#Nikky Finney

[rosyjuly]

Nikky Finney, The Aureole

[cascos-e-caricias]

 ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

[elwenyere]

Cattails

One woman drives across five states just to see her. The woman being driven to has no idea anyone's headed her way. The driving woman crosses three bridges & seven lakes just to get to her door. She stops along the highway, wades into the soggy ground, cuts down coral-eyed cattails, carries them to her car as if they might be sherbet orange, long-stemmed, Confederate roses, sheared for Sherman himself. For two days she drives toward the woman in Kentucky, sleeping in rest areas with her seat lowered all the way back, doors locked. When she reaches the state line it's misting. The tired pedal-to-the-metal woman finally calls ahead. I'm here, she says. Who's this? The woman being driven to, who has never checked her oil, asks. The driving woman reminds her of the recent writing workshop where they shared love for all things out-of-doors and lyrical. Come, have lunch with me, the driving woman invites. They eat spinach salads with different kinds of dressing. They talk about driving, the third thing they both love and how fast clouds can change from state line to state line. The didn't-know-she-was-coming woman stares at she who has just arrived. She tries to read the mighty spinach leaves in her bowl, privately marveling at the driving woman's muscled spontaneity. She can hardly believe this almost stranger has made it across five states just to have lunch with her. She wonders where this mad driving woman will sleep tonight. She is of two driving minds. One convertible. One hardtop. The driving woman shows her pictures of her children. Beautiful, the other does not say. Before long words run out of petrol. The woman who is home, but without pictures of her own, announces she must go. The driving woman frets & flames, May I walk you to your car? They walk. The driver changes two lanes in third gear, fast. The trunk opens. The Mario Andretti look-alike fills the other woman's arms with sable-sheared cattails. Five feet high & badly in need of sunlight & proudly stolen from across five states. The woman with no children of her own pulls their twenty pounds in close, resting them over her Peter-Panning heart. Her lungs empty out, then fill, then fill again with the surge of birth & surprise. For two years, until their velvet bodies begin (and end) to fall to pieces, every time the driven-to woman passes the bouquet of them, there, in the vase by the front door, she is reminded of what falling in love, without permission, smells like. Each time she reaches for her keys, she recalls what you must be willing to turn into for love: spiny oyster mushroom, damson, salt marsh, cedar, creosote, new bud of pomegranate, Aegean sage blue sea, fig, blueberry, marigold, leaf fall, fogs eye, dusty miller, thief-of-the-night.

-- Nikky Finney

[newsmutproject]

                                           My lips are red snails               in a primal search for every constellation               hiding in the sky of your body. My hand               waits for permission, for my life to agree               to be changed, forever. Can Captain Night               Clerk hear my fingers tambourining you               there on the moon? Won’t he soon climb               the stairs and bam! on the hood of this car?               You are a woman with film reels for eyes.               Years of long talking have brought us to the               land of the body. Our skin is one endless               prayer bead of brown.

-from “The Aureole (for E),” Nikky Finney

[manwalksintobar]

Cattails // Nikki Finney

One woman drives across five states just to see her. The woman being driven to has no idea anyone's headed her way. The driving woman crosses three bridges & seven lakes just to get to her door. She stops along the highway, wades into the soggy ground, cuts down coral-eyed cattails, carries them to her car as if they might be sherbet orange, long-stemmed, Confederate roses, sheared for Sherman himself. For two days she drives toward the woman in Kentucky, sleeping in rest areas with her seat lowered all the way back, doors locked. When she reaches the state line it's misting. The tired pedal-to-the-metal woman finally calls ahead. I'm here, she says. Who's this? The woman being driven to, who has never checked her oil, asks. The driving woman reminds her of the recent writing workshop where they shared love for all things out-of-doors and lyrical. Come, have lunch with me, the driving woman invites. They eat spinach salads with different kinds of dressing. They talk about driving, the third thing they both love and how fast clouds can change from state line to state line. The didn't-know-she-was-coming woman stares at she who has just arrived. She tries to read the mighty spinach leaves in her bowl, privately marveling at the driving woman's muscled spontaneity. She can hardly believe this almost stranger has made it across five states just to have lunch with her. She wonders where this mad driving woman will sleep tonight. She is of two driving minds. One convertible. One hardtop. The driving woman shows her pictures of her children. Beautiful, the other does not say. Before long words run out of petrol. The woman who is home, but without pictures of her own, announces she must go. The driving woman frets & flames, May I walk you to your car? They walk. The driver changes two lanes in third gear, fast. The trunk opens. The Mario Andretti look-alike fills the other woman's arms with sable-sheared cattails. Five feet high & badly in need of sunlight & proudly stolen from across five states. The woman with no children of her own pulls their twenty pounds in close, resting them over her Peter-Panning heart. Her lungs empty out, then fill, then fill again with the surge of birth & surprise. For two years, until their velvet bodies begin (and end) to fall to pieces, every time the driven-to woman passes the bouquet of them, there, in the vase by the front door, she is reminded of what falling in love, without permission, smells like. Each time she reaches for her keys, she recalls what you must be willing to turn into for love: spiny oyster mushroom, damson, salt marsh, cedar, creosote, new bud of pomegranate, Aegean sage blue sea, fig, blueberry, marigold, leaf fall, fogs eye, dusty miller, thief-of-the-night.

[anuwrites]

The On1y One (2024) | The Aureole by Nikky Finney

[llovelymoonn]

favourite poems of march

miki schumacher de / re / formation

craig arnold pitahaya

brian turner here, bullet: “what every soldier should know”

eileen myles not me: “peanut butter”

noor hindi breaking [news]

jane hirshfield my species

annesha mitha you are a tyrannosaurus rex

mary ruefle among the musk ox people: poems: “blood soup”

alice notley mysteries of small houses: “as good as anything”

nomi stone on world-making

k. silem mohammad poems about trees

franz wright the break

fred marchant the looking house: “night heron maybe”

carl phillips cortège: “domestic”

alexa luborsky connotations

bruce smith the other lover: “to the executive director of the actual”

nikky finney head off & split: “the aureole”

alice fulton personally engraved

amy beeder because our waiters are hopeless romantics

chiagoziem jideofor self-preservation

carol muske-dukes skylight: “the invention of cuisine”

joyce peseroff a dog in the lifeboat: “april to may”

rigoberto gonzalez other fugitives and other strangers: “other fugitives and other strangers”

toi derricotte the undertaker’s daughter: “my dad & sardines”

tarfia faizullah yr not exotic, but once ya wanted to be

jenny george the artist

jack spicer a second train song for gary

victor hernandez cruz maraca: new and selected poems 1966-2000: “red beans”

xi chuan power failure

jean valentine door in the mountain: new and collected poems, 1965-2003: “sanctuary”

duane niatum drawings of the song animals: new and collected poems: “consulting an elder poet on an anti-war poem”

kofi

[travelingasafamily]

Love Poems by Black Poets

I recently had a love poem I wrote for my girlfriend published in the Tuskegee Review. I had the long tradition of Black poets writing about love in mind - some writing for friends, for new lovers, for long term partners, for communities, for historical figures, etc. I've included a short list of love poems by Black poets below, some of which have appeared on Traveling as a Family before. Which poems resonated with you, and what else would you add to this list?

To Be in Love by Gwendolyn Brooks

Love Poem in the Black Field by Ariana Benson

Love Poem: Centaur by Donika Kelly

Love Poem: Mermaid by Donika Kelly

The Aureole by Nikky Finney

Cozy Apologia by Rita Dove

Heart to Heart by Rita Dove

My Lover is a Woman by Pat Parker

Love on Flatbush Avenue by Angel Nafis

American Wedding by Essex Hemphill

acknowledgements by Danez Smith

Regular Black by Danez Smith

[r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e]

One woman drives across five states just to see her. The woman being driven to has no idea anyone's headed her way. The driving woman crosses three bridges & seven lakes just to get to her door. She stops along the highway, wades into the soggy ground, cuts down coral-eyed cattails, carries them to her car as if they might be sherbet orange, long-stemmed, Confederate roses, sheared for Sherman himself. For two days she drives toward the woman in Kentucky, sleeping in rest areas with her seat lowered all the way back, doors locked. When she reaches the state line it's misting. The tired pedal-to-the-metal woman finally calls ahead. I'm here, she says. Who's this? The woman being driven to, who has never checked her oil, asks. The driving woman reminds her of the recent writing workshop where they shared love for all things out-of-doors and lyrical. Come, have lunch with me, the driving woman invites. They eat spinach salads with different kinds of dressing. They talk about driving, the third thing they both love and how fast clouds can change from state line to state line. The didn't-know-she-was-coming woman stares at she who has just arrived. She tries to read the mighty spinach leaves in her bowl, privately marveling at the driving woman's muscled spontaneity. She can hardly believe this almost stranger has made it across five states just to have lunch with her. She wonders where this mad driving woman will sleep tonight. She is of two driving minds. One convertible. One hardtop. The driving woman shows her pictures of her children. Beautiful, the other does not say. Before long words run out of petrol. The woman who is home, but without pictures of her own, announces she must go. The driving woman frets & flames, May I walk you to your car? They walk. The driver changes two lanes in third gear, fast. The trunk opens. The Mario Andretti look-alike fills the other woman's arms with sable-sheared cattails. Five feet high & badly in need of sunlight & proudly stolen from across five states. The woman with no children of her own pulls their twenty pounds in close, resting them over her Peter-Panning heart. Her lungs empty out, then fill, then fill again with the surge of birth & surprise. For two years, until their velvet bodies begin (and end) to fall to pieces, every time the driven-to woman passes the bouquet of them, there, in the vase by the front door, she is reminded of what falling in love, without permission, smells like. Each time she reaches for her keys, she recalls what you must be willing to turn into for love: spiny oyster mushroom, damson, salt marsh, cedar, creosote, new bud of pomegranate, Aegean sage blue sea, fig, blueberry, marigold, leaf fall, fogs eye, dusty miller, thief-of-the-night.

-- Cattails, Nikki Finney

[apexart-journal]

Hanna Saarikoski in NYC #Day 13, Trip to Washington DC

The next morning I had a late breakfast before leaving the hotel. I walked along the streets towards the National Mall and made a first stop at the Smithsonian Pollinator Garden. Since I love gardening and plants, I relaxed by just exploring everything that was growing there and noticing little nuances in flowers I knew from home, how they are the same but different here.

Then I visited the National Museum of the American Indian, the Washington Monument, and finally the National Museum of African American History and Culture. Both museums were full of interesting objects, information and strong emotions. The Trail of Tears and the story of Pocahontas was something I knew a little about, but the museum made it all come alive. I had a second thought about Thomas Jefferson's book collection and how even the most educated person can be blinded and led by conventional thinking fostered in the time one lives.

At the NMAAHC, I especially liked how the vast collection was displayed. Below the street level were the history galleries, and as you climbed higher through floors of interactive Explore More and community galleries, you came to the 4th floor, the culture galleries. There they had permanent exhibition Cultural expressions, examining style (identity, political expression, and attitudes expressed in clothing, dress, hair, and jewelry), food and foodways, artistry, and creativity through craftsmanship, social dance and gesture, and language. It was so fantastic and rich in detail, and it made the connections. Poet Nikky Finney's acceptance speech (or probably just an excerpt of it) at the 2011 National Book Award for Poetry ceremony, touching on race, reading, and writing, was incredible. I stood there and listened to it several times. I need to find and read more of her writing.

After this cultural concentrate, the return trip was quite extreme. It was already dark when the bus left Washington Union Station. I was prepared to read and write, but no one turned on the lights, and I didn't dare either, thinking it might interfere with the driver's work. The bus was packed with passengers. At some point the driver took a short break to get some coffee. In the dark, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, the miles and hours seemed like an eternity.

I tried to write something on my phone, texted Casey as well. Suddenly I realized something was wrong. I heard worried voices and understood that the bus wasn't staying in its lane, but drifting off to the side of the highway. Then the sirens and blinking red and blue lights of the policecar, our bus slowed down and stopped. Apparently our driver was too tired to drive and had fallen asleep while driving. Some of the passengers probably called the police to stop the driver. He was frustrated and angry, claiming he could still get us to NYC safely. "Take a plane if you don't dare take the bus". The police investigated the situation for a long time, but finally let him drive again.  Even that was scary and anything could have happened, I felt so sorry for him. I am pretty sure that no one wants to drive that tired. He probably didn't have a choice.

[finishinglinepress]

FLP POETRY BOOK OF THE DAY: Traveling Mercy by Jennifer Bartell

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/traveling-mercy-by-jennifer-bartell/

Traveling Mercy navigates the journeys of a #black #woman from rural South Carolina. Her travels transcend time as she encounters #history, nature, and grief. She sits with the eldest residents before her birth, with the first ancestor who came to these shores, with her parents through their marriage, and through her own loneliness in the wake of their deaths. Planting as she harvests, this book is a lament and a love story to survival.

Jennifer Bartell is a poet and teacher from Columbia, SC. She was born and raised in Bluefield, a community of Johnsonville, SC. She received the MFA in Poetry from the University of South Carolina. Her poetry has been published in Obsidian, Callaloo, pluck!, As/Us, Jasper Magazine, the museum americana, Scalawag, and Kakalak, among others. An alumna of Agnes Scott College, Jennifer has fellowships from Callaloo and The Watering Hole. She teaches high school English. This is her first full-length book of poetry.

PRAISE FOR Traveling Mercy by Jennifer Bartell

After reading a single magnificent poem in Traveling Mercy, “the sapling in your chest floods with too much water and light.” Read a handful of poems, and find yourself on the poet’s ferry crossing the river “between thens and tomorrows.” Every magical, existential line is an iteration of Jennifer Bartell’s dextrous poetics. This accomplished debut elegizes human loss while celebrating the resilience that persists through witness and language. Traveling Mercy is a dazzling first book.

–Terrance Hayes

Bartell’s Traveling Mercy is such an intimate history of a Black girl raised by Black women, raised by church fans and magnolia memories, dream-hymns of Black people pushing through mud and disease and held together by traditions. This rich collection of poems, by a Black girl who knows how and why to style okra seeds in her hair, spills with fat oysters and a community’s petrified pounded grace. Bartell assures she will never give us one chance to hold our breath, as we jump into this never-ending deep end of blazing life, therefore, prepare to be drenched.

–Nikky Finney

Please share/please repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #read #poetrybook #poems #blackwoman #blackpoet

[lunchboxpoems]

CATTAILS

One woman drives across five states just to see her. The woman being driven to has no idea anyone's headed her way. The driving woman crosses three bridges & seven lakes just to get to her door. She stops along the highway, wades into the soggy ground, cuts down coral-eyed cattails, carries them to her car as if they might be sherbet orange, long-stemmed, Confederate roses, sheared for Sherman himself. For two days she drives toward the woman in Kentucky, sleeping in rest areas with her seat lowered all the way back, doors locked. When she reaches the state line it's misting. The tired pedal-to-the-metal woman finally calls ahead. I'm here, she says. Who's this? The woman being driven to, who has never checked her oil, asks. The driving woman reminds her of the recent writing workshop where they shared love for all things out-of-doors and lyrical. Come, have lunch with me, the driving woman invites. They eat spinach salads with different kinds of dressing. They talk about driving, the third thing they both love and how fast clouds can change from state line to state line. The didn't-know-she-was-coming woman stares at she who has just arrived. She tries to read the mighty spinach leaves in her bowl, privately marveling at the driving woman's muscled spontaneity. She can hardly believe this almost stranger has made it across five states just to have lunch with her. She wonders where this mad driving woman will sleep tonight. She is of two driving minds. One convertible. One hardtop. The driving woman shows her pictures of her children. Beautiful, the other does not say. Before long words run out of petrol. The woman who is home, but without pictures of her own, announces she must go. The driving woman frets & flames, May I walk you to your car? They walk. The driver changes two lanes in third gear, fast. The trunk opens. The Mario Andretti look-alike fills the other woman's arms with sable-sheared cattails. Five feet high & badly in need of sunlight & proudly stolen from across five states. The woman with no children of her own pulls their twenty pounds in close, resting them over her Peter-Panning heart. Her lungs empty out, then fill, then fill again with the surge of birth & surprise. For two years, until their velvet bodies begin (and end) to fall to pieces, every time the driven-to woman passes the bouquet of them, there, in the vase by the front door, she is reminded of what falling in love, without permission, smells like. Each time she reaches for her keys, she recalls what you must be willing to turn into for love: spiny oyster mushroom, damson, salt marsh, cedar, creosote, new bud of pomegranate, Aegean sage blue sea, fig, blueberry, marigold, leaf fall, frog's eye, dusty miller, thief-of-the-night.

NIKKY FINNEY

[wintryblight]

Hi, love your blog! Any poems you could recommend about travel in general or, a bit more specific, road trip poems from contemporary poets?

thank you anon! here are some travel poems, some of whom are more specifically about road trips. i added a Whitman poem at the end even though he’s not necessarily contemporary, but i still think you’d really enjoy it.

Sally Wen Mao, “Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles” | the trees twitch / and the clouds wane and the tides / quiver and the galaxies tilt and the sun / spins us another lonely cycle

Nikky Finney, “Cattails” | Each time she reaches for her keys, she recalls what you must be willing to turn into for love

Megan Fernandes, “Amsterdam” | immune to / time shifts, I just wander and buy fruit / and almonds and a good loaf / of bread

Jenny Xie, “Rootless” | Can this solitude be rootless, unhooked from the ground?

Lidija Dimkovska, “Journey” | You dreamt in snatches an unending dream of how / the nineteenth century travels around with a beard / like a drunk loser

Nate Klug, “Lonely Planet” | “We’re here now,” you say, / holding out the book I bought / with its dog-eared maps and lists

Walt Whitman, “Song of the Open Road, 4″ | O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you

[the-final-sentence]

This native necessity of nailing down a place, for the cooling off of air, in order to lift the friendly, the kindly, the so politely, the in-love-ly, jubilant, into the arms of the grand peculiar, for the greater good of the public spectacular: us giving us away.

Nikky Finney, from “Dancing with Strom”

[biandlesbianliterature]

10 Poetry Collections by Black Queer Women

10 Poetry Collections by Black Queer Women

Poetry has always been an artistic expression. From declarations of love to contemplating the meaning of life, poetry has a way of putting the human experience into words. It’s also an effective way to take a political stance or spark compassion for others’ cultures and ways of life. Here are 10 poetry collections that delve into the experience of Black bisexual, lesbian, and queer writers.

How…

[villings]

No puedes seguir metiéndote con una preciosa mujer negra que sabe manejarse con el terciopelo.

Nikky Finney