Pipeline

I don’t feel the earth breathing. Mid-spring, and everything around us is dead. We were barely living anyway, surviving on malt liquor that singed pathways down our throats. Now we crave alcohol to clear away the sludge lining the walls of our esophagus from the oil we drink in our water.

Standing Rock is deserted. Most Lakota have crossed the border into Canada, where they are more respectful of our sacred lands, where the ground isn’t sterilized by the rust of metal—thunderous pipelines that extend for miles.

I’ve stayed behind, me and Chief. Day after day, we pray for Wakan Tanka, Great Spirit, to heal us of this invasive snake, which occupies our home and drains her of all signs of life. While walking the Plains, we discover gallons of crude venom has spilled from an open sore and permeated the ancient graves.

The hope we hold onto still resides, but it thins even more, as the fuel driven noose around our necks tightens, choking us to death.

—Nortina

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#BlaPoWriMo: Hands Up, Don’t Shoot (poem)

Raise your hands above your head.
Pray; he doesn’t see your wallet,
he doesn’t mistake it for a gun,
he doesn’t pull the trigger five times
and five more when you turn to run.

—Nortina

This very short poem is in response to today’s Black Poetry Writing Month prompt: Write a poem for the Activist. Bonus points were for a sonnet, but . . . I’ve never quite conformed to the traditional way of writing poetry. 😉

Don’t forget to follow @BlaPoWriMo on Twitter! You can find the live feed in the sidebar!

(Featured image credit: Joe Raedle, Getty Images)

Black Poetry Writing Month: Write a Poem for the Activist

If We Must Die

If we must die, let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die, O let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!
Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

—Claude McKay, from Harlem Shadows (1922)

 

Claude McKay’s poem “If We Must Die” was written amidst violent race riots in the summer of 1919 which included 28 public lynches. McKay famously used the sonnet form to speak against racism and call his community to action, to fight back.

The beauty of “If We Must Die” is that it’s universal. Even without knowing the history behind it, anyone facing oppression can identify with the powerful message within its lines. It’s even said that Winston Churchill read the poem in the House of Commons during World War II and that many British soldiers carried copies of the poem on their person.

Almost a century later, McKay’s poem still speaks to a generation fighting for their lives. Last year saw a rise in a new kind of civil rights activism, the Black Lives Matter Movement, in the aftermath of the deaths of Eric Garner, Michael Brown, John Crawford, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Freddie Gray and so many other unarmed brothers and sisters, unjustly slain, killed by law enforcement under questionable circumstances, seemingly with no remorse.

Stephen Lam / Reuters
Stephen Lam / Reuters

Screams for justice rose above the flames consuming cities like Ferguson, Missouri and Baltimore, Maryland. While the majority of protests were peaceful, many turned violent, but all were met with stiff police response in full-on riot gear.

Demonstrators put on die-ins in large shopping malls and on the sides of highways, saying, if they must die, they will not leave this earth until the world knows and respects that Black lives still exist and matter equal to every one else.

Today’s optional prompt for #BlaPoWriMo is to write a poem (bonus points if it’s a sonnet) that condemns racism. Write a poem for the contemporary activist who refuses to be picked off by an establishment that views her race as expendable. Write a poem for a people who will not be made victims anymore.

—Nortina