Friday, February 26, 2016

Overcoming the Knighterrants Critique


“The personal vocabulary, the individual melody

whose metre is one’s biography joins in the sound

with any luck that the body moves

like a walking, a waking island”
(Derek Walcott).
 
 

Welcome to my Caribbean sun. So pleased that you could join me on this high climb up the Morne Bois-Pin as if we were flocking together in a flight of doves on a quest for a great adventure, courting the sky. Grateful that you have decided to join in my fleeting illusion which may be new to you but for me, these ideas stem from my experience.

Disarm your defenses and take a dip into my words, with all its defects and misconceptions, as I tear down the wrought iron wall around my heart to bring you to the heartbeat of I, the Troubadour’s matter. I breathe in the pure air of freedom and hide my exhales in the hiding quarters of the ready supply of ideas in my notebook. I suppose I could have followed an alternate strategy but sometimes when opportunity knocks, you must seize the moment with an outstretched hand and a pen to the paper.

Thank you for being my fresh set of eyes to have designed your day around reading my fado. Thank you for sharing my agenda and making the connection with the score of musicians having an instrument conversation amidst my sentences. I am roaring in jubilation for your accompaniment. There is something so magical about your song and dance that helps me to gather strength. And here it goes; the petals of my monstrous story of what transpired to get me here.
 
 

In lipstick and curls I climbed with him, inch by inch to make it to the top of that mountain. We flocked together on obscure passages composing poetry in spoken word. A chivalrous Knighterrant he seemed to be; tilting his charm at my party. An amazing adventure we had; pursuing the thesis with nobility.

The end was bathed in 1804 fireworks as I solicited his opinion. Like hands around my throat, I forced my release from the grasp of his mouth full of painful words and lost my gravity. I started tumbling down the mountain of his critique, staring reality in the face with stark amazement. I lingered onto the past truth that I was just up at the peak with my spirit killer. Call it a pardoner’s tale to have overcome my ego to gain imani and once again flutter my battered black wings.

In a teary-eyed blur I rained Katrina into written works. And to think, I almost threw in the towel believing that I could not survive the sharp edges of anger that pierced my faith like a machete.  My ambivalent attitude towards that moment in time forced me to innovate. What a lonely journey you really do stumble on when left with nil. It’s like a one-man production; weary on the road and irreparably damaged.
 
 

My secret superpowers had me spading against the storm. Now I am booming with confidence and am noisy with the blaring of positive thoughts. It gives me the calming assurance from that drunken stupor of writer’s block where I dwelled. I have finally made myself at home in the Castle of Overwhelming Strength.

I’d been saving my love for this story for infinity and beyond. Tainted vision was once my mantra but now I am no longer as stasis as the Jean Jacques Dessalin statue. I’ve been crushed into shape. Suddenly stories once again ooze through my wounds like buds blossoming into phrases.

The words of my becoming drift me towards your current to immerse you into my story. Float on the mystery of it, to bank in the waves of my written elogy. Now I’m courting the balled up scraps of history that is being remade in my newfound heaven. I am untapping literary abilities, so tropical the theme that it edited the truth of my nature and left the slammed doors of the Knighterrant, whispering low in the seams.

Thank you for shaking off slumber

to do your wonderful neighborly service

of embracing the personal influence

of my rough seas.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Consciousness Unchained

Consciousness Unchained By Stephanie Jeannot (C) 2016


 “The ability of a story (prose and poetry) to transform the storyteller

and the listener into something or someone else is shamanistic.

The writer, as a shape-changer, is a nahual, a shaman” (Anzaldua).

 
  

Art can be compared to stories passed down through culture. One listens to oral histories, picturesque and all, shared by elders and feels the magic of the words being said, but may not be able to experience the true nature of the culture, unless fully immersing into the illusion and going beyond the borders of awareness to know more.
 
We can hear the most vivid accounts of the beauty of a land, but never gain the true essence of it while being alien to the realness of it all. One can only go through the metamorphosis by discovering their own truth. Knowledge paints a different image in technicolor, that changes the face of everything.

 
Language is a wing of freedom and with it you are a warrior on the field. To have access to freedom of speech for some is like a death wish because anything you say can be used against you and cause the complete annihilation of your existence. What future generation can come from that to tell the story? The knowledge of your history then remains unforetold. The story is never relayed and the truth about the root cause of the now is never revealed.
 
 Consciousness, however, has no race, creed or color. Everyone has access to it if they submit to the truth that has always been rooted in the garden, unchained. Consciousness brings you back to Eden where it all began and makes you fly to new realms of understanding.
 
Your tongue becomes your weapon and your verbiage, the bullets. If “books are brave utensils,” then retelling of a historiography, in your own casual and unique way, like a shaman with your palms beating into hand-made drums will be effective (Shakespeare). The overcoming of silence is how you exhibit the end of torment, the beginning of hope and your rainbow of hypnotic words for a blank page.  

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Crushing Your Royal 'Scape: A Love Letter (Poem)

Crushing Your Royal 'Scape:
                    A Love Letter (Poem)
by Stephanie Jeannot (c)




I have taken a dependency on your words.
They fashion my life.
De riguer of my world.
They liberate my mind.
My days would be ameliorated
if I could power my sails to your safe harbor.
A conquistador I’d become crushing your royal ‘scape
If you allow me to conquer your heart.
The realm of power to commence
if only I’d land in your mind
and you’d chose the better, discovering this queen
and love for we furnishes your design.
A surrender of respect and time we’d trade
in the depths of this irony.
A happy lot of what has yet to arrive
vividly soothes me.
So delicately put together
is this dream that has encountered my cart.
From a great and loving distance
we live this life apart.
But to abandon your kingdom and steward your ship
to the islands of you and me in more than just a dream;
I could only imagine wading in your water
and drowning in your tranquility.

 

 Disclosure:  This contribution to the blogging world was made possible by a writing prompt by MamaKat

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Brownstones, Great Days, Harlem, Jazz & Musicians

"Liquid architecture. It's like jazz - you improvise, you work together, you play off each other, you make something, they make something. And I think it's a way of - for me, it's a way of trying to understand the city, and what might happen in the city,like this here monumental moment that happened in NYC back in 1958 which definitely had to be, "A Great Day in Harlem" when freelance photographer Art Kane took this photo of notable jazz musicians in front of a brownstone in Harlem for Esquire Magazine (Frank Gehry). 



I can imagine being there. Just looking at the image seems to have been an amazing wrinkle in time. Such a beautiful image. Such a legaic token of jazz culture.