Welcome to Poetically Yours. Poetically Yours showcases poems by northern Illinois poets. Today’s segment features Aubrey Barnes.
Barnes is from Rock Island, Illinois. He’s a poet, spoken word artist, author and teacher. He created Roaring Rhetoric to give artists a platform for their poetry. He also founded Young Lions Roar, a youth art initiative in the Quad Cities. This outlet allows Barnes to teach youth about writing and performance poetry.
In January, Barnes spent time as a resident writer at Château d’Orquevaux in the Champagne-Ardenne region of France. You can hear more about this in an upcoming Poetically Yours Extended Podcast Episode.
Today’s poem is called “Porcelain Plate Blackness.”
The doors of cupboard slowly open’d
with insidious creak.
As light crack’d past hinges
a soft gold glow
still harsh on eyes
blinded to rough fingers
once again breeching body
for its strength to do dirty work
they can’t do—
reaching up to pull us down
one by one
from shelf like slave quarters
The Hand of the Host—
whose voice is soft spoken
as a rose with thorns—
looked at me
with a curious condemnation
and asks,
“How strong are you?”
Silence sits between us
not due to our inability to speak
but by his liability to Listen
as we are walk’d like a twisted waltz
to the room for which we will be dined—
Trusted to carry what is dish’d out—
assembly circl’d round dinner tables—
while knife and fork on each side
making sure we stay in place
as dinner guests speak of the past
our past
as if they’ve lived in our porcelain plate blackness
whose bodies tell stories like their stained glass windows—
ours, written as cave paintings in Gold
a soft, shining one, that rests our Spirits
that predate doctrines discussed at table—
our Arrival to their Manifest Destiny
freedom fighters to their fighters of freedom
their July to our June that is spit out by history books
blamed for their breath lingering of blasphemy—
our Godliness be dismissed as theory
utensils scratching into surface
as food for thought is torn to bones
scraps
white sheets—
napkins notifying host
that they have had their way with Us.
Discarded to dishpan
as we are sail’d to sink
in which we will sit for weeks
till our service is once again beckon’d.
We used to be wash’d by hand—
nowadays, our stench,
carried from neglect be abhorrent
as we’re likened to lepers,
exiled to dishwasher
clean’d, consecrated for council of congregants
to whom they tell us to be worthy under attendance—
“smile”
“dance”
“be approachable!”
(“remember fork and knife held to your backs!”)
and once again—
after our stories get scorned
flesh of meat been torn
bellies been filled
history repeats—
rinse
repeat
rinse
repeat
rinse
repeat
in effort to scrub guilt from palms
same way they try to wipe history from recipe books.
The ones my mom kept in her cupboard
hidden within walls, only read by eyes
who didn’t have to squint to understand Language—
colloquialisms of Zora whose eyes watch’d God
create the World through veins of Aunties and Uncles
who planned next steps on Seventh Day.
Parables from Panthers, Black’d out from table talks
paint’d as terrorists—
Illustrating our Power in The People push’d to back
of their shelves at end of night
behind creaking door whose soft loudness
Can never quiet our stories that Echo Earth.
Answering those who question our strength
for this with Ears to Hear.
How strong are We?
We be Strong, as we be Delicate.
