Get Lit Minute

In this week's episode of the Get Lit Minute, we spotlight American poet and professor, Camille T. Dungy. Included in this episode is a reading of her poem "Characteristics of Life."

Addressing the paucity of African American poets in anthologies of nature poetry, Dungy stated in a 2010 interview for the Oakland Tribune, “I miss seeing writers of color in the conversation. Until we have greater variety in the conversation, it is not a conversation—it is a monologue.” To that end, Dungy edited Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry (2009), which won a Northern California Book Award and was nominated for an NAACP Image Award. She was also co-editor of From the Fishouse: An Anthology of Poems that Sing, Rhyme, Resound, Syncopate, Alliterate, and Just Plain Sound Great (2009), and assistant editor for Gathering Ground: A Reader Celebrating Cave Canem’s First Decade (2006). Dungy's most recent work includes the essay collection Guidebook to Relative Strangers: Journeys into Race, Motherhood, and History (2017). 

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In this week's episode of the Get Lit Minute, we spotlight American poet Wanda Coleman, who was also known as "the L.A. Blueswoman" and "the unofficial poet laureate of Los Angeles."  Included in this episode is a reading of her poem, "Bedtime Story."

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In this week's episode of the Get Lit Minute, we discuss the life and work of poet F. Douglas Brown. He is the author of two poetry collections, ICON (Writ Large Press, 2018), and Zero to Three (University of Georgia, 2014), winner of the 2013 Cave Canem Poetry Prize selected by US Poet Laureate, Tracy K. Smith. Included in this episode is a reading of Brown's poem, "How to Tell My Dad that I Kissed a Man”

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In this episode of the Get Lit Minute, we spotlight  American poet, author, and teacher, Gwendolyn Elizabeth Brooks. Her work often dealt with the personal celebrations and struggles of ordinary people in her community. She won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry on May 1, 1950, for Annie Allen, making her the first African American to receive a Pulitzer Prize. This episode includes a reading of her poem, "To the Young Who Want to Die," which is also featured in our Get Lit Virtual Anthology. 

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In this week's episode, we discuss the writing style and impact of Aziza Barnes' work. We also do a reading and analysis of their work "my dad asks, how come black folks can't just write about flowers." Barnes' poetry is also featured in our Get Lit Anthology. 

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In this episode of the Get Lit Minute, we celebrate the life and work of U.S. Youth Poet Laureate, first-time Superbowl poet, and all-around iconic and glass-shattering female youth artist, Amanda Gorman. We learn how she was inspired to get into poetry, how important it is for her to listen to music to write, and what race means during this moment in time. This episode features a reading and interpretation of "The Hill We Climb" - Gorman's inaugural poem, which is also available in our Get Lit Virtual Anthology. 

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In this week’s episode, we get lit with Yusef Komunyakaa. From a young age, Komunyakaa understood the power of language. This episode includes a reading of his poem, “Anodyne” (featured in Get Lit Anthology).

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In this week’s episode, we dive into the groovy life of Porsha Olayiwola. Her work talks about her experience as a queer woman of color. This episode includes a reading of her poem, “Twerk Villanelle” (featured in Get Lit Anthology).

“Black, futurist, poet, dyke, hip-hop feminist, womanist: Porsha is a native of Chicago who now resides in Boston. Olayiwola is a writer, performer, educator and curator who uses afro-futurism and surrealism to examine historical and current issues in the Black, woman, and queer diasporas. She is an Individual World Poetry Slam Champion and the artistic director at MassLEAP, a literary youth organization. Olayiwola is an MFA Candidate at Emerson College. Porsha Olayiwola is the author of i shimmer sometimes, too forthcoming with Button Poetry and is the current poet laureate for the city of Boston.” (http://www.porshaolayiwola.com/bio)

my girl positioned for a twerk session —

            knees bent, hands below the thigh, tongue out, head

turned to look at her body’s precession.

she in tune. breath in. breasts hang. hips freshen.

            she slow-wine. pulse waistline to a beat bled

for her, un-guilt the knees for the session.

fair form of vertebrae- backbone blessing,

            her pop-in innate. her pop-out self-bred,

head locked into her holied procession.

dance is proof she loves herself, no questions —

            no music required, no crowd needed.

she arched into a gateway, protecting —

this dance is proof she loves me, no guessing.

            a bronx bedroom, we hip-to-hip threaded.

she turn to me, tranced by her possessing.

she coils herself to, calls forth a legend —

            round bodied booty, bounce a praise ballad.

she break hold, turn whole in a twerk session.

body charmed, spell-bent, toward procession.

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In this episode of the Get Lit Minute, we celebrate the life and work of Audre Lorde.  She was a self-described “Black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet, ” who dedicated both her life and her creative talent to confronting and addressing injustices of racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, and homophobia. Included in this episode is a reading of Lorde's poem, "A Litany For Survival."

The full poem for "A Litany For Survival" is below:

For those of us who live at the shoreline

standing upon the constant edges of decision

crucial and alone

for those of us who cannot indulge

the passing dreams of choice

who love in doorways coming and going

in the hours between dawns

looking inward and outward

at once before and after

seeking a now that can breed

futures

like bread in our children’s mouths

so their dreams will not reflect

the death of ours;

For those of us

who were imprinted with fear

like a faint line in the center of our foreheads

learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk

for by this weapon

this illusion of some safety to be found

the heavy-footed hoped to silence us

For all of us

this instant and this triumph

We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid

it might not remain

when the sun sets we are afraid

it might not rise in the morning

when our stomachs are full we are afraid

of indigestion

when our stomachs are empty we are afraid

we may never eat again

when we are loved we are afraid

love will vanish

when we are alone we are afraid

love will never return

and when we speak we are afraid

our words will not be heard

nor welcomed

but when we are silent

we are still afraid

So it is better to speak

remembering

we were never meant to survive.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147275/a-litany-for-survival

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In this week’s episode, we get a glimpse at the beautiful journey of Patricia Smith. A storyteller at heart, Smith aims to explore every possibility. This episode includes her poem featured in the Get Lit Anthology, “Biting Back.”

“Biting Back” by Patricia Smith

Children do not grow up

as much as they grow away.

My son’s eyes are stones - flat, brown, fireless,

with no visible openings in or out.

His voice, when he cares to try it on,

hovers one-note in that killing place

where even the blues fidget.

Tight syllables, half spoken, half spat,

greet me with the warmth,

of glint-tipped arrows. The air around him

hurts my chest, grows too cold to nourish,

and he stares past me to the open door of his room,

anxious for my pattent-ed, stumbled retreat.

My fingers used to brush bit of the world

From his kinked hair,

but he moved beyond that mother shine

to whispered “fucks” on the telephone,

to the sweet mysteries of scalloped buttons

dotting the maps of young girls,

to the warped, frustrating truths of algebra,

to anything but me. Ancient, annoying apparatus,

I have unfortunately retained the ability to warm meat,

to open cans, to clean clothing

that has yellowed and stiffened.

I spit money when squeezed,

don’t try to dance in front of his friends,

And know that rap music canNOTT be stopped.

For these brief flashes of cool, I am tolerated in spurts.

At night I lay in my husband’s arms

and he tells me that these are things that happen,

that the world will tilt again

and our son will return, unannounced, as he was -

goofy and clinging, clever with words, stupefied by rockets.

And I dream on that.

One summer after camp,

twelve inches taller than the summer before,

my child grinned and said,

“Maybe a tree bit me.”

We laughed,

not knowing that was to be his last uttered innocence.

Only months later, eyes would narrow and doors would slam.

Now he is scowl, facial hair, knots of muscle. He is

Pimp, homey, pistol. He is man smell, grimy [grai-mee] fingers,

red eyes, rolling dice. He is street, smoke, cocked cannon.

And I sit on his bare mattress after he’s left for school,

wonder at the simple jumble of this motherless world,

look for clues that some gumpopping teenage girl

now wears my face. Full of breastmilk and finger songs,

I stumble the street staring at other children,

gulping my dose of their giggles,

and cursing the trees for their teeth.

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