when the poems do what they do, by aja monet (2024)

1.

i am a flowerpot sitting on the subway platform, dreaming of a southern sky i am the southern skybruised hues of blues and inner city, with an ocean front viewa holy ghost tongue possessed between the pewssleepless in the twilighta vision board invisible to eyesightloose hips humming under summer porch lightsi’m the djembe drumrhythms spun between love drunk kneesi’m a runaway rivera sawed off shotgun creeping through the leavesa kiss that quiversa machete that bleedsi’m the bananas on Josephine's skirt, a brown liquor flirtthe gardenia in Billy Holiday’s hairi’m a blues song in a cigarettes glare, a beaded zulu hat on Makeba’s headBob Marley’s loc, a natty dreadi’m Marcus Garvey’s last microphone, ancient lady of grace Nefertiti’s royal throne i’m a poemi’m a poem handwritten by La Lupe on the Malecóna grassroots meeting of orishas in the basem*nt of a brownstonei’m a homegirl homegrown made of magica mermaid of memories swimming through tragic timesi’m the one, that got awayi’m the love, i’m the lovei'm the love i never hada cipher of butterfly wingsi’m a little girl who had big dreams, and prayers in my mothers pursei’m the color of Saturday, bouncing off the wallsi drizzle in the wind like a sun shower shawli’m the final hour, before the moon restsi’m what a day looks like, honest and undressedi’m la cascarilla on the door, windows and ventsa protector of realmsa protector of realmsi’m a Bwiti shaman who ascendsi’m the mirrori am the mirrori am the mirror, i’m the root and the endi ami ami am not that i ami am and we arewe, we, you and mei ami am because of youwe are here togetherthere’s no me without youi ami said there’s no me without youwe are we x 2 ix3i ami am, because we arewe arei’m only possible because we are you and me, we arei amyou made me possiblei am x 2i am, because we are

2.

my love be a front linemy love be a fightera shade that sisters and savesmy love survived the middle passagewaded the watersmy love be grassrootsorganises movements, the birds the beesmy love be butterflies beamingmy love be indigenous, ocean wide, sky deepmy love listens to the landall natural no preservativesmy love be homemade from the scratchscribbled handwritten notes, adorationmy love be scripturebe ritual, baptism, revivala cathedral built from bare handsa taj mahal, all the templesmy love creates new ways to worshipserenity, sorcery, hieroglyphs across your chest, tongue tiedmy love be sacred geometrypast life premonitionsrevelations and gratitudeprayer handsmy love be call and responsepraise the eyelashes and the eyesmy love be a river like the Nile, ancient and longmy love be a crowd of shynesssecret messages in the rosy red of deep dimplesmy love be a reflectiona looking glassmagica song we only dance tomy love, my love make no excusesmy love be compassionateforgives but not stupidbe backbone, be ass whooping, accountablemy lovemy love be loveabundantlimitless, endless, giving, make no mistakes ‘less they lessonsmy love be book smartbe Googlebe Google readyencyclopaedic, soul listening, kindred twin flame, seeking, questioning, answering, demanding, aggressive, hugging, consent, candle lighting, that tarot card, psychic healing, intuitivemy love be bravemy love be bravebe heavyhearted, lightheaded, woozy, clumsy, knee wobbling, butterfly, belly dancing, floating and flutteringmy love be goofybe goofy, be silly, trusting, foreplay, aching, tempting, tasting to savour, weary, wounded, ridding ghostssome things cannot be saged, but must be facedmy lovemy love be partnershipbe collectivedon't leave when things get toughbe flawed, stretch marked, pudgy, boldmy love squeezes pimples, tweezes ingrownsmemoriesmy lovemy love be a lighthouse in the middle of stormbe lightwhy every time we tell man about himself, our love gotta come into questionwho saidwho said loving you would be a walk in the white section of the parkwho wrote the poems that made love in to a door mat, doorbell, p*rnographic, wet dream, male gaze, nonsense romance filmwho done turned love, into a battle of the sexessay I can't love my man and tell him where it hurts or howor when to stop or when to slowtreat me with kindnesswho say, who say, who say I can’t teach you how to love mehow to tender tug and touchhow to witness and watchwho say, who say love gotta humiliate megotta turn me into a victiminto a damsel in distressif i could tell you ‘bout yourself to your face, i wouldn't have speak to strangerswhy my love, why my love always gotta be in questiongotta go through tests, relay races, obstacle coursesgotta hop on one leg, and bark like a dogwhy my love gotta do backflipsand learn rocket science and speak mansplainwhy my love x 2why my love gotta wait till you ready to love youwhy the world ain’twhy the world ain’t got my backand I alwaysi always seem to haveyours

3.

black joyjoy is the willis the dimple that has endureda dance so deep in a dark cheeka wound without a scarwithout a tracethe humour of hurtis the hell of being healedjoy daps deathlives in the grinsinging from the bloodbathes in a smirktestifies tenderness in a tearit is a smile silhouetted against the face witnessing the wantthe flower in the grenadea rose in the concretea pirouette beside a barricadeis the butterfly in the battlefieldis disarmingthe swing set in the middle of a gunfightis dodging a bullethopscotch and double dutcha fierce gaze, the side eye, the shadethe sass, the snap, the head nodis the turn up, the swagjoy is righteous and ratchetjoy twerks and taps, jooks and jives harlem shakes, electric slides, dutty wines salsas on twos and rumbasjoy is rhythm and repetitionrhythm and repetitionhums in harmonyis the bluesis a song in a cotton fieldor central bookingson a crowded subwayjoy is a song anywherejoy bes in the trapis a dilla beat in the middle eastis flyis finger-licking goodis pasteles with black beansor a patty and coco breadis fried chickenwith bbq sauceor buffalo sauceor hot sauceor any damn saucejoyis a recipe passed ona language that survivessavoury and sweettoe curlingknocking bootsthe fight and the furyis making love to make upis the glowis an entire day in a lover’s arms,a carton of ice cream and a bed of booksis illuminated in the aftermathis wrinkled lips, a pouted kiss, the shivering hipsthe theater of our thunderjoyjoy is a story travelinga rocking chair on the front lawna wind chime in a windowis a barbeque in the backyardsubwoofers in a hooptymelanin gathered in a roomis the entourageis getting your friends in the clubjoyjoy is all about vibesis a roof over your headis clothes on your backis free 99is having the rent when its dueor having no rent at allis no debt or no credit checkjoy is shooting dice in a stairwayit’s getting a hand in spadesor a double six capicu in dominoesis hoops in a crateis opening a fire hydrant in the heatjoyis a six-block willy through traffic with no handlebars in the rainis the catwalkis the voguingis the coming outis the crackhead with a dime bag and a dreamis a fresh pair of white kicks with the checkis bottle caps glued beneath dress shoesis three dollars in the tankis catching rain water in a tin cupa firefly in your palmbuying sunflowers for yourself on a cloudy dayis a moon in the sky as if in a school playis your father in the audiencejoy is skipping school or recessis a screen without static aluminium foil antennais when the belt buckle snaps or the switch breaks or your mom gets too damn tired joyis waving down the ice cream trucka fresh line up and a clean doobiethe perfect coil to a curl or a loosened nap and an afro pick is the gift of gabis rapping yo ass offis roasting or wrestling a sibling to tap outjoyis yo mama jokes until it’s yo mamais the first foot out the jail, the homecoming, the graduationthe step show at the probatejoy x 3is hugging the self, what conquers the heart and captures the blameis the madness of our meaningis the maturity of our memoryis the irony of our forgettingis a helicopter four days after the hurricane on a roof with no water or food is a mother picking her daughter up from foster careis smoking a joint and a cop car switching lanesis food stamps on the first of the monthis no snitchingno snitchingis loyalty, perseverance, protest, resilience, resistanceis the food after the funeral or the paradethe blessing and the cursethe call, the responsethe prayer, the pulpitis evidence of things unseenis the hallelujah, the amen, the holy ghostis speaking in tonguesis when the santo say you don't need no cleaningis genetic heirloomis the portable promised landit is the diaspora x 3making it overseas or making it over the mason-dixon linejoyjoy is familyis brotherhoodis sisterhoodis feeling another’s dimple in your faceis togetherjoy is togetherit's together unified on the frontlinesour joyour joy will astonish the worldbecause joytrue joyhas always beenand will always bejustice

4.

hurt was here before we weresomeone you love will eventually disappoint you maybe even break your heart or hurt your feelingsthis will happenaccept itsometimes repeatedly oftentimesrepeatedlywe will be hurtand it will feel lonesome and sickeningand you will wonder what has gone mad in the world you will question everythingbeginning with yourselfyou may even wish you owned a riflea knifea proper fistthe perfect word to scar an insidebut you will crysomeone will hurt you todaytomorrowthe next daythree years from nowand you will love them one dayyou will love them for itthere’s this thingthis twisted appreciation for sufferingyou can only know love through the lens of neglect joy though the lens of painand it’s fascinating actuallyhow we wound with our woundsand call it humanitythe first time you hurt someone you loveyou will question the last time you tended an open wound you will vow to never do it againyou may even pray to some godsome yemayasome universeanyone listening for forgivenessor the greatest deathyou will not care at allbe preparedbe prepared for a hurting is comingand it will come and it will take you suddenlyand maybe you will be dancingor laughingor rememberingmaybe you wont even notice it at alland you will hurt yourselfyou will hurt yourself with all this hurt thoughtand you will lovehurtingand you will loveno one really wants to hurt, you will say no one really wants to hurtand it will turn from blameto revelationi don’t really want to hurtand you will lovedid you know that?did you know you will love?never mind the whonever mind the whenit’s of no importanceyou will loveand it will unhurt usall

5.

when the earth shatters beneath us and we are broken openpicked apart by the silencelet me tell youyou are unrehearsed laughter sleeping between the murmur of my lips an unconscious lovea man dipped in midnight lighteningi will fix my body for youand fold in the bend of your arms a tortured jewelyou are a freedom songhumming in the shadow of my soul a healing heartachethat kisses wounds and sets free tornadoes on my spine such a crippling tonguemy spirit is dancing in the gospel of your chestand i have found musicglowing in the whirlwind of your eyesmay we create new skies to fall apart under togetherthe sun bent its head on my skin this morningand i could hear the bones of butterflies creaking in the breeze the breath of birds heaving into the heart of my earsmy eyeswhistled openthe air still smelling of lavender smoke and wet leavesi turn to youstaring the lids of your jarred pupils your faceyour face is a naked desert at dawnan ancient heaven at horizonyour mouth slightly caved open like an owling cowi smilebloomingbecause somewhere before i remember thisi remember this silenceyou sound of a starving angel when you sleepyou snore like a wailing forest my lovei think of you like a waking dreamof your spine’s grip melted into the sand dunes of my palms last nightlast nightyour hands sprinkled across my flesh like rainstormsand i can feel the sun this morninghe is strong and gleamingyour eyelashes splinter from the blow of my lipsriseand shine

6.

aja monet:the perfect storm empties a country of abuelitas padreshermanosmujeresy niñosa disaster that doesn't seem so naturalwaves of winddamaged homeshovering roofs made of tarpif you wanted to take land from a people bent on resisting colonialism insert mcdonaldswalmartor the jones actor blame it on a storm of a woman named Mariawho grew up in spanish harlemwho reminded us of the western storythat as the rich are getting richerthe poor are getting poorernever mind the wealththat ain’t so common under the foot of US forcethe way loss runs through steep hill sidesorrivers swell the veins between vacant townswe blame the thirsty but not the corporations that tax waterthe shocking doctrines of profit over peopleexploited tunes and tones of rhythms Taíno for tourists and escapism por la isla de encanta we, we lament the boriquen tonguein power outages of spanglishcursing the companies of settler colonial conditionsfor the prayers and litaniestears like rosary beadsin the sewers of sorrowswhere fantazma singfrom the sore throat blueness of bloodthe border between refugee and nomadmigration is the art of fleeing sad songs for blooming in suitcases la gente fuerteand mourn wondrouswe belongwe belong to each otherbefore any notion of a nationno one will understandthe tangled truesof being from here and nowherethe beaming cocqui that still visits in dreamsthey wont write us in historyif we don't write ourselvesthe uncle who drowned in coronasand ham sandwichesvisions of never playing pro baseballor the auntwho claps the roof of her mouthwhen she speaksasthmatic and always, always, always highwho lost 6 children to the governmentorabuela who is always working 2/3 jobsto make up for the guiltof coming to americaand how she couldn't face returning to no running waterand still there are spiritsthere are spiritswho know every chupacabra has its dayit is time x 6for us to take the red fire of our woundsand weapon our mouthstoward new movement songsrememberremember Campos suffering in silenceseparated by an ocean, and a language yet still freefreein the love of a people fearless and unafraidalwaysalways a hurricaneit’s always a hurricaneit’s always a hurricane before the grand exodusbefore the grand exodusthe fight for dignity and independenceSan Ciriacorattlesrattles, rattling in every roarevery roar of revision is historypa’lante peoplepa’lantemilagros de movimientossoar x 2because if we are to liveif we are to live with the fierce force of knowing anything anything that is sacred x 2is worth fighting for x 2bienvenidobienvenido a la luchawe are worthfighting forEryn Allen Kane:worth, fight x 9aja monet:we are worth fighting forthe perfect stormalways precedes great miracles and we are worth fighting for did you know x3that you are powerfuldid you know that you have everything you need that every, everything you need is within you that youthat you are worthyou x6i mean you are worth fighting forand that everythingeverything you needeverythingi mean everythingeverything x 2everything you need x 2is within youthat you are so powerfulgreat storms precede great miraclesremember thatgreat storms precede great miracles-The Young Lords-

7.

Novena Carmel:if wine was a riverand i was a ducki’d dive to the bottom and never come upbut since wine ain’t no riverand i ain’t no duckimma drink this winetil i’m f*cked upnow dig all you cats and kitties out there whipping and wailing and sucking up all that ole fine juicewell imma put a lady on youshe is the coolestthe sweetestthe poet-estand the worldliestand she from new york cityand this galher name isaja monetaja monet:the devil you knowtaxes the air we breatheprivatises the waterprofits of homelessnessstrangles the land and injects hormones in animals rapes the people and rewards the richcharges youfor being sicksends a bill to your loved ones with interest when you die laughs at us coughing up our lungsgulping water, lead dripping off our chinsbuys private ships to the moondancing with your demonsthe selfish, individualistic part of youthe one who rather not have a foot on your neckor who shows up to the rallyafter sipping sweet comfort at a corporate gigthat pays you just enough to die a little slowertired and community fostering carehow being blackor womanor queeror transor otheror humanor inhumanecomputer or codeable bodied ten fingers, ten toes runningor right or wronghow none ofitmatterswhen the earth is a hand written letter from the pasta ghost sculpted in blood, city sweating bitter memoriesflooded by crawling maggots and swollen hurthow, how the sewers sing of old sidewalksand cool breezes are our fairytaleswe spoon feed our children in the heatand we were never ourselves, had we known who we are without greed a world decorated by betrayalif we had a sense of humour x 2we’d be more radicalmore migrant than citizenwe’d breathe the air clean and ration our resourcesgathering hugs and holds set to bloomand pebbles of rain reasoning with riverbeds rinsing in daylightridding pipelines and fossil fuelswe would melt all the guns x 2 (melt all the guns)the moist in the back of our kneesthe lick between knuckles mocking eviland all its ill designed destructionwe would choose the scarwe would bulldoze the wallsand plant windows where widows weepbeautiful green lakes hushed in our cradling armswe’d becomethe tiny brooklet kissing creekswe are, we are near a point of no returna wounded woman scorntemper sharp as a thousand shardsaimed in one directioni am weary for weeping“me too”she whispers“me too”the earth said.Interludethe most important election is in the hearta campaign of soula candidate measured by their couragein the midst of the enduring strength of love voting for the inner standinghow we make a way through no way in a basem*nt church or a high school auditoriuma family living roomthese daysthese days insanity is the sanity stifled sobs, despair, distress, thrill p r a i s e the people x 2 praise the peoples powerthe poet laureates of the poorcare warm anthems sawn from the keyholes of closed, shut doors the whistle of who and whythe architect of self-determinationif you gon’ vote x 2vote with your spinea head held highvote x 6with the way you lovea gut singing soft city sleep dreaming of protestthe ballotthe ballot is not a bulletbut it can be a border or a bridgeyou choose (she got make me vote)how you gon’ votepour into each otherhow we mourn those we’ve losthow we all hold the griefvote x3with childcarehow you nurse the sicklending someone your heartpay fair wages x 2thats the least you can do, is pay fair wagesvotevote by listeningresist the artificial division of our deathsheld together by a common thread ofconcerned, self-determined, reliantrespectthe body is a ballroom of grief and despairwe the lifewe the chosenwe the freed migrant rebel workerswe the word workerswe the shoeless and standing tallwe the houseless and housing parkswe the teachers still studentswe the farmers in the fieldwe the shamans being healedrevolutionrevolution is not a spectator sportsilenceis a noise toosomewheresomewhere there is an incorruptible spiritre-remembering a time when we voted with the thoughts in our minds it begins with youit begins with you loving you enough to me as i am youwe are the country’s consciousness risingand we are only as powerful as our vote made in the flesh our voiceour voice bravely raising upreverberatingnew visions

8.

aja monet:what makes you feel lovedLonnie Holley:lovedlove is like a liquid of agapeand i died within itand each and every dayif i don't get but a single dropfrom the tip of a leafthat was caused by the morning dewthat what makes me say i love youbecause love is a naturallove is everythingso in the wonders of loveI feel wonderfulI feel full of wonderand mysteriously in my abstract motionand my notions of abstractnessthey will never figure me outbecause i am of loveborn for love, created for lovethe identity of love itselflove has been hued into stoneand scattered like dust in the windlovehmmlovethat love has been so funnyand that love has been so seriousuntil it went with the ancestors in their gravethat lovehas been givenover and over and over and over and over and over and over to every generationthat love has be given and relivenreliving ithmmmcan’t you feel it?thats what I'm saying x2all you gotta do is listenand then what you feel from that, you ride itbecause love is gonna be the one that push an opinionlove is gonna be the one thats forcing the ink

9.

as if we did not lose anotheras if life were never so convenientand guns so easy to reachour country’s so trigger happy these daysor saddepending on who's dying todaydepending on the touchthe moon raises my rivers yesterdayi leaked all around the housea bad coughand a cloud looking over my shoulder as i wrote and though i cryi am celebrating a woman i lovewho loved me before i knew myself to bewhat blooms in the blood, what scratches the voice trembles wordsevery day is a new mourninganother fight we live to dance between tears beating on our facesi am tired of strength x 2when i first showed up to the community organizing meeting i uttered the word ‘poetry’and their faces sunk with confusionwho's got time for poems, when the worlds on fireand your brother’s body on your front door and your sister’s been missing for weeks and your dad got laid offand your mother gone mad with mothering and your uncle locked upand your aunt need a fix i mean, i meanlife can get you down and outbut when the organizers was wearyand all the marching wore them downand all the meetings ended in argumentsand all the foundations bought out the snakes and all the trauma piled up on their desks and all the campaigns ended with politiciansi offered, i offeredpoems in their palms like petunias revolutionary and blushing shades of plumi fed them SoniaandJaneandJuneandPat ParkerandCarolyn Rodgershow every poem still pierces truelike yesterdays battlefield is tomorrows front yardstillstill, all my hero’s is fighting depressionsome live to see what they fought to preventand we ought to keep our hopes highbut all this comfort and security got our institutions kidnapped in broad daylight treaty tornand trickedbamboozled by the beaming brilliance of greedgot our babies programmed for numbnesscontent isand what is an enemy if we do not know who our friends areand who is a comrade these days when the poems are gooddepending on who reposts themdepending on who's fetching for awardsand who will feed our activists, our organizers freedom, if not the poets?we are losing our front line warriors to suicideand is not choosing to fight a sort of sacrificea kind of offeringall our children have become alters to the liberation frontthe other day, the other daywe lost Amber Evansbaby girl found in the Scioto Rivershe was 28and before that it was Erica Garnerheart full of storm and lighteningshe was 27and before that it was Marshawn McCarrel on the steps of the Ohio statehouse haunted by the huntinghe was 23Bassem Masri, Bassem Masriour Palestinian brother from another motherwhat about,what about Fergusonand Edward Crawfordand Darren Sealesand how dreams still smell of teargas and milkwe crywe cry trumpets and turntables in the corners of our hopeswe rhythm and bluesand though i cry x 3i am celebratinga woman i loveshe who turned the pen in her hand to a grenadehaiku homegirl folklore floristflungstories into our mindsplanted orchidsand daffodilssunflowersshe who, she who shivered the skyrain showers and sunsets born of her blessingthe flesh of her wordskindred sister who wrote for daughtersof a movementwho say, do and actthe callresponseresistriot of our rebellious laughteras we readied our reasons for writingwe armed ourselves with her poemsa strategy for organizing the heartprophetic prayersa smile made of spirituals and birth painsthese daysthese days, it hurts to writeevery sentence is a false promiseis we, or is we nottrying to get freeand when the poems do what they dothey get it doneSister Sanchezeternal fellow fire spitterbadi mean badi mean bad to the bonei never met a poet who loved us like you doall of usand when my anger knocks the wind out of my weepingi sit on the hills of your humming wordsand feast of all the ways, we got to get to where we’re going in the quiet mirror of a poem, how to be humanhow to shake loose arms outstretchedsummoning us, uncool and truth telling carehow to heal in the cathedral of handsthis is a poem for youand for usfor all the poems that sistered us in this ancestral warall the linessomersaulting sisterSister Sanchezyou areour North Starin our darkest nights.

10.

i went to see someone about my pain and he told me that i had to meet the warrior at the edge of sea “do not carry anger that is not yours”says el brujoand just like thatthe sand is a quiet prayer rug under folded knee deep washed ashorerain passing the cheeka lick of salt from the liplonging for the wide arms of windwoozy and restlessi rushed toward the deity of living seahorse of my heartrunning to the teacher of tideswet whisper of all that swimsbreathing beneath blue water colori’m here to heal my hurti fall into the black mermaid of miracle and pearlmistress of moon and star belowseven glittering waves, splash aqua marinea flamenco skirt dancing on the skylightening fast footworkheaven on my shouldersarms flirt the clouds, a migrant bird outstretchedel brujo rubs my body with the fruitand tears the shirt from my back, mumbling a tongue that teases me faint tell me you can hear those thrown overboardteetering on the plankthe drowned out screams sink each shrieka shimmeringshimmering facei bury my face in the chest of the oceanweeping for the voices remembering megod of cerulean scales and gold finstemper of turbulent rivers, roaringcleanse me of sadness and sorrowin this grandest lakes, lagoons or streamsyemayayemayai offeri offer you papayacoconut and cotton flowerdeep labyrinth of worlds sunken underlady who levels the landqueen of atlantisguaraca beneath Arabian seathe spirit of depththe mapless mountains inwardhow light goes to restvanishing in the opaquelargest body without borderslines fadenationsnavigating fishing boats filled with dreams that never dock guardian of the glistening ancient graveyardghost gossiping with our tunesfortune teller of shivering shells soothing these stranger times i do not knowi do not know which ancestor gave me this rage but i am readyi am readyi am so readyto lay it down i’m ready to lay downasé.Jadele McPherson:vocalsaja monet:me traiga su bendición me libre de todo mal reina del marmadre de chango guerrera de mi corazón bendice a cada oriente bendice a cada orienteJadele McPherson:vocalsAssata Shakur:i hope that I can live up to my mother’s exampleand i hope that I can live up to my ancestor’s expectationsbecause I really believe that I have a dutyto all those that have become before meto all this who lie at the bottom of the oceanto all those who lost their liveswhether it is in the cane fields, or cotton fields.. or you know, hanging off some tree to continue the struggle and to continue to loveand to continue to believeand to continue to try to be humanto be giving

11.

castaway i did not want to write a poem full of corpsessoi wrote a sacred pink blue skyjewelled on the horizonlaughter as the loudest star sleepshumour hugs every ache wholehow heavy heads lay after a long day in the humid heat carribean moon size and joyous dreamsi did not wish to speak of what should not be spokenso silence breathed into all the wordsa hauntingi come from a language that does not write itselfour ancestors speak hurricanea thunder tongue shivering tides and a petty revengethe mid atlantic is a vexed auntie rattling rivers and roofs ready for reckoningknocking at the chest of menon the other sideon the other side of now there is a door where we return every island is a hip swaying between here and therea float in the dance to belongrocking in the arms of the edgewhere the sea is an emerald flag and palm trees praise the air every shore is an alter of remembranceembraced on purposepickney of the sun raywhere prayer trembles the lightor how a storm retreatswe marvel and move eternal unfawned and unlosthips hollering, elbows flapping like fanning flamesbare feet chant in the sand or in a concrete junglelove taps quake the nape of the earths neckwhere daughters of the diaspora dreamand inherit journeys of fleshwhere a smile is also a scaror how my grandfather came to see about usyears after he diedwearing my uncles facedimpled and shining eyes like two wet black beansbaptised by a spiritrum slapped on his breathcharming man and all he waschecking on his grand babiesfear not death x 2we visit kinfolk therelingering in the blood where the ocean humstribe of the great abyssa not knowing from where or what we comeand still to arrive before they could conquer uswe came by shipwreckby wind and wavepushed into the water splashing and shakingthe woundthe wound teaches us to remember where tomorrow glows listenlisten to the animal clawing withina rooster calls directions between this world and the next there are roads that cannot be mappedand there are streets that do not have names we ranwe ranwe ran away into the ochre tinted mountains seeking maroon hillsi was born borderlessmounting a dollar van like an orisha scribbling visions on a train or in an airport travellingritual voice and timei was born of distancein between nowand then

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aja monet’s poems are a work of gravity. A surrealist blues poet, storyteller, and organizer born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, aja won the legendary Nuyorican Poets Cafe Grand Slam poetry award title in 2007. In 2018, she was nominated for a NAACP Literary Award for Poetry and in 2019 was awarded the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Award for Poetry for her cultural organizing work in South Florida. Her work moves, constantly, between origin and outcome, allowing them to exist in converse. In her debut album when the poems do what they do, releasing June 9 via drink sum wtr, we glimpse her indefatigable commitment to speak. Those thematic origins of this album at times center around Black resistance, love and the inexhaustible quest for joy.

In when the poems do what they do, aja monet appears as a woman of letters and storm, her poems do not roar in pentameter - but rather in storm surge because, “Who’s got time for poems when the world is on fire?!.” And this work isn’t one to pull apart into one liners, these are poems of things felt. There is a fullness here that can’t be encapsulated in even the boundaries that language offers.

aja is joined in effort on this album by musicians Christian Scott (trumpet), Samora Pinderhughes (piano), Elena Pinderhughes (flute), Luques Curtis (bass), Weedie Braimah (djembe) and Marcus Gilmore (drums). Together, creating music that is insistent and unrelenting.

When you finally reach the end of this album, you are left with a similar feeling you get when heartbroken, the gravity of barrelling back down to earth, sopping wet with tears, out of breath, overcome with love, despair, hope, and all too aware that all of this, is over far too soon. When the poems do what they do, they do absolutely everything.