Can you tell us about yourself?
I
write online under the handle Ms. Queenly for creative writing, Black feminism
and womanism, and some literary analysis and critique. My creative writing
extends to poetry and short stories for romantic and fantasy primarily. My
program of study as an undergrad was English/Creative Writing because it is my
passion. One day I hope to have my stories and poetry published.
Which country do you live in now? What’s your profession? be
general, no need to specify your location...
I
live in the United States
We’re happy that you have been part of Poets Rally as a
participant, what has driven you to where you are in this particular community?
I
participate in the Poets Rally because it was the first community that reached
out to me as an artist and is consistent in working to continue that community.
All my life, I have been told I have a gift and like many people I want to
share, be heard and know that I have reached someone with my talent--this is what
drives me.
How long have you been blogging? Do you think being part of a
poetry community contributes to your creative writing?
I
have been blogging since 2009. Being part of a poetry community definitely
contributes to my creative writing. Sometimes it gives me a reason to share
what I've already written, other times its the only reason I get up the spirit
to write anything new.
Why poetry? Do you write fiction too?
Poetry
helps me express myself creatively, politically, and emotionally. Other than
poetry, I most certainly do write fiction--its just hard to get people to stop
long enough to read it!
Please share 3 to 5 blog links you enjoy reading most, give 1
or 2 sentences to tell why you love their creative process.
and Black Swan Poetry:
www.blackswanpoetry.wordpress.com.
What
I enjoy about these poets and fiction writers' process is their imagination and
presence. I couldn't read without those elements.
How do you know when a poem is done? your own experiences
need to be shared here...
I
know a poem is finished when I can't add anything else to it, change it, and
the words flow in my head and out loud. I know I'm done when I can't possibly
think of any other way to express myself within the context of the poem.
How do you decide when a poem is "good"? Do you
redo your own poems after they’re posted? it could be poem someone else
written...
I
edit my poems after they are posted, but I don't exactly redo them. If I left a
word out or something doesn't quite sound right or like the way I meant it, I
go in and try to express myself better. I like the feel of whatever it was that
first came to my mind. Whatever inspires a poem is honored in my writing, not
edited.
Other
than writing, I have cats that me and my family have raised since they were kittens
for seven years--Poppet, Olivia, and Beau. I also cross-stitch and enjoy anime
and manga.
Do you think music and poetry are related? Why?
Of
course I believe music and poetry are related. I am also a spoken word artist
and I enjoy singing in my work very much. Lyrics are poems if you ask me, only
set to music and oftentimes rhyming. Music adds more to the words and helps to
transcend certain limitations.
What issues are closed to your heart? Women’s rights, child
abuses, etc.…name one…
Social
issues are close to my heart, particularly sociological issues concerning race,
women, society, sexuality, etc.
What’s your other hobbies besides writing? Do you have pets?
Give us a picture if you own a pet.
Other
than writing, I have cats that me and my family have raised since they were
kittens for seven years--Poppet, Olivia, and Beau. I also cross-stitch and
enjoy anime and manga.
Please list your blog links below, share 1 or 2 poems that
represents best of your poetry talent…
Thanks in advance.
Of
manmade deserts and oasis, Nearer and Further, are examples of my work.
The closer I am to suffering
the further away I am from
philosophizing about suffering
from the rear of a ferry
standing against the wind
The further I am from hunger
the closer I am to understanding
the times when my stomach ached hungrily,
gnawing at my insides, from
the emptiness of a white refrigerator
and cool shady kitchen cabinets
The nearer I am to anger
the further I am from apathy,
staring into the treacherous glitzy glamour
of the red carpet beamed down
into my head from satellites in space
The further I am from pain
the closer I am to really believing
that the world extends only as far
as my fingertips and within that
phantasmal illusion there is no pain.
Ade Adama
whose spouting crystalline waters
did not relieve parched throats nor revive dried-out hearts
so Ade Adama travelled into the deserts beyond
in search of water
she found glamorous posh privatized oases
that demanded offerings of silver and gold
for shade and the life-giving liquid she craved
the signs all around each oasis read:
‘no gold, no silver, beheading for trespassing’
these deserts were manmade after all
so on she went again, in search, through beating sun and burning sand
Ade Adama came across a smaller oasis
it’s sign read:
‘non-profit—all welcome’
in a rush, Ade Adama crossed the string partitioning the oasis
and collapsed in the nearest shade in front of the nearest pool
to drink her fill
and so it was that many sisters came out to greet her
their faces reminding her painfully
of loved ones and beloved strangers
from her home in the green world
Ade Adama was not allowed to live inside of the oasis
but she returned the next day and the day after that
to cool down and be nourished and speak with her sisters
But on the third day, a sister and two others that she had never seen appeared
and held out donation baskets,
refusing to allow Ade Adama into the sanctuary of the oasis
‘You expect to partake of the best water
in our most delicious pool and recline in the shade of our palms
yet offer us nothing? We’re a business here, not a charity’, the sister scoffed
the other sisters lowered their heads and could not meet Ade Adama’s eye
for to anger that sister was to meet an uncertain fate themselves
so with her purse and pockets turned out and completely empty,
Ade Adama had no choice but to turn and go, humiliated and deeply hurt
Beyond the oases, there was endless desert
Under the blazing heat of day, she walked and walked,
asking the ancestors to help heal her wounded spirit and heart,
praying that she wouldn’t die until something came of all this
and so Ade Adama sat in the cooling sands of the settling night
and there she wove stories
from moonlight and shimmering clouds
coolness and blessed winds
pitch blackness and cobalt blue twilight
then there and thereafter, Ade Adama closed her eyes and slept
and in her dreams, she was not dead, she lived forever in the stories she crafted
