I got two poems from my University of Michigan writing class. This first one is based off feelings a song invokes. That would be the name of the poem: “Feelings A Song Invokes.” The song is “Closer” by an artist named Goapole. G-O-A-P-E-L-E, again, G-O-A-P-E-L-E, that is how you spell Goapole.
And rewind to aforementioned prompt,
I thought no one ever pulled me up by the hand,
But, proverbially, Goapole did this for me,
As I sat in the seat of the whip
In the heat of the Detroit streets,
75 and Fourth Street, precisely.
It’s so drunk off Remy, fine cognac,
But similar to the cheap crap
That makes you yak
The way I was throwing it back
‘Cause baby brother Luke’s life was snatched,
And I had no get back as dirty cops protected his killer
‘Cause she was a rat.
So, I sat beyond mad,
And I’ll leave it at that,
Because I don’t want to make anyone feel aghast
At my thoughts so black
Until I heard Goapole blast her angelic track “Closer”
Then I remembered I had a plan —
A plan to get closer to my dream.
Her vocals and banging beats
Snapped me back into Steve.
This other poem is called “I Am From.” It’s a template where you fill in certain prompted spaces of the poem with ideas of your own. So, here it is. It’s called “I Am From.”
I am from the pavement of Wayne Road,
From LSD and roller skates.
I am from the riotous streets of South Detroit,
60s version: cold, shell-shocked,
Feels like Mars maybe.
I am from the dead rose bush,
Beauty knocked down,
Thorns still around
To defend against anyone with a handout.
I am from community,
Believe it or not, and distortion,
Grandma Betty’s Cherokee blood
And Grandpa Nicholson, an Irish thug.
I am from the go getters and procrastinators.
Does that combo make us originators?
From an anointing as royalty
And yet no good
If I didn’t clean the toilet seat.
I am from Christ’s blood
Which keeps me despite me,
And yet taught to beat bullies.
I’m from Annapolis hospital
In the combo of oppressors
And the oppressed,
Dutch, German, Indian,
And Irish.
Pizza has to be our dish.
Yet we were often poor,
So, eating dad’s dish,
Pork and beans,
Ground hamburger and hot dogs,
All mixed.
From the travail of my grandma
Moving from St Louis as a flapper
To South Detroit,
The deep woods of the UP
Was where my grandpa is his alcoholic defeat.
The headstones of graves gone before their time.
Dying nearly killed me,
And so I strive to honor the memory.
That’s “I Am From”.
These commentaries are recorded by Prison Radio.
