connects those individual perceptions to a suffering world in turmoil. In the poem “In Like Paradise/Out Like the Blues”, a poem from The Weather That Kills, I wrote “Each of turns to the hunger of stars/and wipes the crumbs from our mouths.”  Painkiller is about that feast.

-------------------

Son Cubano

We are at the genesis of a bolero

eyes, lips, thick, kinky dreads

beds, cars, stars

a singer’s words curve

through memory and shadow

rhythms stumble and stop,

come again, the night air a willing audience.

men huddle near a long, brass bar rail,

shoes gleaming, lips smiling, eyes lit

as women, young and old, stroll pass them

on their way to the powder room

las mujeres motion a dream of sand and waves

a Cuba that only the restaurant owner

and his waiters may have truly seen, heard.

late winter, rains slicking the streets of lower Manhattan,

Son Cubano’s portals reveal a theater of nostalgia

the scent of Havana scripts so well. 

And we play along

mouths flavored with rum, lime, sugar, our tongues playing

the kisses stolen game as the song phrases

a fierce sadness promised

in the wake of lust’s mercurial ascent

We flee these orchestrated memories

our hands in each others, our mouths hungry for each other.

Our song is bluer, harsher, North American

the rhythms African, yes, as dearly measured in drama and depth.

Our exile is internal. There is little longing

for the good old days when Havana was a mean place

for dark people, but a real fascination

for these songs and their makers.

Your arms cascade a trumpet solo, the piano’s

harmonics thrill my back.

My lips are waiting for yours.

This is our bolero 

accidental

lovemaking      Friday night              New York City

Everybody’s exotic. 

Everybody’s from the South.

-------------------

Three Gems

Amethyst for encouragement

Debbie’s kind, tired voice on telephone

early morning, keeping me alive

thankful, am I

the Japanese beetles are passionately swarming

a mating dance in Virginiagrasses.  They bounce against our skin,glinting.

Bergamot, lavender, summer hay perfume my nighttime walk

There is mercy.  It comes when needed like a red moonrise.

Obsidian for power

She said you said you were in control of your life.

Oh really, when did I say that

Well you speak with such confidence, she said.  I laugh. It seems

as if  I have the power to control my sliver of the great cosmic order.

Well, no.  But, what little power have I, is hard won and precious. Black.

Carnelian for security

There has not been one moment in my life that was not compromised.

Lack of money or love or grander dreams, perhaps, strange luck.  And now

as my body radically changes, I am anchored by strong spirit.What’s up

with the sun? 

And when did I turn my cheeks toward heat?

Switch

“Typical day that the black girl sees/comin’ home wantin’ more from a college degree.”

-Nas’ “Black Girl Lost”

crushed zirconium gloss & glory

glides across her lips.     she looks

in the mirror, puckers, pops her gum,

knows what would

happen if mama saw her

               switch

                                          girl

bounce-bounce song scripts

pinned into rivets of denim

pressed into thighs rockin

two-pocket shorts cause she can

              switch

                                          girl

purveyors of pulp nonfiction

sit on regals wit chrome rims

mockin constellations

and damn her pelvic metronome

              switch

                                          girl

a poet sketches what he imagines

as her fantasies

behind his microphone

he pastes her into fables of blow jobs for hand bags

haphazardly stitches her walk into crack alleys

half-tapes her barely breathing body with bruises

               switch

                                            girl

women sit facing the microphone

their pupils spin full circles

the girl is each one of them

when she had the periodic table of elements

next to cut-outs from right on!

she wanted to be a nurse

or just get an a in chemistry quietly

while looking like

doing something she ain’t

             Girl,

                            switch.

Lock Maintenance

Rub brazil nut shampoo

onto palms. Add a little

tea tree oil so the scalp

sighs upon touch.

Rub soap and oil

into his scalp. Watch

eyes close like last night.

Work up the lather.

Rinse each fibrous gleam

til water runs sudsless.

Repeat as desired.

Massage hands with jasmine

oil and shea butter. Apply to

soft tufts rooting their way

out of skin. Remember

the hair needs it most.

Do not fear popping

locks apart, binding

them like old letters,

separating bunches into plaits

so you can play in his kitchen.

Twist at least 9 times

clockwise as if coiling

rungs to God.

“Switch” and “Lock Maintenance” both appear in Arc & Hue (Aquarius Press/Willow Books, 2009).

Tara Betts is a Cave Canem fellow. She teaches creative writing and poetry at Rutgers University. She has read across the U.S. and internationally. Her work was dramatized in Steppenwolf Theater’s “Words on Fire” and adaptations of Fingernails Across a Chalkboard and That Takes Ovaries! Her writing also appears in several journals and anthologies, such as Gathering Ground, Bum Rush the Page, and both Spoken Word Revolution anthologies.

On September 20, 2010--6:30 to 8:30-- MahoganyBooks is celebrating the one year anniversary of Tara's debut poetry collection, Arc & Hue.  Tara will read from her acclaimed book and special guests Derrick Weston Brown, Sonya Renee, & Truth Thomas will also read.

U-topia Bar & Grill

1418 U Street NW

Washington, DC

Wrap-Around Porch

The porch is now empty after much

womanifesting and storytelling

and sipping and fanning

and swatting and funning

and coming and going

through the screen door.

The mosquitoes have passed out,

so drunk, full of our blood moonshine.

Green-gold fireflies pulse again,

visible against the darkness.

The crickets, hushed by our belly-deep laughter,

rehearse a comeback song.

Then, slowly, night’s moon,

full of herself, as a grand gesture,

releases her pull just enough

so that we may find embrace in our dreams

until we meet again,

here on this wrap-around porch.

Tracy Chiles McGhee

Tracy is the Founder & Executive Director of WOMANIFESTING. She resides in Washington, D.C. and authors the blog "Passionate Self by Tracy." Her works have appeared in Mary Jane Ryals Poetry Corner: Tallahasee Democrat, Aspirations: Mosaic of Thoughts (Althea Dixon), Planetary Stories: Black Earth Institute, BOMB Magazine, Nashville News, Coloring Book: An Eclectic Anthology of Fiction and Poetry by Multi-cultural Writers, and Slow Trains Literary Journal.

By: Meri Culp

:

Cayenne Warning

Even the pepper’s skin will burn to the touch, Mom, my son says

as he fingers the slim fire, the just-picked red ripeness.

Be careful, he reminds, all kindness, newfound protection,

as I watch him harvest the peppers, red-handed, soon-to-be a man.

I want to tell him of life’s red hot sting,

of his grandmother’s dying request

for me to paint her fingernails chili pepper red,

to unearth from her drawer a favorite lipstick,

Revlon’s Marooned, the color of black/red gardens,

the deep bite of goodbye, an open wound.

I want to say, I know of burning, my son,

how one night, I fell hard into a sunset,

slammed into a slow-blaze burn

of every shade of red,

learned how crimson turns scarlet,

then fades, like nightfall, old chiffon , dusty and pink.

But instead, I heed his advice,

let him sound the warning alarm,

as if I had lived my life in a gentle garden,

in this place I notice is now: my son, me, our red cayennes.

----------------------

By: Meri Culp

Tangerines and Yams

When you are young,

all is skin and juice:

You carry your basket to bed,

brimming overflow of firmness,

rounded to golden delicious curves,

shining summer sheets, tangled in tangerine,

a plumpearpeach dive,

citrus skimming, thirsting

for lemon, for lime,

for the feel of skin.

I am ripe, you think,

all fruit sassy, fresh,

ready to jump, spring into

into the not-so-still-life

of Erica-Jonged verse,

penned in orange-mango-ed lines,

running off the unmade bed,

coursing down the hall.

But soon, the quick-turn of nectar,

seeps into the grooves,

of life, of garden,

to the place you find yourself,

when you are of a certain age,

sifting through soil,

no longer distracted,

by the dangle of fruit,

unearthing the dusky weight

of rich russet, ponderous yam,

this harvest of irregular shapes,

deep, yielding.

You carry your brown bag to bed,

rustic offerings, earth-echoed,

your hands lifelined to all things rooted,

muted tenderness, many-eyed, skinned,

vulnerable stew of strength,

this winter mix of finger shadowed

love, here on time’s bed,

here, still burning orange,

this yam-halved sunset,

this red - rooted sky.

--------------------------

Meri Culp has been published in various journals, including Southeast Review, Apalachee Quarterly, BOMB, Painted Bride Quarterly, Nomads, Snug, The Northeast Chronicle, and Sweet: A Literary Confection. Her poems have also appeared online in True/Slant and USA Today and in the anthologies North of Wakulla and Think: Poems for Aretha Franklin's Inauguration Day Hat. Culp is currently working on a collection of stalk vegetable poems--from asparagus to rhubarb--and Gulf oil spill poems.

 Meri Culp is SO WOMA.

Valarie Jean Bailey Tells What WOMA Means to Her

WOMA asked Valerie Jean Bailey, a Fiber Artist living in Clayton, North Carolina, what the Womanifesting Movement means to her as an artist and this was her response:

“Making Fiber Art is my life’s work. When I began the “Pulpit Series” in 2004, it started a spiritual journey that, at the onset, told me I couldn’t travel its path alone. I offered fervent prayer to the Mother Goddess Most High to seek the assistance of my sisters to help heal & empower women through my art. The birth of “Womanifesting” is the answer to my prayer.”

 ----------

Shrine of the Bottle Tree Flowers by Valerie Jean Bailey

In March 2007, I had an exhibition entitled “Shrine of the Bottle Tree Flowers” The overall concept came from my love of history & folklore.  In the olden days, a bottle tree placed in the yard, (commonly made from a dead tree and empty bottles stuck onto the branches by their necks) was thought to keep the “haunts” from entering the house. The bottles would capture and imprison evil before it could do damage. My bottle tree is the antithesis of stopping evil haunts; it actually seeks to release love, strength, and positivity into the universe and every living thing therein. It was created to be is a sacred place for devotion, reflection &redemption. As more of Mother Earth’s people acknowledge the severity and urgency in the struggle to heal our planet, we must understand our own personal involvement in her healing. Facing a “litany of woes” that contribute to the ailmentof the planet, we must recognize that each and every one of us firstly, needs to heal ourselves in order to wage struggle.

As for me, I seek the assistance of women whom I have known in my family, in life, discovered in books and other sources; whose contributions have in their own way influenced my life. All have transitioned to the other side. The Gate Keepers, though, are still in our midst working daily for peace & righteousness.  I chose these women from my experience and gathered them together under this “live” tree to help heal & empower women. I wanted healing for myself and for other women to gird us once again in self-respect and unity. I want women, young & old alike, to renew their faith in themselves, to respect their bodies by staying healthy & focused; to believe in a higher power and seek a higher consciousness,   to look to the ancestors who made a way out of no way and not only survived, but triumphed. It’s time for women to wake up and take back the night and the day! Take back the day, especially, when laws are being made in courts across the world, which are not favorable to the life & health of women.

The bottles are vessels that contain the positive energy & wisdom of these women who left a legacy of love & power and stand upright to release it into the universe. When you look at their images on the bottles and feel their spirit, “remember” them; recall the contributions they made and how they affect your life today. Remembrance is a sacred act, a most powerful weapon against apathy and fear. “Remember Me,” they ask. Then think about your own mortality, what have you done in this life, and your own destiny. At this “Shrine of the Bottle Tree Flowers” , it is my fervent hope that you will find the love, healing & empowerment that has been sewn into every stitch, every knot, every seam,and conjured up into every bottle.

Then use it to heal Mother Earth.

--------

Thank you Ms. Valerie Jean Bailey for exemplifying WOMA!

For Ms. Bailey's bio and to see more beautiful images from the "Shrine of the Bottle Tree Flowers", please visit here:

http://www.southernartistry.com/Valarie_Bailey