Experimental Poetry.

Hebrews 11: 6

without faith        i am                     impossible                      God believes in me        He comes

to me knowing     i am                     not diligent     still          he may seek me             I believe      He exists              i  hold      on        i am                  a             mustard seed                                             

                                                                                                                                         grow me.

When I started writing poetry, I thought there was only one way to make your point clear: use exuberant language and write down in stanzas. And then, I started reading all these famous poets and realized I was "old school." Everything else I've written that is not in some sort of form seems very forced. I feel that I am trying to become mainstream, become acceptable to I don't know who because my work has to be accessible. So things like the above poem come out. I am not even sure I can call that a poem. But I write it because i tell myself "someone somewhere will get away with this and so maybe I can." But it is no fun, what has become of my art. Because I want a good career, I also write what I think others want to read. This is how I would write this poem in form:

Hebrews 11: 6

God must believe in me 

because without faith, I am 

impossible. He comes 

to me knowing my diligence

sits weak on my thighs,

still heavy as the 3 month 

baby I am yet to bear. 

I may seek him, desperate, 

when I believe he exists

and hold on to the mustard 

seeds he planted deep in my spirit.

He prays each day bowing his head,

whispering, grow, grow grow. 

Black Swan's Song

we some beautiful things in flight
not for escape, just to lift plumage high
make plumage flag
wave and whip loud in air
charge thunder to break
we not competing in ponds
we and our stomachs not renting water
we in deep existence
we resisting extinction

The Woman at Central Park

I told her I stole the glasses from my mother

who she commended to have great taste

and then she said no one in her family lived to be 90.

It could be worse

I told her,

she was blessed

to see the lake from her window,

to live on 72nd street since the age of 17.

I wanted to ask what led her feet here,

if the woman sitting next to her,

entreated by a phone, the same one

who complained this 90 year-old nagged

in abundance was her daughter-in-law.

Instead she asked                     what do you do

for a living?

I told her I was a poet.

The lake doesn’t make me any younger,

your balance sways when you get older.

I agreed. She asked if I would return

the glasses. I told her I would.

You're a good child she said,

pulling her cart full of tangerines away.

Faith Cometh by Hurting

I understood myself as someone who didn’t know how to give up. But I did know what getting tired felt like. I learned the hard way: that my terrible SAT scores weren’t enough for God to warrant me a miracle. I had hoped to be accepted into a private college with a full scholarship, just as he had done for Karen. But it didn’t happen for me. I couldn’t move away from my mother now. I wasn’t looking forward to washing all those dishes. So I stopped believing in God.  I had over stretched my faith into believing something totally impossible. But I believed because  I wanted something good to happen to me, for me, in this foreign land.

I tried as much as possible to avoid God. I stopped going to church on Fridays. I didn’t have a choice about Sundays because my mother wouldn’t have it, raising an unbeliever under her roof. I was not surprised when I found myself swaying to praises and lifting my hands during worship. My mustard seed had been sowed too deep. Still, I wasn’t ready to ran back to God.

I dated for the first time. And then I realized that kissing was a chore so I stopped. He must have been a bad kisser or I overdid it. I was glad it was over. The two month summer break between my last year of high school and first year of college allowed me to sleep in bed and over think this whole faith thing. I slept on the lower part of the bunk bed while Karen slept on the top. I thought it would be too dangerous choosing to climb up while sleepy.. What I didn’t know was that Karen had already calculated that I would be the one to pick up the phone when someone called, open the door when someone buzzed and respond to my mother’s calls. She was definitely out of reach. But maybe, I needed to be close to the carpet where it was easier to kneel and ask God questions like why he had allowed my metrocard to go missing without telling me. He didn’t care. He was the reason I was in all this in the first place. It was because I trusted him. Where had I gotten this wild faith from?

After two years, I asked God that we be friends again. I am afraid of God, because I believe that even if He will not do what I want, He will do what He wants. There was no doubt that he loved me, after all the things I said to him and all the things I asked him to do. I was not going to give him my heart, not instantly. He was going to have to earn it. I had learned that I was not tired of believing. That even if it hurt sore, like the boil I had in my knee as a kid, the one that allowed me to touch the rocklike structure of my knee, I didn’t want the pressure of living on this world to be on myself. I had come to understand that a part of me was etched on the shoulders of God like a fading birthmark.

And We're In September!

Here's something to keep the leaves falling:

Last year when you called me around the dim moon nights, I was lying on my bed wearing blue pajamas. And everything we talked about was nothing because all I kept thinking about was why you had called. And I couldn’t  ask because the moment was precious. I did not want anything to avert what was already sentimental. But then, you ended the call and opened up a door of confusion. What did you call to say? Yes, we spoke about how much you loved soccer and how much we were both addicted to the things that drove us crazy. But, that was not what I waited to hear. I wanted you to say that you missed me and that you called because you wanted to hear my voice. But you did not say any of that or allude to the idea that romance welled in your throat. What should I have done then? Ask what love could have meant in a 3 hour phone call? Tell me now what it is you meant when you said you called to surprise me?

My August Poem

Let me tell you something about this heat: it has not been kind to me.  I have been constantly frustrated and disinterested in doing anything that heightens this frustration. This also means I haven't been writing a lot. That's not good at all! Even worse, I have no concentration for reading. I wake up hot and all I want to do is cool down and drink some water. Despite all of this, I am here to share an August poem. Whatever that means.

An Apology to My Sacred Place

The reason is unnecessary
though relevant
to the journey of loss
and all I did to my body
was wrap water around it
to cool it and then sometimes
I'd look through the wound
and see how deep and damaged
I was.  If I were to die,  it would be
near the Brooklyn bridge. My feet knew
its path and I could find my way
home if I changed my mind.
Falling would be beautiful.
And body, my sacred place
I am sorry for hiding dirt,
and clots and tears as treasures in you,
and if you can open yourself to me
then I can find myself inside you.

New poems at Seventh Wave

So excited to share that two of my poems were picked up by Seventh Wave Magazine and I am so pleased and grateful. Here's a link. http://theseventhwave.co/two-poems-by-afua-ansong/