This is a poem, written by John S. Blake, a poet that I absolutely am loving now. As far as talent is concerned, the more I read, the more I see him, a giant, towering among dwarves. (Would also love to get to know him, because he seems to be an awesome individual as well...) Enjoy.
At-Risk
At the Santa Fe Juvenile Detention Program,
at-risk youth pass me poems folded smaller than matchbooks.
This is against the rules. I pocket them like dope, fast
as gang sign flashes. Their Earth-toned faces lit like pride
with or without proper grammar.
They congratulate me on finding recovery
and teach me how to shake hands and bump
fists with southwest flair.
A school bus opens its arms
for the ones not locked down,
herded back to the teen shelter
for strollers with no one to push.
The rest are lined up and marched
back to cinder-block and steel, back
to echo and wishes. Sky-blue walls
the closest they get to freedom.
Guards thank me for the break.
My host for the event smiles,
assures me I got through to some,
hands me a check, drives me
to my next show at some bar,
and leaves.
I stand outside, reach for my smokes,
and feel the bundle of lives against my thigh.
1. I've seen more than most fifteen year olds should.
My boyfriend is forty. I used to suck dick so he could
get high. I got busted with all his drugs while he
went to the liquor store. I haven't heard from him.
I'm starting to wonder if he ever loved me.
2. I used to tie up my mothers arm so she could shoot up.
3. I felt icicles under my eyes when they shot my boy.
Revenge was a flower growing in my skull (Hey, is this
what you meant by metaphor?).
Outside the bar, a cigarette is burning my fingers.
I forgot to smoke it. This bird's eye view of my tears
exploding on unfolded confessions. I try so hard
to remember how I got through.
I can't.
I want to go back and tell them;
You are at risk youth. At risk
of shredding every statistic; at risk
of breathing under floods until hot sand.
You are at risk; of hoping through bars,
scrubbing your blood clean as judges' quarters,
of pulling skull triggers when you see doubt,
Empty clip until these cages let in sun, until
prisons shrink smaller than matchbooks at your back.
I want to tell them I didn't write my first poem
until I was thirty-five, Malcolm X was in jail
until forty, that machines made to endure
take that much time to melt steel, built
under curtains and kept secret until such
time to change the course of mankind.
Nobody knows who you are yet,
but they will.
Downtown Santa Fe is beautiful;
boutiques and lovely eateries.
One store sold native jewelry
with Aztec origins. The pale skinned
smile behind the counter smiles at me
through display glass like
this is a prison visit.
All this time I spent listening
to elitists, bowing to what
it must have taken for them
to write so well, I had not noticed;
I have been reading
all the wrong
poems.
*END POEM*
this is so absolutely breathtaking....poweful words from a powerful poet...he is so very gifted...please check out his Facebook page (link posted above), for more of his wonderful work.
Much love,
Marcus
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