Here are two spoken word poems: the first one is a draft that I wrote the morning after the verdict in the Trayvon Martin case, the second one I wrote two years ago.
Litany VIII, In Memory of Aiyana Jones and Trayvon Martin
© by Emily P. Lawsin
*
A fellow writer once said that
poems should not just be a list
re-telling events, because that
treads on the territory of
journalism, or gossip rags.
But when you live in a place where
bulldozers routinely tear down
homes with elderly crouched inside,
*
mass destruction is considered
normal, and Black children are shot
after reality TV
crews and SWAT teams ignore dolls and
tricycles in the yard and hurl
flash-bang grenades through front windows,
you search for news reports, hoping
none of your suspicions bear truth.
*
You pause to pray and remember:
*
1929: Fermin Tobera (Watsonville, California).
1955: Emmett Till (Money, Mississippi).
1963: Medgar Evers (Jackson, Mississippi).
1982: Vincent Chin (Highland Park, Michigan).
2006: Fong Lee (Minneapolis, Minnesota).
2006: Chon Buri Xiong (Warren, Michigan).
2009: Oscar Grant (Oakland, California).
2010: Aiyana Jones (Detroit, Michigan).
2010: John T. Williams (Seattle, Washington).
2012: Trayvon Martin (Sanford, Florida).
2013: Rodrigo Abad Diaz (Lilburn, Georgia).
*
These names: just a fraction of a
list of lament. What do they share
in common? Their killers walked free,
only one convicted, but not
until 31 years later.
The story of our nation, stained
by the brown blood of our children,
shot or beaten to death as they
*
rode their bike home, or as they laid
cradled in their beds fast asleep,
or simply walking down the street,
ambushed by bullets, baseball bats,
buried, but never forgotten.
As mothers, what do we say to
our children facing these assaults?
How do we protect them before
*
History repeats itself
Again?
July 14, 2013
Emily P. Lawsin lives in the metro Detroit area.
* * *
*
A Litany, To Little White Liars
© by Emily P. Lawsin
are you not aware that
our ancestors won revolutions
against centuries of colonial rule
do you not realize that
your people cut our tongues
erased our languages and burned our villages
are you not aware that
we descend from warriors
who fought for this country’s freedom in their sacred homelands
do you not realize that
our parents were held captive as innocent citizens
separated for years in horse stables then behind barbed wire
are you not aware that
our mothers stuffed pillows up their skirts
fleeing to charred hills so your army would not rape them
do you not realize that
our fathers suffered beatings and delirium
in death marches through deserts, yet still survived?
*
THEN LET THIS SERVE AS FAIR WARNING:
*
we know what revolution is
because our ancestors gave birth to it.
*
we taste it in the scars in our mouths
every time we swallow.
*
the poison you bombed our homelands with
seeps out of our blood as daily reminders
*
and we will not rest until the nightmares of sirens
echoed in your voice stops ringing in our ears.
*
Ann Arbor, May 12, 2011
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poetry & tsismis: emily's blog 
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