Abdul Ali
Abdul Ali instructs us in truth and kindness, two large elements to fit within a poem's small parameter. He dignifies each emotional experience with language as its best emotional adjustment. This is a man who loves this difficult world and writes to give it harmony. —Grace Cavalieri
Abdul Ali is a poet and culture worker. His poems have appeared in the Copper Nickel, Little Patuxent Review, and Poet Lore. In 2014, Ali won the New Issues Poetry Book Prize for his debut collection of poems, Trouble Sleeping. Currently, Ali teaches creative writing in the graduate English program at Morgan State University. When not teaching or writing, he advises community arts organizations and artists through his consultancy.
Pastoral
all of these trees—Dogwood. Honeylocust. Magnolia.
Each scene is a glimpse of a bygone era preserved:
The big house: all white, columned, stately.
Its resemblance to a plantation— striking, arresting even.
The kitchen staff are out front pushing a wheeled cart of lemonade
And sugar cookies in the shape of daisies. I catch sight
Of their starched white uniforms, their wave, almost robotic.
The skyline, a luminous stitching of cotton.
It’s hard to imagine all of this.
Working here. Its founding only decades after Emancipation.
I walk through the front door, laughing privately at the irony of this:
Black male, with letters, entering the front of the house
Without carrying a jug of lemonade.
I Want To Write A Poem About Trees (Without A Lynching)
for Quincy Scott Jones
None of this is real—not waking to deer roaming
Outside our window. Different breeds of bark secreting
its own sap. Poems flowing before ten each morning
& these long summer nights & the ring shouts.
If only this week could be every week:
To be a part of this beautiful watercolor
dripping everywhere
Take this all in, brother/poet/lover
of Gil Scot Heron, this City of Asylum where no one is lonely
or haunted. May we stretch this week over & over
& keep it for safekeeping. May we be free black bodies living
among these free black & brown trees
Most especially, May your neck forever be
un-noosed.
Self Portrait
I keep re-watching Moonlight,
& all those iridescent
blue black bodies after dark.
I’m an amateur
at this. I have no license
to operate this body
or to handle yours
with its complicated equipment.
So, sit still with me.
Listen to the hum
coming from the ocean.
Bury your toes in the sand
Stare into my eyes
Yes, like that.
Throw your head back
Do you see the stars?
Black mermaids?
The universe exploding?
Most importantly,
Do you see me,
quivering, right next to you
memorizing
every
shade of blue?
Upon Turning Thirty-Eight
I’ve waited my entire life to break out of my shyness
Days liquifying down the drain
Men and Women I wanted to ask out but didn’t
Being a wallflower at the parties
Wanting to dance but focusing on my sore two left feet
Now, I want to wear fishnet tank tops exposing my pink nipples
Have somebody’s mint breath whisper something fresh in my ear
In a dimly lit room. Accept drinks, always saying thank you
with a wink. I can dance the fuck out of a two step
My hands move, you won’t even notice my awkwardness
See there. Yes, like that.
Fear Of Parenting
I’m surrounded
by naked pregnant women.
Their breasts hang
like slinkies
covering their bushes.
I’m handcuffed
to a king-sized bed
where each mother’s body
glows translucent
like jellyfish.
Each of them
approaches the bed
where I’m spread-eagled,
pinioned.
They straddle
me without hands,
and right before release—
they hop off,
belly swollen,
dropping their loads:
babies splayed on my chest.
My wrists still shackled,
I cannot quell the crying,
when a swarm of babies
crawl toward
my notebooks with lit matches
I scream again—
Stop! Have Mercy!
The poems burn first,
The notebooks I attempt to save;
I throw each baby at the fire
To save my books.
Most especially,
The memoir I began at twelve–
It’s all mapped out:
No mention of babies
Not a single word.
Pastoral #14
All is noise: the nonstop honking of firetrucks
bulldozing through the traffic;
angry birds outside my window at five a.m.;
neighbors who take my parking space daily;
the daily calendar keeps flipping forward.
This is my self talk–breathe in, breathe out.
Things have come to this.
I want to see a full orange moon, close,
finger its craters; see blue grass; feed, milk, & sing
to the goats; go hiking in my backyard–a forest!
Host naming ceremonies for new births; grow wheat
& brew my own beer; Learn to play guitar and write lyrics;
Paint in long strokes and bold swaths of color;
To hell with checking email.
Let all this landscape distract me from loneliness;
O Muse and nature’s songs: Make me over, a born again African.
Grow my own vegetables, build a fire, dance with friends with painted faces
I want to hear God. I want to know companionship
like the earth knows silkworms. This is all I want:
Something different, wild, under moonlight.
Poems Copyright © Abdul Ali 2024, all rights reserved.
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