If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation -and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then I will argue that poetry is science –
And that would make all poets scientists.
Our inquisitive minds evolved from a single cell in Africa-mitochondrial Eve and the metaphysical teachings of life molded us into these unique beings.
The wiring of our minds is an intricate web of neurotransmitters sending signals via delicate, silk threads, synapses fueled by passions for the spoken word- which propagate hypothesis about humanity in subliminal waves.
We are theorists who proudly write our thesis on the back of napkins and crumpled CVS receipts because these observations of human exchange must be captured, documented and told, before they are forgotten.
You see we poets- are experts in qualitative research- as we are always studying the nature of phenomena and not just the number of occurrences.
Phenomena – defined as a fact or situation that is observed to exist or happen- and a poets scripture captures that better that any lens.
We use metaphors the same way scientist work with cells and atoms.
With our words we construct models of the way the world should be and we make replicas of the destruction caused by man for the world to see.
And like a mad scientist- I discovered how to make inanimate objects like the bathroom walls talk as I recite my poems the walls echo my thoughts and reminds me that I am still alive.
So again, If science is defined as the study of behavior of the physical and natural world through observation-and
If science is defined as experimentation and testing of theories against evidence obtained-
Then my hypothesis is true- Poetry is science and us poets are all scientists.
Tag Archives: black poet
Long Time No See
The ink in my pen ran out a long time ago.
Now I transcribe each noun, adjective and verb with my own blood.
The paper soaks up my pain and transforms it into riddles of similes and metaphors-
A confusion of emotions.
Confusion is what creates chaos, and you need chaos to invoke a revolution- and revolution is the never ending fight for the survival of our identity.
Sometimes I am afraid to write, because when my creative ports open, the unstoppable flood gates spills truths that drown others and I become an accessory to murder.
Turbulent waves- rip tides of secrets and painful memories seep into the fibers of lined paper and feed hidden seeds that sprout the language of the soul- a poem.
I stopped writing for a long time because when I do- I can feel my poorly healed scars start to dehisce and the pain taunts me as it bangs against the bars of my caged heart and the fallen angel that lives within me starts screaming to speak.
Mute.
Mute.
Mute.
You can only press the button but so many times before it breaks and your only choice is to listen and turn the volume up.
What is your soul saying?
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve but it kept getting impaled by flying debris from the tornados of fate-
But still I moved forward-
And when the barbed wire from the fences of life kept nicking my skin-
I still fought to progress-
and I had to jump so damn high to surmount the hurdles of trials and tribulations, hurdles which at times bruised my shins- over and over again
-but I still staggered on.
Wading through various cesspools of shitty circumstances, trying to stop and smell the roses proved to be challenging- yet still possible.
People just don’t understand that when home becomes hell the streets become heaven.
I’m sure that I’ve shared a drink and ate dinner with the devil many times.
I gambled it all away to the point where the only thing I had left was half a mustard seed in my back left pocket.
And in a swamp of decay- I was able to use it to grow faith.
And from that small patch of faith I was able to replant hope.
I had to stand tall and blow away the clouds of shame that hung over me in order to let the sun break through.
And man did my forest bloom.
My brain sprouted vines and carried me back to civilization where I continue to strive.
I allowed my face to be smothered with a pillow held by childhood trauma for way too long.
And you know what- it feels good to hear my voice again.
It feels good to be back.
Hello, It’s been a while.
The Last Tree
One sentence touched my soul today.
I didn’t catch it right away.
Eight softly spoken words.
Strong enough to pierce through the anger and resentment that I held.
“I am in the autumn of my life”, he said.
I no longer saw him as a man.
He became a lonely tree.
In a barren field he stood tall and was looking down admiring me.
All around me swirled his falling leaves.
Piles of unspoken memories scattered around my feet.
I questioned what their stories told and he said, “No, let them die with me.-
Only share what warms the heart and let the cold stay dead.”
Silence was all I had to give.
My soul had no words to speak, instead it ushered me to take a seat.
I offered company while his leaves continued to fall around me.
I enjoyed his shade because I know that the present easily becomes heartfelt memories, sooner than most wish them to be.
