Patricia Smith Poems
|2.||Fanny Linguistics: Nickole||9/15/2015|
|3.||Black, Poured Directly into the Wound||2/7/2018|
|7.||The President Flies Over||2/7/2018|
|8.||Prologue—And Then She Owns You||2/7/2018|
|10.||A Street in Lawndale||2/7/2018|
|11.||What Garfield Park Kept Saying||2/7/2018|
|12.||An Open Letter to Joseph Peter Naras, Take 2 Or, Today's After-School Special Veers into Explosive Territory||2/7/2018|
|13.||When the Burning Begins||2/7/2018|
|15.||Practice Standing Unleashed and Clean||2/7/2018|
|17.||VOODOO V: ENEMY BE GONE||2/7/2018|
|18.||They Romp with Wooly Canines||2/7/2018|
|19.||Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah||2/7/2018|
|20.||FINDING HIS FIST||2/7/2018|
|21.||THAT'S WHAT THAT IS||2/7/2018|
|22.||suitcases of the insane||2/7/2018|
Comments about Patricia Smith
Poseidon was easier than most.
He calls himself a god,
but he fell beneath my fingers
with more shaking than any mortal.
He wept when my robe fell from my shoulders.
I made him bend his back for me,
listened to his screams break like waves.
We defiled that temple the way it should be defiled,
screaming and bucking our way from corner to corner.
The bitch goddess probably got a real kick out of that.
I'm sure I'll be hearing from her.
She'll give me nightmares for a week or so;
that I can handle.
Or she'll turn the water in my well into ...
I was birthed restless and elsewhere
gut dragging and bulging with ball lightning, slush,
broke through with branches, steel
I was bitch-monikered, hipped, I hefted
a whip rain, a swirling sheet of grit.
Scraping toward the first of you, hungering for wood, walls,