Ah, book it! Ooh baby, babeh ba-babeh, babeh... Get up on this! [props to Salt-N-Pepa] Breathing Lessons 101 is building a 2015 calendar and can be in your city, at your venue in 2015! Let's talk. (Click on photo to enlarge) Can't come to any of the events? To order Breathing Lessons through 1. Go [...]
Category: poetry
Breathing Lessons 101
1. Go to your PayPal account. 2. Remit payment (20.00) to darleneanitascott@gmail.com. (Or just email me). 3. Send your mailing address to darleneanitascott.com. 4. Get book.
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Monthly Meter: November
I forgot to post this... fellowship/publication submissions: 2 fellowship/publication acceptances: 2 fellowship/publication rejections: 0 books: are nice. To read and stuff. Secret Shame: My triceps Mantra of the Moment: If your dreams aren't scaring you, you're not dreaming big enough.
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Reflections On Pursuing A Non-Traditional Academic Career
I think he was talking to me when he said: "If anyone reading this is questioning their decisions or considering doing something other than what they are “supposed” to do, my advice to you is to find a way to make your career what you want it to be – maybe that’s tenure, or maybe [...]
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A Poem (trying to find itself)
#tbt
www.myspace.com/darleneanitascott
In Another Life
I might’ve been
a girl
who took evening swims in brown water
bathed in it in grey morning
decorated my eyes with coal
and never felt anything
you do to me
but instead I am a girl who dreams
too much
about other places and people
I could never be
who feels what you do to me
and what
no one else can
as they shuffle
careful not to cause stones
to pop and catch me
in the eye.
and I hear like there is blinding yellowing
and fire orange in the whine and wails
I am the girl who feels drums in my teeth and
they will not chatter as the pace quickens
I am the girl who eats rice
with my hands
because I cannot see
why I should n’t
who cannot talk because
my tongue is
somewhere that even ink
cannot map
on…
View original post 116 more words
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An Open Letter to the Paris Review
Thought it was just me when I read the poem, so I scrolled through the peanut butter, washed my feet, and moved on. Do it all the time. Prob'ly won't stop actually. But I appreciate that someone took a minute to speak on it. Because it does get old--the peanut butter trudging, that is. Read [...]
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If you have ever loved a black boy
boy /boi/ n. human male child
I was probably in 7th grade, crushing on one or many, the first time I felt real tears for a black boy. One I didn’t know and because the evening news reported I never would. My friend told me we were not connected; that there would be others to meet at the mall, on a college tour, as an intern. I am more convinced than ever that until we own and absorb the experience of what it means to be a black boy, there are gonna be a whole lot more that will never be met at the mall, on a college tour, as an intern.
If you have ever loved a black boy you know.
If you have ever known a black boy you know.
And if you have never been lucky enough to experience either, let me explain:
He is what we…
View original post 467 more words
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Trigger
Trayvon Benjamin Martin
Feb. 5, 1995 – Feb. 26, 2012
It seems so obvious now.
I don’t want it all to be about race. I don’t. But I teach mostly Black young people who have told me things like:
1. My family calls me “white boy,” you know, because I’m the one who goes to college.
2. Slavery ended in, like, 1930 right? C’mon Ms. Scott, I can’t remember all these dates.
3. I can’t do _________ <– insert any work, challenging or not, here.
Today my Advanced Composition students and I compared Javon Johnson’s 2013 poem about a day with his nephew to James Baldwin’s 1963 letter to his nephew My Dungeon Shook from his collection The Fire Next Time. We were discussing the technique of letter writing.
When Johnson alludes to Oscar Grant, I tell them we cannot watch the YouTube video of Grant’s shooting because I…
View original post 370 more words
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When Crumbs Don’t Bring Them Home: Watching the Trial of George Zimmerman
Trayvon Martin, 15-17 (undated)
Emmett Till, 14
Dorian (my nephew), 14
I’m trying to follow the case against George Zimmerman, accused of the murder of Trayvon Martin.
Trying still to skip around the stone in my throat, even though it feels like I may never not be tripping over such stones everytime I revisit this case. Or the case of Oscar Grant, hell, Sean Bell, Emmett Till, Aiyana Jones, place the name of a young black man you know here.
This poem appeared on UtR shortly after Trayvon’s death. I removed it so that it could find a wider audience in the Stand Our Ground anthology. I’ve wanted to write more, but I keep coming back here, same stone, which makes the title all the more fitting, eh? This is all, so, ughhhhh. Bleh. Yes, that. And this:
View original post 281 more words
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Monthly Meter: October
fellowship/publication submissions: 4 fellowship/publication acceptances: 1 fellowship/publication rejections: 1 books: are nice. to read and stuff. Secret Shame: Hello Good Morning - Dirty Money Mantra of the Moment: It's all temporary.
darlene anita scott 