by Nikki Grimes
That night, our assignment is to turn our paragraphs into a poem. Closing my eyes doesn’t help much now. All I know about poetry is it rhymes, so I keep trying to find words that rhyme with newspaper. Forget it!
In the mornings
on Sundays
Papi and me
we always
sat at the breakfast table
with El Diario
before I was able
to read or understand
the newspaper
in Papi’s hand . . .
I know. Pretty lame.
The next time we have class, Mr. Ward starts off by asking, “How many of you wrote your poem?”
Almost all our hands go up.
“And how many of you tried to write your poems in rhyme?”
My hand slips up, along with maybe half the kids.
“And how did that work for you?”
The last question was followed by a lot of grumbling, including from me.
“I’m not surprised,” says Mr. Ward. “Most people mistakenly think that all poetry has to rhyme. In fact, they use the words poem and rhyme interchangeably. But rhyme is only one element of some forms of poetry, and there are many forms that don’t employ rhyme at all.”
Damn! Now you tell me!
TEACHER BURIES THE LEAD
“Instead of trying to force your words to rhyme, I want you to start thinking of poetry in a different way. A poem paints a picture using words. So a narrative poem is a poem that tells a story and paints a picture using words. You want to use language that is lyrical, that is descriptive. If rhyme comes to you naturally, it’s fine to use it. But if it doesn’t, that’s fine, too. Rhyme and poetry are not synonymous! Okay?”
I copy down everything Mr. Ward says, word for word. After school, I pull out my paragraphs about Papi and me reading the newspaper, and I start working on a brand-new poem. This time, I give up worrying about rhyme and start paying more attention to lining up words with the same letters and turning words into pictures.
I won’t lie. It takes a lot of practice. Like, instead of just writing paper when I’m talking about the special paper the daily news is printed on, I try to find words that tell you how that paper feels when you touch it. Writing this way takes more time, but it’s worth it. The poems I end up with are pretty decent. They still have a little rhyme in them, though. Even so, I can’t wait to show the latest poem to Mr. Ward.
The following day, Mr. Ward introduces some kid named Tyrone from his class last year. He invited him to drop in to kick things off for our first Open Mike Friday poetry reading. I thought I knew what to expect. Not even close.
TYRONE BITTINGS
“Y’all got no idea, but you’re in for something deep. Trust me,” I tell Mr. Ward’s class.
“Mr. Ward asked me to help y’all get this year’s Open Mike Friday started. I’m totally pumped to do it, especially since I can’t hang so much this year. I’ve got some schedule conflicts since I’ve decided to go for a JC—that’s junior college, for those of you who don’t know the lingo. I need to kick up my grades in math, in science, in history, in . . . well, in pretty much every subject but English. Time to man up if I’m gonna chase my dreams, as my homey Wesley ‘Bad Boy’ Boone would say. Anyway, I’ll be dropping in during my study period, when I can. I’m not in class officially, but I’m gonna be like—Teach, what do you call it in college when you sit in a class, but don’t get credit?”
“Audit,” says Mr. Ward. “But you can’t actually audit a class in high school, Tyrone.”
“No? Well, it sounds cool. Anyway, Mr. Ward gave me a special pass so I can drop in whenever I don’t actually need study hall to study. Guess I’ll be doing my homework at home!”
That got me a laugh.
“So listen, y’all heard a little bit about Open Mike already, right? Well, last year, we had it for the first time. It all started when Teach did this lesson about the Harlem Renaissance. To me and my homey Wesley, the lesson was all blah, blah, blah until Teach started reading poetry. Sorry, Teach, but it’s true.
“Teach read this one poem that made me think of rap, which I know something about, seeing as how I gots mad rhyming skills myself and know how to tell a story with a beat, you feel me? So I asked Mr. Ward if I could read one of my raps. A couple other kids had poems they wanted to read, too. So Mr. Ward started this regular Open Mike poetry reading in class, and next thing we know, kids from all over the school are practically busting down the door to get in on the action.”
“A slight exaggeration,” says Mr. Ward.
“Well, okay. But a lot of kids were getting passes to come to our room whenever we were doing Open Mike, and that ain’t no lie.
“What I loved best about it was getting to know everybody. I mean, before Open Mike, we were all in our own separate little groups, thinking we were so different from each other. But when people started sharing who they were through their poetry, turned out we were more alike then we were different. Black, White, Puerto Rican—it didn’t matter. Truth is truth, and everybody bleeds red.
“The kids in that class? They are all my peeps now. And they helped me believe in myself, in my dreams of what I could be. Bet you didn’t know poetry could do all that, huh?
“Y’all should look around the room, check out the people you’re sitting next to. You might think you know who some of them are, what they’re about. You’ve got no clue. By the end of a semester doing Open Mike, you will.
“Cool? Okay. Let’s get this thing started! Who wants to go first? I’d read one of my poems, but I don’t want to show you up.”
Everybody laughs, which is exactly what I wanted.
“No, I’m just kidding. I’ll get the ball rolling. After that, the mike’s all yours.
“Oh! And one more thing: At the end of the semester, there’s gonna be a poetry slam, Team Boyz against Team Girlz, so get ready for a little competition. And you know the Boyz are gonna crush it. It’s throwdown time, people!”
Truth
by Tyrone Bittings
Yo, yo
I know
you think a poem
ain’t nothing but
a reason for a song.
I hear you, but you’re wrong.
Trust me:
A poem can split skin
and let the blood run red.
A poem can turn the clock back,
help you crack the code of you.
A poem can strip away fear,
leave a messed-up mind clear
to understand what’s going on
deep inside the heart,
the one part
of our world
where we can maybe make some sense,
since, suddenly, unnatural disasters
crash the nightly news
on instant replay.
High crime and Homeland Insecurity
are the order of the day.
But, hey,
rap and rhyme is one way
to strap on your own power,
at least for an hour.
So slide a pen in your holster,
lock and load whatever
words you choose.
Use them to cry, to shout,
to whisper—whichever.
Just step up, step up to the mike
and let your truth fly, loud,
proud, raw.
DARRIAN
Turns out my hand has a mind of its own. For some reason, it slips up right after Mr. Ward says, “Who’s next?” Now my knees are noisy as maracas. ¡Dios!
Tyrone flashes me a look like What are you waiting for? I shake off my nerves and make it to the mike before my legs give out.
Act like you’re reading a news story, I tell myself. You’ve done that a thousand times. Just
not for an audience. Is it hot in here?
Okay. Here goes.
LOPEZ LEAPS OFF POETRY CLIFF
Headlines
by Darrian Lopez
On Sunday mornings,
I used to curl up
on the cushion
of my papi’s lap
while he read
the newspaper to me
like a bedtime story.
I understood little,
except the familiar
hum of his voice,
the silk of the paper,
thin as tissue,
the kiss of ink,
its temporary tattoo
remaining on my fingertips
after I helped Papi flip
through sports
and local news.
Sometimes, my love
for newspapers
and for Papi
feel like
the same thing.
They say newspapers
are dying out,
but I’m not about
to give up
my sweet addiction.
Besides, searching
the headlines of the day,
hidden in the folds
of a newspaper,
is one of the few things
Papi and me
still have in common.
As I read my poem, I see a few kids nodding their heads like they know what I’m talking about. But does that mean the poem is good? Just okay? Or are they being, you know—polite?
As soon as class lets out, I run up to Tyrone.
“Hey!” I say.
“Oh! Hey, man,” says Tyrone. “Wazzup?”
“Well, I was wondering if you have time to maybe look at my poem. Maybe tell me how I can make it better, since you’re so good. I’m new at this poetry stuff.”
“Sounds like you’re doing pretty good to me,” says Tyrone. “Although, you could throw in a few internal rhymes. Like—let me see the poem.”
I hand it over, watch Tyrone scan the lines.
“Okay,” says Tyrone. “Here’s what I mean . . .”
On Sunday mornings,
I used to curl up
on the cushion
of my papi’s lap,
happy to listen
to him read the daily
newspaper to me
like some G-rated
bedtime story.
“You get what I’m saying? A little internal rhyme, here and there, will help punch up your piece. But hey, man. I gotta run.”
“Yeah! Sure! Thanks, man,” I say. “I’ll try that. Then maybe I could—”
Tyrone takes off down the hall, leaving my last words in the wind.
“—catch you later.”
• • •
The following Monday, Mr. Ward talks to us about some poets from the Harlem Renaissance. Most of us know what that is, of course, but we don’t know anything about someone named Jean Toomer, or this book called Cane. Except for Li. She seems to know all about him. Or her? Jean could be a man or a woman, right? Anyway, Mr. Ward calls on Li.
“Do you have a favorite poem by Jean Toomer, Li?” asks Mr. Ward. Li looks around, then clears her throat.
“Yes, I do,” she says, sitting up even straighter than she was before.
“Could you read it for us?”
Li slowly stands, turns to a page in her notebook, and reads—no, recites—the poem. She’s hardly looking at the page, so I figure she’s got it memorized.
“Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads / Great, hollow, bell-like flowers . . .”
Li takes her time so each word hangs there a second before she goes on to the next one. When she’s done, nobody moves. Nobody.
“That was beautiful,” says Mr. Ward. “Now, can you explain what it means?”
Li twists her ponytail. “I’m not sure,” she says. “It’s . . . complicated.” She goes on in a rush, “But I love his choice of words, how they pop on the tongue like cherry tomatoes when you bite into them, the way they send a burst of flavor all over your mouth. I love that.” Li sounds out of breath.
“Why, Li,” says Mr. Ward, “you sound exactly like a poet.”
Li blushes, but she doesn’t deny it. She just lowers her eyes, sits back down, and smiles. I smile, too, but my eyes are wide open, and they’re on her.
LI CHENG
I love my first name. Depending on how you spell it, it can either be Chinese (Li) or American (Lee). Or both. Like me.
I’m all Chinese and all American. That’s a lot of contradictions to squeeze into one small body.
My facial features scream Chinese, but my lips can’t even manage an entire sentence of Mandarin because my parents did not encourage it. We celebrate Chinese New Year as well as American holidays like Thanksgiving. However, while my mom serves turkey, most of us prefer the huo guo (hot pot) she makes to go with it.
My closest girlfriends are Asian, and of course at school we all eat lunch together. In some ways, we’re very much alike, except that most of them were raised to be quiet and soft-spoken, while I was taught to speak my mind with confidence, like my brother, even when I’m speaking to my parents. And I do. Except when it comes to poetry. Why do I hide my love of poetry? That’s a long story.
My father started off life as the poorest of the poor, in a tiny village in China, living off rice and sweet potatoes because it was all his father could afford. For his family, meat was a luxury they could only dream of. At seven, he sold sea cucumbers in the market and gave the money to his mother to help feed his brothers and sisters. Then, when he was ten, he escaped to Taiwan by boat, hoping to find better opportunities. Eventually, he emigrated from Taiwan and came to America. He landed in New York City with only a few dollars in his pocket. His story sounds like the lyrics for a song, but it’s one nobody would want to sing.
He searched for work in Chinatown and eventually found two jobs: one cutting strawberries for an ice cream maker, and the second washing dishes at a restaurant. He used the money to pay for college, where he met my mother.
Today, they enjoy life in “the golden land,” still working hard so their children can go to the best schools and find secure company jobs with good benefits and pensions. An uncertain life in the world of literature is not part of my parents’ master plan for me.
Sometimes, I’m dying to ask my father, “BaBa, why did you struggle so hard to give me a life with choices if you won’t let me make my own?” But I’m a respectful Chinese daughter. I know when to speak my mind and when not to, so I lower my eyes, say nothing, and hide my dreams in the silence. For now.
Maybe I’m not as different from my friends as I thought.
I keep my poetry to myself and work on it in my room. Sometimes my mother barges in to see what I’m doing. She looks over my shoulder, sees my poetry journal, and grunts.
“What is that?” As if she doesn’t know.
“It’s poetry, MaMa.”
A second grunt.
“Useless,” she says. “Is your homework done?”
“Yes.”
“Carry on, then.”
I’m excited about the new school year. My Vietnamese friend, Mai, told me about an English class where they hold Open Mike poetry readings. Mai’s family moved to California over the summer, so she won’t be attending, but she thought I might like it. I pretended to be only mildly interested, but inside, I was jumping up and down.
One week in, and I already know this year is going to be the best, thanks to Mr. Ward and Open Mike Fridays.
I’ll just have to keep my eyes off Darrian. There is no way he would ever notice a plain girl like me.
Threads
by Li Cheng
How can I explain
; the duality of Li?
The muffled sounds
of mah-jongg tiles touching,
clicking together,
flips a switch in me
as my parents follow
the ritual
of the ancient game.
The Mandarin calligraphy
clinging to our walls
sends my soul sailing
to rice paddies
oceans away,
to the land of silk,
red sunrises,
and the jade mountain peaks
my parents
often speak of.
China whispers
through their blood,
You are part mine.
Remember!
And I nod, silent
and ashamed
that my untrained
American lips
are unfamiliar
with my ancestors’
local lingo.
DARRIAN
There’s something about this chica. I don’t know, but I can’t stop staring at her. She’s not even my type. She hardly has any curves, at least none that I can see. But how can you see anything under those big, baggy shirts she wears? Why does she dress like a boy?
Her skin is perfect, though. My fingers are itching to touch her face. She’s not pretty exactly, but something about her is . . . beautiful. Maybe it’s just the poetry. I don’t know. She’s got my heart thumping, though. I’ll have to keep an eye on her.
CHINESE CHARMER CASTS HER SPELL
JENESIS WHYTE
The first week in a new school is the worst. The staring and the stupid questions are annoying. Questions like, “What are you, exactly?” And “You know you got blue eyes, right?” No, moron, I’ve never looked in a mirror! How do people come up with this stuff? You think I had a choice when God was handing out the eyes? Like I could’ve said, “Hey, God, you gave me blue eyes by mistake. I’m supposed to have brown eyes because I’m Black.” Yeah, right. That’s the way it works.
I don’t know why my hair is blond. I don’t know why my eyes are blue. I wish I did.
