You will find 4 poems that are specifically influenced by my careful navigation of being bi-racial (half Middle Eastern & half Black); “Confessions?,” “Beauty Is Fair,” “Statement Of,” and “Caught.” Additionally, you will find one more poem of interest, “I didn’t say what you wanted.”
I have enclosed all poems in the body of the email (see below signature) as well as pdf attachments. If you are able to view the pdfs, that would be best. I understand that some of my poems ideally have unique space requirements, and if any of them are chosen I would be happy to work with the editor in charge of uploading the content to help ease the burden of laying it out properly or coming to a compromise on how it can be laid out more simply.
Short Bio:
S. Mojdeh Stoakley, is a 4x award winning bi-racial American-born writer, performer & interdisciplinary artist. Her work is about the intersections of race, trauma, and social stigma. She has a BFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her audio and poetic works have been exhibited internationally in Tokyo, Berlin, and New York amongst other places, and is the founder of, The Mojdeh Project, Radiant Devices, and Lethal Poetry Inc.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Mojdeh
CONFESSIONS?
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
I should
be quite keen on color coordination
Bold footwear should be on my list of important accessories
But diamond studded bling should be most important
My clothing
worn by a white person should be seen as no less hip hop
Should I stray from the hip hop image
it should only be to wear the threads of tribal Africa
I should bend over
laughing every time Chris Rock tells a joke
My number one roll model should be Oprah Winfrey
My survival as an artist
is dependent upon the Afro-American population
Growing up
in a white community
should have no effect on my black character
Despite my heritage, I should hold black power to be most important
I should own up
to the fact that I am only offered opportunities
because I am a light skinned African-American
I should not
seek an education when there are plenty
of custodial and food service jobs offered as a means of honest work
When I write poetry
I should write in hopes of becoming the next big hip hop queen
I should be most fluent in Ebonics
I should be able to offer
the names of the top artists on the BET
You will become blacker by spending time with me
You should worry that my blackness is contagious
I should be aware
that it is my people that takes advantage of the welfare system
It is perfectly acceptable for me to have two, maybe three children out of wedlock
I should accept the word Nigger
as a term of endearment or empowerment
Gospels should have been my first encounter with music
My poetry read by a white person
should be awkward
because they would lack
the profound genetic tendencies towards rhythm
I should not take offense if someone assumes I know drug dealers
Even I
should be cautious of black men roaming the streets past eight o'clock
It should be most important
that people recognize my skin tone
so that they may properly apply their knowledge
of the black experience to everything that I say
Beauty is fair
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
I’m tan. No
Caramel, brown
She said, I should protect
my skin.
Because it’s the most beautiful
thing that I stand in
She said it
like a double-edged sword. She said,
I should be proud
I’m mulatto. No
Mixed
Light, sometimes
My pride should swell
As my features would glow
amongst a crowd of dark creatures
She said, I should be proud
of my heritage
But what she was really saying
Is that I should be proud of hers
Fair? No
Neither, both
It wasn’t her ignorance
speaking but I finally heard the hurt
in her voice
And part of me
wants to let her be
And let her believe
that my beauty is
because of her
That beauty is fair
Statement Of
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
i feel hurt
i feel that now
there's nowhere to escape
judgment and norms
expectations
and
my form so I was born
because i make
my choices
and i let other things dissipate
and i will continue to move
my mind
my form
forward
anticipation
to deviate
i will continue to
take the kink
out of the nappy
out of the curls
because no matter
what i do
what i choose
of comfort
it becomes my
statement of
Caught
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley 2007
I walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
unprepared, unready
bemused, and
you tell me not to read too much into this
but those words speak so much truth
I always walk right in
to these expectations
But I’m always caught
un prepared, unready
bemused
I’m always caught
flatfooted, unwilling
ill predicted, and you
you tell me not to read too much in
to this
But
when all I hear are judgments I’m confused
I always walk right into these expectations, but
I’m always caught, unprepared
unready, bemused
I’m always caught
flatfooted unwilling, ill predicted
I’m always caught
grudging, resistant, and tired
bone-tired
and weak, weak enough to
almost give up this fight and you
you’ll tell me not to read too much into this, but
when you’re already comparing me
without ever
really looking
me over to make comparisons I feel
weakened
and I shouldn’t feel that way, but
I do. and
I’m caught
I’m caught
walking right in
I didn’t say what you wanted
© S. Mojdeh Stoakley
She sings to herself when no ones looking
Full conversations while she walks alone
Some would brand her,
but THIS is her way of telling
Healing comes so painfully
And it chills to the bone
Won't anyone get close to me
I'm damaged, as I'm sure you know
She has conversations with you
of course you’re not there or listening
But this is the closest she gets to telling
She practices with you
with everyone she hopes to feel safe with
It’s only for my soul - To undo this fear and…
She was just another child and he was stronger
And she wants to tell you but instead
she’s sabotages her cover stories
So that hopefully
you will know. hopefully
you will wonder
I'm scared and I'm alone
I'm shamed and I need for you to know
I’m here but I’m fading
I’m here but nothing seems real
She is beckoning you to ask – but you don’t
I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say
And you can't take back what you've taken away
Cause I feel you, I feel you near me
She whispers when no ones looking
She even has quiet conversations – with him – he’s not there
But she hopes his ears are burning
I didn’t say what you wanted, but you’ll take it anyway
[Some text in "I didn't say what you wanted" appropriated from “Damaged” by Plumb]
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Saturday’s Swagger
It was an early night –
1:00 AM early.
Police passed by,
For the bigger problems,
And the clubs roared
A little louder than usual,
While I danced,
And danced,
The Saturday night stumble –
To the left,
To the right
And twice back
Destination -
Home.
I continued,
To tripped,
Or ripped,
To have a friend,
A little lonely,
But feeling a little famous
All the same
And all the while.
I strode with swagger,
Head held a little higher
Than usual
Made my way home,
Slept,
And started over
Tomorrow,
Or was it the day
After,
Sleep can be such a nimble little
Beast,
When it wants to be.
Good thing a
Cold beer’s
Always
Just around the corner.
Imperialism
I’m drinking their
Beer,
But I don’t feel bad.
I feel –
Patriotic.
I’m greedy,
I’m entitled,
I’m self-indulgent,
I’m an American,
I feel none of the above,
I feel it all,
And I’m numb,
But still
Smiling.
I squeak out some
Laughter,
When I embrace a new
Family
And sweat an
“Ineligible” one
Of sorts
Out.
Oddly enough,
I don’t deserve this –
The beer
And the laughter,
As my countrymen celebrate –
Not with “them,”
But
For the cheap goods they
Provide.
I laugh even harder,
Choking back the tears of
Assumed exploitation,
Correctly assumed
With an added
Inept aggression
Against others.
I cackle to a
Sudden stop
After my eyes spy the
Bride
I go home with.
I take and
Take,
And take her
Home.
I study,
I assimilate
And allow
Assimilation.
“Assimilation,”
Being a Euphemism for
“Conquest.”
Somehow hybrid
And somewhat
Unoriginal,
Where does that leave us
Now?
Torn,
Wholly
Symbiotic,
Or building the world
That deep down
We always dreamt of?
On the other hand,
And there’s always another
“Hand,”
Are we the tyrants that’ll
Strip clothes
And later strip-mine
Souls,
All in the name of
Manifest Destiny
Underneath the flags of
Corporatism,
Fortune
And the Fatherland?
I’m an American after all.
Outside in and Introverted
The bass annoys neighbors,
But occupies
And entertains me,
As I write,
With red wine,
And smoky ink.
My cigarettes,
Now smolder in the carpet.
As the song continues into the
Night
I stop
To spy a pounding,
From my heart,
From the city,
And from my door.
I choose to ignore
It all,
But most importantly
The pounding at the door –
My landlord,
Who demands silence
During the wee hours of the
Night,
A joke
And the rent.
I could provide one,
Of the three –
The joke,
Just by answering the knock,
But choose my safety
Within the noise,
My noise,
And solitude of existence,
My existence.
I snore
While awake,
Bored with the premise,
Of company,
More aptly described as
Lechery
And the loss of honesty
Intrinsic to “people.”
I continue in avoidance of the
Pounding.
I guess
I could try to be happy
Within the annoyance of
Camaraderie.
But the butterflies
Would soon float,
From the mouths
Of the others,
Simple promises into the
Flowers
That are my ears,
Pollinating,
Procreating,
And making something
New,
And something unwanted,
At least for the time being.
When my sentence ended,
And finish line seemed even
Further away,
I was
Sorrowed by the thought,
Of another lost poem,
Lost moment,
And new friend –
Another knock at the door,
A robbery more vicious
Than any dealt by the
Unwelcomed thief.
Call me an
Introvert,
Or call me
Lonely.
I’m only seeking my kind of
Quiet,
If only for a moment.
Let me have this one
Night
To myself,
Alone
With my pen and paper.
Leaves, Ash, Snow and Flowers
“It’s”
A sinking feeling,
A drowning touch
And somehow above the
Cold water’s
Surface.
I’m loosing my taste,
But can still smell hell,
While my eyes show the world,
They show “it,”
Or me,
What?
I’m not quite sure
Yet.
Reluctantly,
My heart sees the truth.
I’m losing,
And I’ve lost,
But why does it feel so good
To be the
Loser?
The sunny days laugh,
Few and far between,
Where the clouds cover,
And even the stars seem gone.
When I sleep,
I’m back…way back,
With what I try to forget,
But need to carry on.
Waking,
Walking,
Talking,
Touching,
Loving,
And dying,
This is my winter,
Where my friends have
Already
Fallen as autumn leaves,
And I’m left to carry the ashes
In our snow.
I’ll keep my eyes open
For the –
Flowers.
I’ll welcome you all
Home,
When I see the first colors
And fresh breath of
Spring,
Please..?
I think his name was Random
I arrive to talk,
And make an attempt to explain –
Time travel,
Physics,
And my latest poem,
Somehow catching
And for a moment
Capturing
Who I was prior to
Pain and Prose.
That was him,
And not me “now,”
The “I” –
That can stand before you,
Albeit swaying,
Ten drinks later,
Pad in hand and
Pen in ear.
It’s him
I try so hard to bring back,
But not for you.
It’s for selfish old
Me,
Who sometimes longs for
Sobriety and
Reason
As compared to this
Chaos and drink.
You later laugh,
½ Relieved and
½ Bewildered
When I mention,
That pissing on ice,
Reminds me of love,
Confetti
And corpses left to the
Sun,
Because random’s –
What I am,
And poetry’s the byproduct.
After two years,
And an off-and-on
You,
I’m no longer allowed to
Remember “him” any more.
I heed your wish,
Placing a pillow over his
Face and for good,
A cold-bodied kind of
Good,
Against my better judgment
Perhaps.
Truth be told –
I cried,
To a certain degree,
When I left him behind.
Destroyed,
But not entirely.
Lucky for me,
Figments surfaced like the
Life-preservers of those
Who could hold on
No longer,
Eternal.
And when I blamed you,
For the almost-total loss of “Me,”
Him,
And not "I,"
Goody-goody me,
My good grades,
And wholesome lifestyle,
I was right to,
Though you remained a
Simple accessory.
All intrusions aside,
Reality became –
Wild nights,
Poetry and the girl
I brought home
Once again.
All illusions aside,
It was me
And never you.
“The man with many names.” (My Biography) -
I was born “Christopher Hanson” in Minnesota; Born in the same hospital as Bob Dylan, not that it matters. I remember very little from this snowbound world having actually grown up in California where I picked up the nick-name, “Cloud,” I don’t know why, simply, “Cloud.” While in good old San Fran, I made nice with some fellows and females of Japanese decent. I picked up a sword, I learned to eat sushi and wander in between the realms of Aikido, Iaido and Zen. They dubbed me “Kazuki.” All aside and all names following me into college, I studied for five years at the University of Wisconsin and graduated with degrees in both Criminal Justice (to bust-up a broken system) and Anthropology – I love people, what can I say? During year five of college, I’d acquire my latest addition, “Yang Yun,” my Chinese name. The name basically translates to, “a tree in the cloud.” This was the name given to me by my wife, the love of my life that I met while studying abroad in China. Since my graduation in 2008, I’ve lived in China for nearly two years as a teacher and within this last year, have finally made it back to the states, wife and all. It’s been a wild ride and something tells me that it’s just begun. As for my “writing” and my “art,” it’s a time-honored tradition and way of life – at least for me.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I truly hope you enjoy.
Best Regards,
Christopher Hanson
It was an early night –
1:00 AM early.
Police passed by,
For the bigger problems,
And the clubs roared
A little louder than usual,
While I danced,
And danced,
The Saturday night stumble –
To the left,
To the right
And twice back
Destination -
Home.
I continued,
To tripped,
Or ripped,
To have a friend,
A little lonely,
But feeling a little famous
All the same
And all the while.
I strode with swagger,
Head held a little higher
Than usual
Made my way home,
Slept,
And started over
Tomorrow,
Or was it the day
After,
Sleep can be such a nimble little
Beast,
When it wants to be.
Good thing a
Cold beer’s
Always
Just around the corner.
Imperialism
I’m drinking their
Beer,
But I don’t feel bad.
I feel –
Patriotic.
I’m greedy,
I’m entitled,
I’m self-indulgent,
I’m an American,
I feel none of the above,
I feel it all,
And I’m numb,
But still
Smiling.
I squeak out some
Laughter,
When I embrace a new
Family
And sweat an
“Ineligible” one
Of sorts
Out.
Oddly enough,
I don’t deserve this –
The beer
And the laughter,
As my countrymen celebrate –
Not with “them,”
But
For the cheap goods they
Provide.
I laugh even harder,
Choking back the tears of
Assumed exploitation,
Correctly assumed
With an added
Inept aggression
Against others.
I cackle to a
Sudden stop
After my eyes spy the
Bride
I go home with.
I take and
Take,
And take her
Home.
I study,
I assimilate
And allow
Assimilation.
“Assimilation,”
Being a Euphemism for
“Conquest.”
Somehow hybrid
And somewhat
Unoriginal,
Where does that leave us
Now?
Torn,
Wholly
Symbiotic,
Or building the world
That deep down
We always dreamt of?
On the other hand,
And there’s always another
“Hand,”
Are we the tyrants that’ll
Strip clothes
And later strip-mine
Souls,
All in the name of
Manifest Destiny
Underneath the flags of
Corporatism,
Fortune
And the Fatherland?
I’m an American after all.
Outside in and Introverted
The bass annoys neighbors,
But occupies
And entertains me,
As I write,
With red wine,
And smoky ink.
My cigarettes,
Now smolder in the carpet.
As the song continues into the
Night
I stop
To spy a pounding,
From my heart,
From the city,
And from my door.
I choose to ignore
It all,
But most importantly
The pounding at the door –
My landlord,
Who demands silence
During the wee hours of the
Night,
A joke
And the rent.
I could provide one,
Of the three –
The joke,
Just by answering the knock,
But choose my safety
Within the noise,
My noise,
And solitude of existence,
My existence.
I snore
While awake,
Bored with the premise,
Of company,
More aptly described as
Lechery
And the loss of honesty
Intrinsic to “people.”
I continue in avoidance of the
Pounding.
I guess
I could try to be happy
Within the annoyance of
Camaraderie.
But the butterflies
Would soon float,
From the mouths
Of the others,
Simple promises into the
Flowers
That are my ears,
Pollinating,
Procreating,
And making something
New,
And something unwanted,
At least for the time being.
When my sentence ended,
And finish line seemed even
Further away,
I was
Sorrowed by the thought,
Of another lost poem,
Lost moment,
And new friend –
Another knock at the door,
A robbery more vicious
Than any dealt by the
Unwelcomed thief.
Call me an
Introvert,
Or call me
Lonely.
I’m only seeking my kind of
Quiet,
If only for a moment.
Let me have this one
Night
To myself,
Alone
With my pen and paper.
Leaves, Ash, Snow and Flowers
“It’s”
A sinking feeling,
A drowning touch
And somehow above the
Cold water’s
Surface.
I’m loosing my taste,
But can still smell hell,
While my eyes show the world,
They show “it,”
Or me,
What?
I’m not quite sure
Yet.
Reluctantly,
My heart sees the truth.
I’m losing,
And I’ve lost,
But why does it feel so good
To be the
Loser?
The sunny days laugh,
Few and far between,
Where the clouds cover,
And even the stars seem gone.
When I sleep,
I’m back…way back,
With what I try to forget,
But need to carry on.
Waking,
Walking,
Talking,
Touching,
Loving,
And dying,
This is my winter,
Where my friends have
Already
Fallen as autumn leaves,
And I’m left to carry the ashes
In our snow.
I’ll keep my eyes open
For the –
Flowers.
I’ll welcome you all
Home,
When I see the first colors
And fresh breath of
Spring,
Please..?
I think his name was Random
I arrive to talk,
And make an attempt to explain –
Time travel,
Physics,
And my latest poem,
Somehow catching
And for a moment
Capturing
Who I was prior to
Pain and Prose.
That was him,
And not me “now,”
The “I” –
That can stand before you,
Albeit swaying,
Ten drinks later,
Pad in hand and
Pen in ear.
It’s him
I try so hard to bring back,
But not for you.
It’s for selfish old
Me,
Who sometimes longs for
Sobriety and
Reason
As compared to this
Chaos and drink.
You later laugh,
½ Relieved and
½ Bewildered
When I mention,
That pissing on ice,
Reminds me of love,
Confetti
And corpses left to the
Sun,
Because random’s –
What I am,
And poetry’s the byproduct.
After two years,
And an off-and-on
You,
I’m no longer allowed to
Remember “him” any more.
I heed your wish,
Placing a pillow over his
Face and for good,
A cold-bodied kind of
Good,
Against my better judgment
Perhaps.
Truth be told –
I cried,
To a certain degree,
When I left him behind.
Destroyed,
But not entirely.
Lucky for me,
Figments surfaced like the
Life-preservers of those
Who could hold on
No longer,
Eternal.
And when I blamed you,
For the almost-total loss of “Me,”
Him,
And not "I,"
Goody-goody me,
My good grades,
And wholesome lifestyle,
I was right to,
Though you remained a
Simple accessory.
All intrusions aside,
Reality became –
Wild nights,
Poetry and the girl
I brought home
Once again.
All illusions aside,
It was me
And never you.
“The man with many names.” (My Biography) -
I was born “Christopher Hanson” in Minnesota; Born in the same hospital as Bob Dylan, not that it matters. I remember very little from this snowbound world having actually grown up in California where I picked up the nick-name, “Cloud,” I don’t know why, simply, “Cloud.” While in good old San Fran, I made nice with some fellows and females of Japanese decent. I picked up a sword, I learned to eat sushi and wander in between the realms of Aikido, Iaido and Zen. They dubbed me “Kazuki.” All aside and all names following me into college, I studied for five years at the University of Wisconsin and graduated with degrees in both Criminal Justice (to bust-up a broken system) and Anthropology – I love people, what can I say? During year five of college, I’d acquire my latest addition, “Yang Yun,” my Chinese name. The name basically translates to, “a tree in the cloud.” This was the name given to me by my wife, the love of my life that I met while studying abroad in China. Since my graduation in 2008, I’ve lived in China for nearly two years as a teacher and within this last year, have finally made it back to the states, wife and all. It’s been a wild ride and something tells me that it’s just begun. As for my “writing” and my “art,” it’s a time-honored tradition and way of life – at least for me.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I truly hope you enjoy.
Best Regards,
Christopher Hanson
Walking Down Frat Row
(By Walter Beck)
So all these bros and hipsters were staring
At this weird, long-haired, barefoot thing
Ambling down their street;
With a Dunhill cigarette hanging from his lip
And strange incantations muttered
Of Two-Headed Dogs
And Lazarus Digging himself back in the Cave
That came out of the pocket of his loud gonzo shirt.
A fleshed out legacy of the Doctor’s words;
“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.”
A Fire Poet’s Lament
(By Walter Beck)
Reduced to hashing out
Press releases and promos;
The red flame don’t need no poets
To keep her fire burning.
The Dust of Many Moons
(By Walter Beck)
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and their hands squeeze my chest as dirt hardens and cakes around my pale leather soles.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and I speak to them as the ash blows from the reed and clay.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and they speak to me as I take a hit and fall in the mud, hearing the words in my head, “à tout le monde, à tous mes amis, je vous aime, je dois partir”.*
*Taken from the chorus of the Megadeth song "A Tout Le Monde"
Neon Sign Blues
(By Walter Beck)
He drinks his Pink Gin
With an Olive garnish;
As I sip an Iron City
And look down
At my dirty natural leather.
Walter Beck is from Avon, IN and is currently enrolled as a graduate student at Indiana State University in Terre Haute. He has become a mainstay in the Terre Haute poetry scene for his intense performances. His work has appeared in the ISU Tonic, the Vincennes University Tecumseh Review, subTerreanean, Camp Chase Gazette, Paradigm Journal and most recently, Burner Magazine.
(By Walter Beck)
So all these bros and hipsters were staring
At this weird, long-haired, barefoot thing
Ambling down their street;
With a Dunhill cigarette hanging from his lip
And strange incantations muttered
Of Two-Headed Dogs
And Lazarus Digging himself back in the Cave
That came out of the pocket of his loud gonzo shirt.
A fleshed out legacy of the Doctor’s words;
“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.”
A Fire Poet’s Lament
(By Walter Beck)
Reduced to hashing out
Press releases and promos;
The red flame don’t need no poets
To keep her fire burning.
The Dust of Many Moons
(By Walter Beck)
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and their hands squeeze my chest as dirt hardens and cakes around my pale leather soles.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and I speak to them as the ash blows from the reed and clay.
She tells me the dust of the moons knows my name and they speak to me as I take a hit and fall in the mud, hearing the words in my head, “à tout le monde, à tous mes amis, je vous aime, je dois partir”.*
*Taken from the chorus of the Megadeth song "A Tout Le Monde"
Neon Sign Blues
(By Walter Beck)
He drinks his Pink Gin
With an Olive garnish;
As I sip an Iron City
And look down
At my dirty natural leather.
Walter Beck is from Avon, IN and is currently enrolled as a graduate student at Indiana State University in Terre Haute. He has become a mainstay in the Terre Haute poetry scene for his intense performances. His work has appeared in the ISU Tonic, the Vincennes University Tecumseh Review, subTerreanean, Camp Chase Gazette, Paradigm Journal and most recently, Burner Magazine.
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