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untitled (over the mire) by Kwadwo Alfajiri Shah

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These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.

untitled (over the mire)

by Kwadwo Alfajiri Shah

over the mire is a thick dense fog
it shields from sight those you don’t want to look at too long
beneath the fog is where hard hands toil
and tender dreams with supple leaves attempt to grow

now and again, a dream grows so tall
that the tips of leaves poke on through the fog

above the fog is a land of thieves and liars
when they feel they must (and they feel so quite often)
they pluck the leaves and scorch the land with fire

despite the blaze, the memory of a dream still flowers
enticing those beneath the fog with a cosmic power

and so the thieves must pull the dream up by its root
they contort the dream, distort its meaning
then put it on public view

now the dream, divorced from its soil
and the hands that tended
shrivels up, transforms strange anew, points
t’ward a different ending

as for those beneath the veil, who produced
a dream now stolen
where do they turn their eyes to now, what do
they put their hope in?

do they vest their trust in the lies
of those who live above
or would such a choice betray the dream
that sprouted from their love?

the best among them turn their backs on
the liars and the thieves
and turn toward their hands and soil to
cultivate again their dream.

Alfajiri Shah is a budding data scientist and Black studies scholar. Their poetry explores themes of relationship to self and community, along with social and political critique. They recite poetry at the occasional open mic and spend most of their time in various states of dreaming.

Featured image in this post is: “Thick Fog descends over Ibberton Hill” by Chris Heaton, creative commons, via Wikimedia Commons.

Three Poems by Teebee Garner

Haiku For Ella

Ella Fitzgerald
Was the truth and the devil
Is a boldfaced lie

Ode to Bass

Take the chords high and low
Make that rhythm flow
Push that groove through time and space
Give up that bass face
Don’t need to be the boss to keep holding the line
Deep in the pocket
Every Good Brotha Does Fine
Heads swaying, feet tapping
Wires slapping
Pluckin the blues, the funk and swingin the jazz
Every Good Brotha Does Fine and All Cows Eat Grass

More Twisted Than A Braid

Kick a child outta school because of his 4C
No respect for his identity
No desk in the classroom because he’s afro-groomed
Won’t speak what they think
But we hear it in their eyes
Minds wound tighter than our kinks
What’s outside his head is too disruptive
For the inside to be productive
The change that needs to be made
Is more twisted than a braid

Teebee M. Garner is a mathematician born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. She is a passionate multi-genre music lover. She grew up playing the flute, but the bass guitar is her favorite instrument. As she nears retirement, she aspires to be more than an occasional noodler, but an rearranger of songs from an infinite number of cross-genre mashups.

Image: Oldangelmidnight from Northampton, MA, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Two poems by M. Nzadi Keita

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These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.

107.
You could stare without being slapped for staring
in Ebony, where you would learn how weeping
looked without tears. Reading the sight
of seers, you turned every page. Their pictures
pitched you into some nameless road’s haunted
edge, that Pettus bridge, the torn throat of a staircase.

Finding the flash, you leaned into eyes like yours.
Eyes that expected breath to push them open,
squinting, stumbling wayward, hungry, fractious.
Onward to another hour. An obedient next
day. You almost caught their damp windbreakers,
their faint cologne under cigarettes crushed
on rocks, their sweat. Medgar and Myrlie Evers
lived in a neat, modern home that made the South
look as if they got a better deal: a split-level
on a Jackson city street that seemed suburban, except

that blood—thick as engine oil, too much for paper
towels—soaked a whole block of that driveway, steps
from the house. He almost kissed his kids. He almost
let the screen door bang. Did he grope for the rifle?
Or murmur his evening joke? You traveled. In places
that could not invent to satisfy, or sugar over. On pages
filling the shatter, written with light.

[Ebony Magazine: To the photographers]
by M. Nzadi Keita, from Migration Letters

205.
Breaking news, Grandma’s little t.v. blurted
out. Three names. A choke knot shrunk the dining
room. The grownups froze. And you kids
noticed. “We interrupt–” It said. You blinked

away the first two names to better hear. Again
your grandfather’s name in Walter Cronkite’s
mouth: ”James Chaney…” came, strong
as concrete. He jerked up from the table, straight

— as if a rope had yanked his length
of life. “Civil rights workers, missing since…”
The birthday cake began to sag,
a sickly yellow sponge.

“Beaten to death…” No, you saw him
stand. Right there, unswollen. Alive
but “Shallow graves…’” got the best
of your stung eyes, no matter what.

Cronkite slow-shook his head. As if
no one saw it coming, days before. As
if no one ever heard of such. As if three
missing men, killers “uncertain,” was all

a mystery ” to launch a probe into—”. Could
he mean your city? Could that dead man be your
cool young Uncle Jimmy— where was he? No,
not Mississippi. You saw him leave. Smoking

and laughing, his candle-eyed friends
had come to beep the horn and call Yo, Chaney!
through the screen: And that Mississippi
soul. A lost cousin? No. Someone

else’s people stood round a table now, holding
open cuts. All of You, related. Chained to a room
by names. Twisted throats. Mouths closed. Mouths
hung dark, like that James, full of shapes
he can never outrun.

[Not your Philadelphia: August, 1964]
by M. Nzadi Keita, from Migration Letters

M. Nzadi Keita’s third poetry collection, Migration Letters, published by Beacon Press in April, 2024, centers her upbringing in Black working-class Philadelphia. Her second book, Brief Evidence of Heaven, shed light on free-born, illiterate abolitionist, Anna Murray Douglass, Frederick Douglass’s first wife. Publications including Poet Lore and anthologies such as The Ringing Ear: Black Poets Lean South, have featured Keita’s poems. Her prose publications include the journal About Place, and the volume, Women, Culture, and The Sixties. Keita served as a Professor of English at Ursinus College for 25 years, an adviser to the award-winning film, “BadddDDD Sonia Sanchez,” and a consultant with the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Foundation and Mural Arts Philadelphia. She is a member of the Black poetry collective, Cave Canem, and a recipient of grants, awards, and fellowships from the Leeway Foundation and the Pew Center for Arts and Heritage, among others. Keita has presented poetry and scholarship in varied settings, including the Modern Language Association International Conference and the National Caucus of African-American Librarians.

Featured image in this post is: “Goodman, Cheney, and Schwerner Murder site marker” by Alaska4Me2, creativie commons, via Wikimedia Commons

Two poems by Atena Danner

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These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.

Roberta Nettles, 1863 – Unknown, Letter to My Eldest Ancestor

by Atena Danner

Born amid dominion’s Deconstruction
Roberta saw whites fight Reconstruction

White children underwent rites of induction
“Teach‘em young, in light of Reconstruction.”

Did she breathe the air of occupation,
Her breath a “right” under Reconstruction?

For five years soldiers stirred up bad blood
Rebuke in the guise of Reconstruction.

Too soon, the Bureau pulled out of commission
Blacks bore the weight of Reconstruction.

They burned a Black school in Milan, TENN.
Our family seat since Reconstruction.

Did you celebrate your wedding day with joy,
Tennessee alight with immolation?

(One century later my own parents wed:
Chicago by way of the Great Migration)

When both of your parents died that same year,
Could you fall apart without disruption?

(When my father passed in 1998;
I crawled along the veil of generations.)

Birdie, your roots grew deep and distant
Bless all your flowers beyond Reconstruction.

Letter to My Eldest Ancestor

by Atena Danner

Evanston, I.L. 60201, August 1, 2021
Mrs. Dicey (Hawkins) Foree Ratliff
Jefferson, K.Y.
Madison, Hancock and Clay

Dear Madam,

I pray this letter finds your spirit well. After much searching, I have discovered you
to be my most senior relation.
It is a joy to know your name! And yet, I still must
ask your name. White men wrote the map that led me to you.
I know that you worked many years in the Foree house,
And the Hawkins household, too.
What would it please you to be called now that you may choose?

I live in a town near Chicago, working as a teacher.
My husband Christopher and I have been married five years
we own a little house and garden.
I have two children – Steven my star, and Duncan my warrior.
Eager and smart about their books and games,
they are sweetness from a bitter time of life.
I have promised to pass along to them
our legacy: their inheritance is your sacred memory.

I am so grateful to make your acquaintance!
There is an infinity to ask and tell
Forgive my anxiety and not knowing where
to begin. I would be grateful to learn of your life in Kentucky since
the news of slavery’s end.

I would be pleased to meet you in Louisville, at the Eastern Cemetery
Of course we will bring food and libation.
I pray that you will grant our family a blessing.

I am sincerely and gratefully yours,
Mrs. Atena Danner (White)

Atena O. Danner is a cultural worker who imagines Black liberation, engaged in boundless curiosity. Her poems range from kitchen-table specificity to expansive relatability, covering topics including neurodiversity, human connection, and collective liberation. Atena is grateful to have work published online, in ‘understory quarterly’ and Raising Mothers Online, and recently in ‘Fwd: Museums [Redacted].’ She also has work published in anthologies such as Shelter in This Place: Reflections on 2020 and Struggle, Elevate, Celebrate: An Anthology of Women’s Voices, and her own book of poetry, Incantations for Rest: Poems, Meditations & Other Magic. She is a Roots. Wounds. Words. Fellow, and Anaphora Writers Residency Fellow, an alum of the Hurston/Wright Writers Week, and has been a featured reader for The Guild Complex Presents Exhibit B series, Chicago Poetry Center’s Poetry on the Green, and the annual Brooks Day celebration in Chicago. Atena is a founding member of Lifted Voices organizing collective and collaborates as a member of Surviving the Mic, a collective of survivors that hold affirming creative space for survivors of sexual violence. In their home north of Chicago, near the traditional homelands of the people of the Council of Three Fires and of the Menominee, Miami and Ho-Chunk nations, Atena lives with her partner, pets and 2 free Black children. Her first poetry collection, ‘Incantations for Rest’ was released in 2022 and was awarded a Nautilus Silver Award for poetry in 2023.

Featured image in this post is: “An arrangement of vegetables that could be grown in a home garden in 1878”, Lithographic & Chromo Co. of Rochester, N.Y., Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Legacy: a Documentary Poem for My Ancestor by Sherri Mehta

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These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.

A note from the poet:
This is a documentary poem, which relies on primary source documents for its creation. Words, phrases, and sentences in quotation marks are direct quotes taken from Jefferson Michie’s military pension file that is housed at the National Archives in Washington, D.C.

Legacy: A Documentary Poem for My Ancestor

by Sherri Mehta

I’m going to tell you a story of how I came to be
one mighty leaf of many on our beautiful family tree.
Come closer…
and let me tell you the story of how I came to be
the 2nd great granddaughter of a soldier
in the 29th United States Colored Infantry.

September 1830,
Baby Jefferson was born enslaved on a Louisa, Virginia plantation.
But in 34 years he’d seize his freedom at “the Battle of Trevilian Station.”
Mother Minia, wife Ann,
children Arie, Florence, and Thomas,
Sister Matilda,
Brothers Minor and Isaac
stayed behind as he departed with one promise:
to return with freedom as the boon of his journey.

June 1864,
Union troops – with poor Cathay Williams in tow –
moved through Louisa dealing the Confederates a disabling blow.
My ancestor, hearing the affray,
knew this was the time to steal away.
So, off he “went … with [General] Sheridan’s [Union] Cavalry.”
Three months later, a private with the 29th USCT,
training down the road in “Arlington at Camp Casey;”
enlists marking an X and leaves service signing Jefferson Michie;
then ended up in Galveston, Texas to witness the reading of General Order #3…
June 19, 1866,
the end of enslavement in our country,
and my 2nd great granddaddy was there to see…
and to witness the collective prayers of his people answered.

“Mustered out in Illinois,” he made his way home to Ole Virginia
back to Ann, Arie, Florence, Thomas, his momma, and brothers Isaac and Minor.
But there was no happy reunion for my ancestor that day.
“Sick in bed when he left,”
“Ann died on Dr. Perkins’ place during the war while Jefferson was away.”
For freedom, this was the heftier price paid;
but he took the change, bought some land, and
stayed…

He married Ella, had eight more children,
a daughter – my grandfather’s mother.
He loved up on his family, had a business, stuck close to his brother.
Worked through the pain, “the rheumatism, effects of war and its scurvy,”
got his pension, and lived his life until his poor body grew weary.
Ella stood up so her husband’s memory would live on after he died,
Made the government make good on its promise as she boldly testified,
“I can’t give the month I was born or the year or the state,
but I was about twenty years old when Lee surrendered, [April 9,]1865” was the date.
And she would testify two more years to get her widow’s pension…

Because I come from strong women, strong men
who took every single small blessing and multiplied that thing times ten,
got knocked down, took that hit, got back up and did it again.
I am not my ancestors’ dream;
I AM my ancestors, and they are ME.
Every part of them was poured into exactly what you see.
Thus, I exist as a leaf- one of many – on our beautiful family tree.
It’s the bark that binds,
the buds of leaves
that grow eternally;
the crooked branch, the bumpy trunk,
the roots in Virginia dirt that birthed the WE.

Our Jefferson’s spirit rejoined the ancestors August 31, 1909.
They sent me here 65 years later – same month, same date, same time…
Damn…a true act of the Divine!
And when I had to decide
what I would research and write for my last degree,
my ancestors saw me worthy and called out to me.
Said find the story of your Jefferson Michie
and of the other 209,000 Black men in the USCT;
of every battle they fought,
of every letter carefully wrought…
Reconnect descendants to their rich and powerful ancestry,
so these brave Black soldiers will never again be a footnote in history.

And moving forward from this day,
you can look in your two sons’ eyes, lean close, and proudly say,
Ah…my babies, come and let me tell the story of how you came to be
part of the legacy of a freedom fighter – your ancestor – Jefferson R. Michie,
a gallant Black man, father, husband, and soldier of the 29th United States Colored Infantry.

Sherri Mehta is a Maryland-based presenter, writer, homeschooling mom, and wife with over twenty years of English teaching experience . She holds both a Ph.D. and an M.A. in English Literature and a B.A. in Mass MediaArts, and specializes in African American Civil War letters and nineteenth-century African American and American Literature. She has several published articles and encyclopedia entries; has presented at various local,state, and national conferences; and continues to offer workshops and presentations at local museums, research centers, and universities. Her research allowed her the opportunity to serve as a historical consultant on the Grammy Award winning song “Juneteenth” by Fyutch and the Alphabet Rockers. You can find her teaching homeschool literature classes, reading good books, writing some poems, and enjoying her family and close friends.

Featured image in this post is: “Company E of the 4th United States “Colored” Infantry Regiment, at Fort Lincoln, Washington, D.C. c. 1864. (50133595056)”, Julius Jääskeläinen, creative commons, via Wikimedia Commons.