A poet, a comedian, and a storyteller walk into a bar… it sounds like the beginning of a joke, but on Tuesday, April 9, it was a beautiful reality manifested via Motif’s second annual RI Spoken Awards. Nominees and members of the spoken word community alike gathered at Myrtle in East Providence, which was the perfect backdrop to the glamorous outfits that the crowd donned — the bar features impeccable vintage furnishings, warm lighting, and a rug-covered stage with a bookshelf backdrop. The room was as warm and eclectic as the surroundings, with performers and winners consistently thanking the crowd for holding space for each other to laugh, listen, and become immersed in one another’s stories.
OVERALL FAVORITE SPOKEN PERFORMER: Sara Monteiro
LANGSTON HUGHES COMMUNITY AWARD: Ricardo Pitts-Wiley
SPOKEN WORD
FREE VERSE Rudy “Rudacious” Cabrera
SOCIAL JUSTICE Erik Andrade
YOUTH POETRY Camille Cabral-Bennett
NARRATIVE MUSIC Shakespeare to Hip-Hop - Marlon Carey and Reggie Gibson
FAVORITE PRODUCER Sara Monteiro
FAVORITE SPOKEN WORD EVENT Providence Poetry Slam
FAVORITE LIVE PERFORMANCE: YOUTH Alana Parrott FAVORITE LIVE PERFORMANCE: sPOKEN wORD Ren
STORYTELLING
PERSONAL STORIES Ginay Lopes
HISTORICAL/CULTURAL Sara Monteiro
INTERACTIVE (CALL & RESPONSE) Rudy Ru
FAVORITE STORYTELLING EVENT The Daily Note
FAVORITE LIVE PERFORMANCE: STORYTELLING Marlon Carey
You can determine the shape of snowflakes
by surrounding conditions, the symmetry
of dust particles frozen into crystals
that sprout arms and legs different directions
off one central core based on temperature.
Each snowflake follows a different path
from sky to ground, atmosphere that shapes it
unique as prism, needle, or lace.
A child crafts the shapes of snowflakes
into snowball, snowman, or snowcave
through the changes in atmosphere
from height to height and fall to fall,
cloud to ground and back again,
world changing world, angry, happy, sad,
one atom, one molecule, one heart, one brain,
one of many, feeling, thought, the same breath,
unique in the motivation to explore its origin,
discover anew, then slowly melt away.
The Langston Hughes Community Poetry Reading is about more than poetry, and more than Langston Hughes – it is about the impact each force has had, and continues to have, on the “Beloved Community” around us.
Headquartered in Rhode Island because of the fateful migration of the famed Harlem poet’s work, papers and legacy to Providence many decades ago, the organization holds a massive poetry reading event in early February every year. Recently, they also conducted their first official fundraiser, Harlem Nights, a 1920s-themed blow out at Machines with Magnets on Saturday, November 18.
Fedoras, feathers and flappers adorned the full house as jazz was played and speeches alternated with poetry readings and songs, including presentations by RI Foundation president David Cicilline and PVD Art, Culture and Tourism director Joe Wilson Jr, as well as project leaders April Brown and Kai Cameron, musician Chachi Carvalho, singer Alisha Pina and many more local performers with the gifts to hold the attention of a feisty, standing-room-only crowd.
“Rhode Island and Providence are a rich fabric of cultural corridors and overlapping narratives,” said Joe Wilson Jr in the event’s opening remarks. “Our founders meant for all to be welcome who were not welcome anywhere else. We are composed of rich cultural neighborhoods that need to be celebrated. We need to support Broad St the way we do downtown… We are the creative capital, and we need to support the creatives in our capital – our cultural assets – and that is what we are doing here tonight. This organization celebrates the late Langston Huges, forever poet laureate of Harlem who united people of all races, creeds, backgrounds, professions and abilities. It ignites discussions of art, culture, community and equity,”
The past was alive at this event, but a bright future was clearly foremost on everyone’s mind. You can catch the main poetry reading on February 4, 2024 – see lhughescpr.org for details or to make a donation.
Motif put out an open call for visual artists and poets to submit work for an experimental new event: Pics & Poets. Artists and poets were randomly paired. Each participant had two weeks to create a new piece inspired by their partner’s original submission. Creativity ensued.
For one night only, the work was displayed at the WaterFire Arts Center alongside painter and AS220 founder Umberto Crenca’s Divine Providence show. The matching artworks and poems hung together, poets read their work aloud, and the audience cast votes for their favorites.
It is our pleasure to present a few of those favorite matches in print. Art inspires poetry. Poetry inspires art.
FAVORITE POEM INSPIRED BY ART
“Owl Girl” Digital art by Brendan Maddock
Who is She
Glasses of air are heavier in the morning
Fuller than the nights before
And I’m left to wonder
Did it spill upon the earth
Across the floor.
I’m lying here
My body branched in limbs
And curls and mirages
Becoming more and more aware
I’m only as far as my blood rushes.
What can you hear
Maybe there’s loudness in silence
But I can only make out
These notes of compliance.
I stare into the mirror in front of me
And ask, who is she?
She is certainly not the bits and pieces
I feel so sharply within me.
A daughter within parameters
A dreamer in life’s brevity
A Capricorn clutching her freedom
As the tides wash her of sensibilities
Who is she?
She’s put storm windows on teary eyes
Yet it’s the rain inside that floods her vision
I’d take the shutters off my skin
But only know hammers to lock me in
I’m lying here
It’s slipped my mind who am I
And the mirror offers no suggestions
Why am I not made of mountains and
rivers
Made of earth, sky, and other dimensions
Perhaps I was before I woke
But now I’m not
I stare into the mirror in front of me
The world in front of me
Who, who, who is she?
– Jill Miller
FAVORITE ARTWORK INSPIRED BY POETRY
“Resurrection & Revival” Acrylic on wood by Sara Breslin
Resurrection & Revival
Falling for you, like I fall for the flowers.
Every phase more exquisite than the last; yet they each must come to an end.
Do we mourn the darkness of what we don’t understand?
Or enjoy the rebirth and beauty ..
All which comes from death.
There is no better teacher of life than the seasons.
- Lindsay Brierly
FAVORITE ART MATCHING POEM
“Henrietta” Digital art by Zoë Anderson
Like Hela Cells
if i die mid experimentation working with tuberculosis will I be used like Henerietta Lacks if it’s not
written on a document does the brain lose its privacy as if rotted thoughts cannot still be trapped by skull
before my body fuses with mother earth will my cells be enslaved by latex gloves pretending to hide white
hands will my stem cells proliferate more melanin begin to paint an institution in night help nature
create this “Blackface” granting them funds for incorporating my color in their bigger picture watch how
useful i can become when my breath is snuffed and my cells begin to divide into
diversity/equity/inclusion
Do not excavate my organs I do not concede my blobs of tissue to wipe your face clean your tears for a
Nobel Prize for tagging my culture as an asterisk I do not grant my unconsented name to be worn as a
mask I do not auction my body to be remembered for your science’s immortality let me denature when I
die have only the covers of 8th grade science textbooks and the occasional park bench remember me let my
discoveries inspire unheard voices before my cells become controversy
– Kenny Bradley
FAVORITE POEM MATCHING ART
“Me” Pixel art by Max Cordeiro
I am myself, even when I am not
When the universe made me,
she whispered all her secrets in my ear. She said,
You’ll never know you can fall asleep until you close your eyes.
I said, I don’t know anything, and I never have.
So she asked, what do you wish you knew, then?
I wish I could tell you that I haven’t forgotten
when we were just kids, and we would crush every bug
just to see what color its blood was. Blue. Last night, I
drank from a cup that smelled like you. The water
was sweet and warm and blood-blue,
even when I spat it right out.
I told the universe that I think I feel you
every time I enter a room, when the first thing I notice
is a mirror. It tells me that my body is soft,
and that is the best thing about it.
She asked, did you know
that you don’t always have to be the hero
of your story? I said, I don’t know anything,
but I am myself, even when
I am not.
– Rachna Iyer
ART INSPIRED POETS
“Colossus of Crossroads” by Emma Malbon
We Are Here
Give me your tired your poor your helplessly addicted your hopeless alcoholics
Give me your worn out your broken your mad ones howling at the moon on a Tuesday night downtown
Give me your forgotten
Give me the truth of the mad American night that the mainstream has thrown away
These are my people
The true American heroes
Methadone messiahs in thrift store finery
I want their knowledge and wisdom
I want the wisdom of mortified flesh and a soul in agony
When the American dream turns its back
I will be here
To hear your story and lift you up
You matter
You have value
Our society may have failed you but you have not failed your society
Take your fear and anxiety, bring it to Main St
Take the horror of the real America
And throw it in their faces
You are not lost
You are the REAL
You are the ones who make people stop and think
Tell me your story
Break my heart
Knock my dick in the dirt and make me feel
I am here for you
Whisper my name
Let me lift you UP
To remind you of who you are
You are a force while they are a farce
Bring your tears and your fears to the doorstep of power and avarice
Bring your rage
And I will match it with mine
We are here
And we are coming for you America
- Brian Shovelton
“Begin with Me” by Ricky Rainbow Beard
Begin with Me
There was no particular reason,
No special holiday or season.
I just awoke and as I lay,
I heard my gentle spirit say,
“Please, no routines today.
For once, just go a different way.
Please...just give us this one day.”
Now I’d heard that voice several times before,
But I had always chosen to ignore.
Responsibilities overruled!!!
Too many things to always do.
Too many people to answer to.
If I wasn’t there, what would they do?
But today, for some reason...I don’t even know why, I
heard my spirit and finally I obliged.
So I called in...with a feeling of dread.
“OK. Goodbye,”
Is all they said.
So I responded, “OK,”
And I went ahead.
No real plans. Just headed out.
I walked around and ventured about.
A cup of coffee with a fancy name.
A long walk down that pretty lane.
Bought a scarf I didn’t need.
It was green...and nice, indeed.
I tossed it on and moved along,
Then started humming some old song.
I didn’t even know the name.
‘Just popped itself into my brain.
And I must have hummed for quite a while
‘Cause people looked at me and smiled. Now
usually, I am quite shy.
But today...I smiled back and then waved, “Hi.”
I walked along my little stroll,
Loosening typical self-control.
I embraced all that I saw in this world,
Like I hadn’t done since I was a girl.
Yes, I took it in and absorbed it all
And by the time that dark began to fall, I knew that something had to give
If I was truly going to live,
And love, and laugh, and lift my heart.
And today -- today would finally be the start.
Then I stopped for a moment and I thought:
When did we become so overwrought? Who
said to have success that we should Make
stressful ways our greater good?
Am I keeping up?
Am I doing okay?
Why do we live
By what others say?
‘Cause it’s a race.
Until we die
So shut up. Don’t think.
Do not ask, “Why?”
We’ve responsibilities, okay, yes.
We have our jobs and days of stress.
And things and stuf to all sort out
That pressure us so, and leave us in doubt.
We’ve got to do them, yes I see…
But today it became quite clear to me:
You see, my spirit, she made me listen today
To what, for so long, she’d been trying to say.
But sometimes my head is too darned hard,
And I find it difficult to lower my guard.
I just couldn’t be “Supershe” for this 24.
I needed something, just a little bit more.
I needed time. I needed air.
I needed to just...just be here.
With no clocking in and no deadlines.
I needed to simply clear my mind.
She said:
“Take care of what you have to, Dear
But when I speak, please stop and hear.
When I’m telling you to take a break,
Just listen please, for goodness’ sake.
Yes, live responsibly and keep your word.
Don’t let your duties go deferred.
Just make it a point to let in the joy.
Because you are worthy...you are ROYAL!!!
You’re not in this world to only pass a test,
To be filled with worries or consumed in stress.
And Darling...never forget...that you are truly so very blessed.
And remember, you have the power to be
The face of peace that others see.”
And so I heard,
And I cherished each word,
And by nightfall,
I had embraced it all.
And tomorrow, I will step back into “my role,”
But...I think I will do so with a bit more soul.
I’ll take a break and maybe even a walk.
I’ll stop by someone’s desk to talk.
I’ll remember to smile a wee bit more,
Because life needn’t be such an awful bore.
I can crack my day open and make it more bright
And be that someone who adds a little more light To
the gloomy, moody, draggy day,
Because it doesn’t need to be that way.
Amongst all of the noise and the deadlines and the chatter, I
can remind those I am with that they matter. We’re not just a
bunch who gather for eight hours To simply perform duties
and to be devoured By rules and demands by those who hold
power.
And I say,
“Thank you, my spirit, for making me see
That the goodness you gave is not only for me. If
I take care of me, I can appreciate others,
And be kinder and gentler to my sisters and brothers.
Spirit...now I can say that I see your plan.
I get it now...I understand.
If I want more joy to be felt, and heard, and seen. I
must always first, begin with me.”
- Clarisse Annette Brooks
“Not Okay” by Melanie Ducharme
SickI'm sick no jokes, pay attention closely,
Sick and lonely no one to hold me
Boldly she told me I was her one and only
I'm so sick of these lies because she's f*kin Anthony
I'm sick of fake friends who never promote me
I'm sick of being talented, even my family doubt me
I'm sick of the sh!t radio stations play mostly
If a never social media, you woulda never hear about me
I'm still in a cold dark world, sickened how my life nah sparkle
I'm sick of crying tears with no one to talk to
Ajani hears me grumbling inna de bathroom, askin "daddy who and you a argue?"
"I'm just sick of being broke son, can't do wah me waan do."
I'm sick of fake foods and fake medications
I'm sick of fake news, fake information
Some sick and confused with fake education
Amaziyah The Great views?
We are living among a sick generation.
- Craig "Amaziyah The Great" Kirkland
“Bears” by Brendan Maddock
Mountaineers Attacked By Bears
It was an awfully cold day
Up in the mountains
With that mean sort of wind
That wicks cusses from a gentleman
When the river freezes over
And cedars start shivering
And nothing’s happening
Except for time-wasting
At the mountaineers’ cabin
Benny and Bobby
And toothless Billy Joe
Benny is the tall one
Bobby, round and low
Gathered by the lantern
And a smoking woodstove
Retelling the same stories
In gruff, bearded baritones
Bobby said to Benny
“This log is nearly through
Go out and get another
Before my toes get blue”
With a grumble and a mumble
Benny left to go outside
Leaving door ajar
A feeble act of pride
Beef stew and whiskey
Was thick in the air
Unknowingly
To Billy Joe and Bobby
Had roused a cave-full of bears
In the dim lit cabin
With a stupor thick as molasses
The mountaineers remained oblivious
To a hairy trio, most carnivorous
It was only when Benny
Returned from outside
That he realized his two friends
Had grown into five
Panic ensued
But Mountaineers don’t run
They have painful gout
And ash-ridden lungs
Billy Joe grabbed the poker
And Benny clutched a shovel
Bobby made the bold decision
To sock one in the muzzle
The cabin shook
The lantern lost its light
And the bellows of beast
Rang out into the night
The mountaineers awoke at dawn
With no memory of before
But found the cabin in disarray
It all strewn on the floor
Billy Joe still had no teeth
And Bobby was still wide
Benny had some cuts and bruises
But couldn’t think of why
It’s a shame they don’t remember
‘Cause what a story to share!
Between the booze
And rotten beef stew
“Mountaineers attacked by bears”
- Jill Miller
“Ode to Harrison Bergeron” by Lenin Roman
Ode To Harrison Bergeron
Emperor and Empress defying gravity
Read to me for the first time
In a dusty shaded room
Raspy English teacher timbre
I was the only one who heard your story Harrison
Thor and a Ballerina
A story told a story written
Dancing dancing
The most beautiful idea
Of Rebellion towards strength and Beauty
Rebellion ended like they often do from
The barrel of a gun
Who knows what kind of Empire
Would you have built with our Empress
Perhaps the idea itself was the most beautiful
Perhaps you shined in those moments you escaped
The pull of earth
Gravity defied to embrace the self
You'll dance forever to me Harrison
- themantheycalljohnnythreefreebeers
“Fall” by Ülo Pikkov
Fall
Fall is where things go to die
Little sentimental things like
A favorite piece of jewelry
Timed turned green
And memories stayed
Even though you let go of the piece
Cutting edge
Clarity see
Right through me
Into the colorful inside
Value my worth
Weight in per carat
Or simply put
Places where you go
With a broken heart
To bury the pieces
Or where you go to
Break a heart
But cant stand to bury the pieces
Bitter pumpkin orange squashed
Slices of life cut into sections
Pie
Follow the math
The logic cant be flawed
Unless
You plus me
Dont equal anything at all
Maybe just couldnt get enough
Oxygen into the situation to breathe
Or maybe couldnt shine bright enough
To see
Or maybe jealousy got the best of me
Greed
Or maybe
Fall is just simply where things go to die
We bury the hatchet
Put the past behind us
Get stabbed in the back
From a ghost in our past
And Wonder why winter is wet
With lights, pure, innocent
Dazzling to look at
Distract from all those dead things
Yet to be dug up
Those dead things to be celebrated
Moved on from
And eventually heal
Time is this cruel unforgivable beauty
Always falling forward
Sometimes high noon
Sometimes you hit ground
And dont know how to get up
Just laying still
Remembering
Fall is where things go to die
- Mr. Orange Live
“Homage”by John Kotula
Glad To Be Black (2021)
I'm glad to be black
And Indian, too, in fact.
That's how I feel
About being real.
Born in Woonsocket,
Blessings came knocking.
But it wasn't until I was grown,
And who would have known?
I taught myself how to read at three
And started writing with glee.
My black hair was pretty and long.
My passion for life was strong.
When I got older,
And at the time, some folks got colder.
An autism advocate as black skin
Made me the young woman within.
Jealousy occurred because of me
Knowing so many things.
Especially information and languages.
Those people didn't understand
What to me, God has given.
And there's some who still don't now.
That's kind of foul.
But oh well.
With God's help, I'll excel.
I might be viewed as rude
When I'm actually being true.
I might be viewed as ignorant
When I'm actually being confident.
I might be viewed as a harasser
When I'm really telling the truth after.
As a black woman with a disability,
With people, I want tranquility.
I want respect like everyone else.
When need be, I'll ask for help.
I'm going to stay true to myself
And nobody else.
There are people who say they love me.
But in reality, in the corner, they shove me.
Smiling in my face one day
But then they turn the other way.
As someone who is unapologetically black,
I don't like that.
I believe in the power of unity,
And I need to focus on those who are nice to me.
I'm glad to be who I am in God's eyes.
With my writing, who knows what the future lies?
- Ondrea Robinson
“Speak Out” by Charlotte Collins
When I Hold the Mic
When I hold the mic oh how it excites my soul
I need it, I need it to let go
the release in me comes from so deep
nothing and no one can tame the beast
the beast that unleashes
When I hold the mic
it’s like my body is there and my spirit is watching I’m floating
nothing holding me back
I can’t stop as the words seep out my mouth, my heart beats
rapidly
no thinking it’s just my mic and me
When I hold the mic
I’m paralyzed I can’t move the vibe the energy it takes control the
music begins to evoke my soul
I let go
No one knows the power I hold
the dark
the good, the bad, the ugly
the light
who am I what is me
begins to release the beast
When I hold the mic
- Othannah Tomasina
“Golden Lotus” by Max Cordeiro
I Am. I? Am. I? Am. I? Am.
For Victoria Lucas, pen name to Sylvia Plath
It was a queer, sultry summer,
the summer they convicted Derek Chauvin,
and I didn’t know what I was doing in Ann Arbor.
I’ve never worked hard, not for a day in my life, but
that June I convinced myself I was doing research
and sat in coffee shops listening to conversations.
I didn’t write about them afterwards, but I did
wipe my kitchen counters just the way
my mother used to. A nice old man from the
dollar store followed me all the way home, and I
swallowed my knuckles, calloused and stained with
pepper spray, and then I dreamed I was on the counter in
a yellow tank top gently licking his paws. We are not so
different, you and I. We take what our mothers
gave us, leave it with our sons and daughters. I
never asked to be a golden lotus amidst fierce
flames, and I don’t think you did either.
- Rachna Iyer
“Trees Calmed Her”by Thomas Terceira
Cemetery Dreams
My mother dreamed of being laid to rest in a cemetery of green
with paths of stone and birdsongs across centuries
These cemetery dreams included plots for me and my husband
to rest beside her in our time for eternity
She would say, “There is no God”
Yet these cemetery dreams made her glad and hopeful
to face death with courage, know love will endure
fill her empty spaces with an aroma of freshness
a touch of summer’s breeze
under the calm shade of tree canopies
After a life of exhaustion, in her older years
She moved from a dark apartment caked with dust
in a city built of cold concrete
To be near us and our sprouting sons
where lush trees danced outside her windows
she could sit in the sunrays that lit her newspaper
which she devoured every day with joy
For a while she loved a man
his charm and sparkle obscuring unkept promises
She tried to love herself but could only see ugliness in the mirror
Took diet pills to eradicate swaths of her belly and arms
an attempt to make shrinkage the cure to her depression
Having babies gave her purpose
To protect and love them as she had not experienced
So began her journey towards love and generosity
like a flower that buds between cement slabs
where it is least expected to grow
Recalling her early years
that single orange in the ice-box there to feed a family for a week
Those lonely subway rides as a teen
when she would daydream about a time she would want to live
not feel the empty inside her body hollowed out
The angry mother who made her wash each tile of their floor
with a toothbrush, still called her dirty and fat
The mean older sister who hovered over her, an Ice-Queen
casting a shadow so dark it blinded others in her wake
Trees calmed her
their majestic branches and green leaf songs
soft vibrant white cherry blossoms, the texture of her cheeks
Seeking refuge from a childhood of being unloved
- Sandra Levy
“Rainy Day Espressoh” by Rachel Brask
In response to Mark Binder’s “Do you drink coffee?”
POEMS INSPIRED BY ART
“Do It Yourself” by Charlotte Collins
Shared Space
Welcome! come in complete me. Color me in find the right number that will guide you through this canvas of who I am and what I want to be, through my eyes you will see and create a recreation in unity. Color by numbers 1 blue 22 yellow, Sit on the couch soak in the space create, let this be therapy don’t want to overthink should we use markers, crayons or paint. Come come closer sit lets snug and make a masterpiece created with love help me add to this canvas 1 plus 1 makes the perfect 2 red and white makes pink the color of love when cold turns blue. Color by numbers stay in the lines don’t hide or deny this strange feeling inside when you stroke I stroke Boom Shaka laka no smoking in the room with every stroke there’s smoke as we move together, boom! The clock strikes 2 yellow and blue make green guide me 55 brown orange 43, fill in my space. Color me in stay within the lines pretty pretty picture tells no lies Only the story through your eyes and mine Poetry and Art become one , align come in and share with me your side. Complete me
- Othannah Tomasina
“Timeline” by Emma Malbon
Remember
I can see the future
All possible futures
Just as I can see the past
All in the blink of an eye
I am the hub
With spokes that radiate outwards
Supporting the wheel
That turns for humanity
From now and then
To here and when
The breath of the universe
Will slow yet never stop
Taking the time
To revel in its grandeur
And divinity
Do not waste time
Looking for answers
Within the ruins of yourself
The answers are already there
Within and without
In this and all times
Let emotion temper the intellect
And be the light
That guides the wheel
As it turns for us all
Remember who you are
- Brian Shovelton
“Reflecting Pool” by Gina Lerman
Reflecting Pool
Midnight gymnast
Scampering off into the woods
With a jump, skip, hop
Entertain the thought
That maybe I’ve been wrong
All along
That maybe the end
Really is the beginning
That for now I am temporary
And with everything reaching inwards
What once terrified me
I now keep close (because)
Maybe the end
Doesn’t have to be
(You’d make me smile
And then everything would be okay again)
Walk this path
It makes me think of you
Sit in this spot
It makes me think of you
Listen to the breeze
It speaks of you
And things start to look
Beautiful again
- Katie Rejto
“The Dress” by Jade Sisti
From Flowers
From flowers, come dresses
From flax and cotton
To make thread and linen
To sew with a needle
From flowers, come fruits
From blossoms to peaches
To make pie
To eat with a knife
From flowers, come drugs
From opium poppies
To make morphine
To shoot with a needle
Women come
From flowers
Too
- Brydon Conti
“Fireball and the Devil”by John Kotula
What Fireball Does As The Devil
This is what Fireball does as The Devil.
It's an alcoholic drink that makes you think
Like everything's in a hot uproar and burns.
Cinnamon Whiskey with a twist of fire
Causes people to tell the truth about
What they really think of others.
Fireball burns into the mouth,
And it's really, really, really a deep burn
That can't be shaken off for a few days.
The Devil comes out of you by saying
You're responsible for all the wrong happening.
Many people choose to drink this to
Shove their problems away and act like
Everything is okay.
But I'm here to tell you that drinking Fireball
Makes you see red, and the Devil will not
Want you to get ahead.
- Ondrea Robinson
“Above Below In Between the Lines” by Meg Coss
my life is a black and white t.v screen
a series of
channels
cradled by
the hypnotic laughter of
static,
my blanket
the trumpets horn
of denied
things
I choke down
ambitions,
shards
popping
in my
stomach—
the long flash of orange
filament
illuminates oceans blue
beyond the
glass
womb
I make a deal with the white man and fall out of palm trees,
into lush pools of suits
where I was promised color,
in exchange for dreams
the new pictures are fake to
touch, like
christmas trees
it looks like I am free
but they just
painted over
me
- Mara Hagen
“Art Teacher Tuesday” by Melanie Ducharme
Art Teacher TuesdayAs my mind recaps on the experience,
I told Motif my day start great.
The morning was cold,
I'm running late.
Glanced at the time,
few minutes past eight.
I grabbed Dunkin Donuts and hot chocolate,
Even though I was approaching class late.
Art Teacher Tuesday was like fun in the sun,
Painting pictures with my classmates.
This is relaxing, somewhat soothing to my past heartbreak.
Soft acrylic on my heart's canvas,
Satisfying to my heart's space.
Melanie Ducharme helped us to apply colors of love,
It's quite lovely what we make art creates
I told Dana it's exciting,
reciting poetry in an art space,
While painting,
It's entertaining.
It's breathtaking how we make art great.
But what makes it even greater as creator,
The combination of colors that grabs your attention,
transforming your mind, in a calm state.
- Craig A. Kirkland
Golden Goddess & The Rising Sun
Protector of the Heavens
Angel on Earth
Capable of moving mountains
For all that it’s worth
The God of War sent the sign
It was golden hour, her time to shine
She descended to his defense
This one last time
Thunder began to crackle
Lightening is released
She doesn’t have to say a word
The rumbles let her speak
With that golden arrow
Twin flames ignite
Welcoming the rising sun
& saying goodbye to the night
- Lindsay Brierly
“Song of Fire” by Sara Breslin
A WOMAN’S JOURNEY THROUGH GRIEF
HANDS DANCE IN SEARCH OF SELF
Marrow of my palms bathe enchanted in midnight air
no longer beseeching the moon to open her kind eyes
finger beds rested_revive dance with grace and wisdom
my hands no longer shackled
my grief a landscape traveled
feather fingers nimble
finding love anew
losing you a time ago as a dancing child swan
i awake a woman who remembers beckoning
laughter to begin again
wrists touching splayed open holding
time in my grip
raising spirits with rising palms
quenching grief’s great thirst
unleashing love’s waterfalls
dragon fire fingertips melting glaciers
somber resonance resisting capture
sensual soliloquy of desire_urgent
gestures creating language
Needing to speak to know myself wanting
to be free as a bird is free
beyond tragedies of fractured cities
i cannot tell if i am dancing in courage
or desperation to survive
a music box caught in my knuckles swallowing
my pain playing its tune wishing
movement will heal me
my star born constellations shining
jewels hoping to be seen
for my radiance
performing a song of windswept leaves ablaze
- Sandra Levy
“Hands of the dancer”by Thomas Terceira
“Behind the Masks” by Ülo Pikkov
Masquerade
We are feeling ourselves like a masquerade
when the party ends we return to our ugly reflections
but it doesnt matter because i want to make love to your mind
the way a grenade makes love consuming everything with it
including life and thought
I will know you as intimately
as a coupled secret between breast
I want to make love to you
till your speaking in an unknown dialect
recanting and chanting our future
They will hire your screams
command it be their voice in their misery
making wishes like Disney
blowing candles four leaf clover
and melt away into fantasy
that they have what you have
and what you have is Juliet’s poison
the conduit to our eternal love
A nevermore midnight dreary
where the raven tortures their war
plucks there jealously out from its beak
what they dont know is the misery that follows
after it's all said and done
and we made a mess of our nature
hidden our morals in full view
shame proclaims itself mighty (but this too shall pass)
and we lay there, attached to the bed of problems (same book different page)
breaking silence -but at least we have each other.(we spit acid)
we recall memories as if we were old (she was a snake)
we just hold each other like the past we never let go of
or the mistake we cant forgive ourselves for
we hold on because we know love will walk out that door
as soon as we let go.
we dont believe in things that might return
we see all the signs life puts up reminding us what we are missing
but we are just lost in each others feelings
dancing in each others melody
until the masks fall off
until the parade ends
until they refer to us by two name but one personification
Heartbreak!
- Mr. Orange Live
“Cosmic Owl” by Zoe Anderson
Ode to Sometimes I be Introvert by Little Simz
I am two worlds apart,
orbiting myself at a pen's length.
One of me is a dense body,
expected to pull masses,
when my craftsmanship decides
to escape my notes app gravitational pull,
spew rocks, debris, ozone gasses,
everything must be toxic into the microphone,
let an audience get high
off my fault lines.
Become a “star”
illuminate my public persona.
The poet of me is “extrovert”
studied like solar system.
Has astronauts walk my craters,
dive into all my past rubble,
have my life be unearthed,
so scientists understand my dusty ashes,
since that is what is expected when a tongue
plays with static,
a room braces for you to be electrifying,
wants every life story before you know their names.
This poem is how writing has let others think they can probe my soul,
dig my roots and control me,
that I am the same set of cells,
on and off a stage,
how I am measured only,
in how much my plight can give an applause
and be showered in your
“validation”
But, One of me hides the fact
that my craters hold water.
No one has seen me cry.
No one has seen me stare at my own reflection in the puddle.
See…
Sometimes I be Introvert
How my mental capacity
is a suitcase at the end of a road trip,
it has added one more piece of dirty laundry
and still expected to not buckle and find its way home.
How this poem,
is to the therapist that does not know me yet.
How this poem is to the dead homies
I’m afraid to visit the graveyard of old conversations.
How this poem is to feeling like a ziplock bag,
translucency does not mean I want to have my contents traversed.
How it's easier to open up
About opening up.
How most days I want to be Pluto.
Existing,
large enough to be remembered,
but not letting my privacy revolve around you.
- Kenny Bradley
“Crow” by Amanda Grafe
Thresholds...on the move
Upward reaching
inspirited fingers eager to weave fluid heart songs
of tethered pulsing decay
feathered in neverending flight
Crossroads abound here
Songs of tender entanglements
reaching, spinning dendritic
tapestries of death and lifeforce
Threads in a dance of
unraveling interwoven uncertainty
blessed are we
Blessed are we
integrating birdsong into
ancestral bodies primed for the
keening...may we crumble and cry together
Singing forever into rupture
into cracks and voids ripe with the imaginative
tendrils of myth
What story is this, my beloved?
What trinity of hand, heart, flight? Land, sea, sky?
What liminal spell has been exposed here...
Land learning hands to dig into dirt and drop into muddied
histories of
Oceanic hearts engorged, salty, ebbing and flowing
pulsating and churning up
into moon
into
Mist, swirling through sky
towards unknown infinite eternity
My beloved, this... is a lost love letter of not knowing
A prayer to the blackness
An invitation to be birthed there in the dark
and blossom into blurry unfurling bodies
boundless, porous
As tides—ripe to disrupt the story
seeping in fields of mystery
Blessed, blessed be.
- Emma Malbon
“BEARDO” by Ricky Rainbow Beard
My Multicolor Self
What if I found shoes to match my long red beard?
Or should that be a beard to match my shoes?
Perhaps, you can take a good look at me
So that you can then help me choose?
I think that because my beard came first
That this is what should lead
I bought the shoes long after
So I’ll list them next, you see.
Now for my face and arms,
There is no cause to be confused
They remind me of the lovely sky
Because they are bright blue.
Now I mix and match my shirt and pants
To add some variation
I buy tons and tons of each of them
So that there will be no duplication.
Now my only matters are my cheeks and nose
They do their own thing on my head
My nose is such a deep dark blue
And my cheeks have a splotch of red
Most people are just one color
To me that is quite a bore.
I love my multicolor-self
I am so fit to be adored.
- Clarise Annette Brooks
“El Cucuy” by Lenin Roman
Get Out While You Can
Is it kooky to fear the cucuy?
Under the mattress, nothing is there
Or is there?
Is the fear that blossoms with the thought of getting out of bed
Real?
Or just a thought?
The shearing teeth of sidelong looks.
The glowing eyes of disapproval. Distraught, Destructive, Disappointed.
Real? Imagined? Lurking beneath you or imagined before you.
Maybe only the bed really knows
Contemplate exposing an ankle to its capricious maw, that thing beneath the bed.
Leaving the nestling snug comfort of safe covers.
Or contemplate exposing much more than an ankle. How would that end?
A baleful bloodbath beckons.
The talons of tomorrow may eviscerate
Or evaporate
as reality collides with imagination.
Collides with the unknown.
With hate, anger or distrust.
Will it pounce?
Maybe only the bed knows for sure.
The demons beneath will not slay openly.
They lurk within errant glances.
Whispered assessments.
The hot breath of innuendo.
Detractors in the dark.
Nesoxochi summons shadows that ask you whether they exist.
Ask the bed, but
Only the sleeper knows for sure.
- Mike Ryan
For many years, death wasn’t something poet Jeff Danielian had to face, but in recent years he has experienced multiple losses and found himself dealing with situations he had only seen others endure. His latest publication, UNDONE, shows a writer who has evolved (for better or worse) and is dealing with the challenges of that personal evolution.
“The past few years have hit the hardest,” Danielian says. “I’ve lost a lot of friends over the past three or so years to [ill] health, physical and mental, accidents, and old age. It doesn’t seem like there will ever be a pause.”
Danielian also vents his frustrations about the current world. Few among us would say the past three years have been easy, but he worries things will only continue to escalate and bring about more tough times.
“I’ve always been one to question authority and government, politicians, and promises,” Danielian says. “It really seems like we might be headed for a place we can never return from.”
These topics lend many of Danielian’s new poems a sense of anger that wasn’t present in his four previous volumes. The personal struggles and frustrations are apparent in his words, however, he directs his anger in a way that allows room for messages of hope and perseverance.
“I do think that there is hope in all of it, and in the issues and pages of UNDONE; I haven’t given up…yet.”
There is a wistfulness to the collection and wish for things to return to what now seems like simpler times. The somber reminiscence strikes a chord and shows an author handling these new life tests as best as possible.
“Love and relationships, choices and decisions, fate and free will, the past and the future,” Danielian says. “They are all the common themes, and present in my work, but when reflected upon, it does bring us to a slightly negative place.”
In addition to the 45 poems in the collection, UNDONE also includes a screenplay entitled “by Aldous, A collection of three.” Danielian majored in film and screenwriting in college and says the screenplay came about easily. The screenplay is a 30-page adaptation that combines three short stories by Danielian’s favorite author, Aldous Huxley.
“The first concerns a bookseller and a customer, the second an affluent couple and their hired help, and the third an artist, his apprentice, and a customer looking for great work. There is a story within a story in that one. Anyway, given the similar locations, I was able to fly the camera from one story to the next and weave them [together] in a way that worked.”
Danielian says writing has been more difficult in recent years because he has become a harsh critic of his work. He feels he’s putting himself out there more with his current writing. He has also become more lyrical, as local musicians have used his poetry as song lyrics, which he finds to be a wonderful honor.
“That has steered my writing in terms of the flow or structure of some of it,” he adds.
Danielian is already working on his next publication, a young adult novel called Paperboys and Bicycle Thieves, which he has been working on for a long time. He says he has put off completing this project for a long time and is now motivated to finish.
“The death of the remaining childhood friend last year prompted me to get it done,” says Danielian.
While hard at work on his next release, Danielian is taking time to celebrate UNDONE. His release party will take place at Fort Foreclosure, the art studio of the book’s cover artist and Danielian’s dear friend William Schaff.
“The image Jeff used for the cover of the book was created at the beginning of everyone going into lockdown during the pandemic,” says Schaff. “Throughout lockdown, Jeff came and sat with me most nights, he on one side of my half door, and me on the other. Mr. Danielian, his presence and his writing is a large part of the artist community here in Warren. It is an honor to have my images connected with his writing. Mr. Danielian is an exceptional person, but he is also the common man. I enjoy his work because I enjoy knowing what my fellow common man is thinking. God bless Jeff Danielian.”
The UNDONE book release party takes place in Warren on Saturday, November 18 from 6–8 pm. Danielian says he is looking forward to the release party and after-party celebration, which will take place across the street at Jack’s Bar. UNDONE can be purchased by Jeff directly or through 75 or Less Records75orlessrecords.com.
I’ve never understood the glamorization of youth, the glorification of the unfinished brain, When every year stretches itself out, longer than a decade feels just a decade or two later. I’ve never understood the nostalgia for not knowing how your life will turn out, In those most precarious times, when just about everything teeters on going horribly wrong. I can’t contend with a yearning for an era when “the rest of one’s life” was so long, it was beyond comprehension. People question and wonder and struggle to understand why so many find it hard to be young. And I just think: Their memories have faded. They’ve rewritten the past based on knowledge of the present. They’ve forgotten that eternal life (or the illusion of such) is always a curse. I don’t understand why people dread the certainty of age. The milestones already achieved. The hardest part done. The future a fathomable and manageable one. I find aging beautiful and never really look behind me except to appreciate just how much I’ve already accomplished along the way. I can’t imagine wanting to start the story over from scratch, unsure of where the plot is even going. Maybe people glamorize youth because it is over, and the memories they revisit have been cleaned up in post-production. •
Why: Exchange the submitted work of visual artists and poets as generative prompts to make work inspired by one another.
How: The Pics and Poets Project randomly matches 2D artists and poets: Each submits two pieces to share, and their match has two weeks to either write a poem inspired by the artwork, or create a piece of artwork inspired by the poem.
Submissions are now closed. Matches for all participants have been made.
Details: All work will be presented at the final exhibition on (Nov 9, 6pm) at WaterFire Arts Center.
Poems will be published in Motif and posted online.
There will be cash awards for audience and judge favorites (we will allow the audience the vote for their favorites, up to nine winners will receive between $100 and $200 each, sponsored by patrons of the arts at R1 Indoor Karting).
Apply to take part now: (although this is free, you are committing to creating an original work between Oct 13 and 29, 2023)
Growing up outside of Boston, Ryk McIntyre first thought about becoming a poet during high school when he read Anne Sexton’s The Awful Rowing Towards God. McIntyre jokes that he became a poet the “day the voices in my head formed the theater company.”
Despite not receiving a formal college level education in poetry, McIntyre became active in the New England poetry scene around the 1980s and began performing for large crowds during the mid ’90s. During one of his performances he recalled a highlight from one of those nights.
“I wrote a poem about baking bread in which, at one point, I described pounding on the dough like it was everything you’ve ever been angry at. There was a frail young girl with a terminal disease who told me how excited she was to try that.”
The girl passed away a few months later but McIntyre was told by her teachers that it was the first time she had been excited about something in months. The comment still touches McIntyre. “You always want your poems to mean something to someone else. And I don’t know if I will ever hear a compliment like that again.”
When McIntyre is not giving tours at the Lizzie Borden House, he’s working on theater and storytelling projects, and is always available for bookings. In his words, “Parties, funerals, and funeral parties.”
McIntyre occasionally steps in as host for Motif’s SWAP Meet, a poetry meetup that includes a featured performer, slam contest, and open mic, which happens twice a month at Incred-A-Bowl in East Providence.
To contact McIntyre for bookings or to discuss with him his nostalgia for the IBM Selectric II Typewriter, email him at ryk.mcintyre921@gmail.com.
The Praying Mantis That Saved a Walnut Tree With a Typewriter
Haiku, it thought, head twisted sideways, and faster than “you just missed it”, raptorial legs snatch precise elements out of the air, leaving nothing of a wake. There are words, then there are no words, and then there are words. Mantis considers his brief existence under a walnut tree. Every day, Mantis continues taking words from out of thin air, making poetry, and leaving no ripple, not proof it was ever there after typewriter goes quiet. Tree remains. Tree knows Mantis could have chosen any tree, anywhere, except events happened as they did. Typewriter sounds incorporated into bark, grow into the small memories of detail. There was a Mantis, there is no Mantis. There is a tree that knows how a poem feels.
RI is seeking a new state poet, often informally known as the “poet laureate,” for a five-year term beginning January 2024. The role carries an honorarium of $1,000 annually. Applications close at 11:59pm on August 21, 2023, and the web portal will strictly enforce this deadline.
Established by law in 1987, the position is open to “practicing poets” who are domiciled in RI and plan to remain so through the end of the term in January 2029, are at least 18 years old, and are not currently enrolled in an arts degree-seeking program or in high school. For this purpose, a “practicing poet” is defined as a person who “intentionally creates or practices poetry that: has sought learning or training in the artistic field from any source, not necessarily in formal academic institutions; is committed to devoting significant time to artistic activity, as is possible financially; is or is working towards earning some portion of their income from their art.”
Tina Cane. Photo credit: Mary Beth Meehan
The outgoing state poet is Tina Cane who was appointed in 2016. Previous state poets are Michael Harper (1988-1994), the late C.D. Wright (1994-1999), Thomas Chandler (1999-2006), Lisa Starr (2007-2012), and Rick Benjamin (2013-2015).
“Through leadership and the power of poetry, our state’s poet provides inspiration to all Rhode Islanders in addition to being an important literary and educational resource,” said Governor Daniel McKee in a statement. “Thank you to Tina Cane for her service to Rhode Island and thank you to the State’s Arts Council for taking charge of the nomination process. I look forward to reviewing the nominees.”
“We expect to provide a diverse and strong field of recommendations to the Governor,” said Lynne McCormack, Executive Director of the Rhode Island State Council on the Arts (RISCA) said in a statement. “We are looking for a state poet who will build appreciation of and participation in poetry and literary activities among the state’s residents.”
Applicants are asked to submit a resume or CV, a one-page statement explaining your goals and interest, a letter of nomination from a RI resident speaking to your connection with the state, work samples, and optionally a link to a web page. A peer review panel from RISCA will forward five finalists to the governor, who will make the final choice. Staff members and council members of RISCA, and their immediate families, are ineligible. US citizens and non-citizens who have a taxpayer identification number (TIN), including refugees, immigrants, and temporary residents, are eligible.
