How to Make a Poem Cry
Step one:
Conceive the poem.
Give it life.
Give it purpose.
Give it a name.
Step two:
Pour print into its skin.
Cover blank canvas with roots spilling ink.
Feed it ideas.
Feed it influence.
Shield the poem from the earth,
for the poem is not ready for global apathy.
Step three:
Let the poem go.
Release the poem into a world
that only wants to see it sink.
See, I am finally forgiving my parents
for under-preparing me to live this life
as a Black poem.
They gave me all the love I needed,
nurtured and filled the soul with a home.
Still, I walked out of the house dressed in sentiment,
cloaked in unconditional,
walked back inside dragging it behind me,
only the weight of a question:
Why am I different?
See, my friends learned everything about me
through history books,
first neglecting the print across my skin.
If they would only read my pages,
they would discover forgiveness
in the form of flesh.
I will never miss the years
of being the only Black poem
sitting in a classroom.
You see, MLK Day comes around
and all of a sudden
they paid attention
to this embodiment of misplaced.
Later they found value inside this poem,
monetary value inside this coin.
I mean token.
I mean token Black friend.
Token Black skin merely existing
to fulfill a function.
Kids auctioning off my Black knowledge
to the highest bidder.
We watch it all over,
a poetic plagiarism,
the body of these paragraphs
serving as tickets to the gates of culture.
We are still left bleeding within its walls.
I bleed history.
I bleed ink.
And somehow these tears fall differently,
quietly,
a snap of a twig in the Amazon.
My tears fall as a Black poem hitting pavement,
yet I can hear them.
Every father.
Every mother.
Every child.
Every poem.
Every knee fallen.
And I always have this dream
where I fall.
The end greets me as an old family friend.
I wake praying I do not have prophetic power,
or rather this magic eight-ball mind
is too shattered, traumatized
from the same video online,
on the news,
on a screen apparently too small to see.
Headline reads:
Shot on sight.
On the ground.
Unarmed.
Uncomplaining.
As if a noose leaves any room to breathe.
Paper skin falls to life.
Others too here asleep.
I sleep thankful a bullet has not
introduced this ink to concrete,
at least for now.
I could never blame my parents
for giving me this life as a Black poem.
I just grow so weary of ink drops
and teardrops falling without a sound.
And as I cry,
I fear my print is becoming less visible
for others to read.
By Darrien Case this text was transcribed from an excerpt shown in the documentary Release (in production), directed by Bryce Benlon available below.
Invitation: “I am finally forgiving my…”
Darrien Case is a contemporary poet and spoken word artist whose work centers on Black life, masculinity, community, and everyday spaces of care and healing. He is the author of The Sky Has Full Lips and is known for spoken word poetry that blend vernacular language with spiritual and cultural reflection. While only in high school, Darrien won the Kansas City Slam 10 times and helped take his Kansas City poetry team to the National Poetry Slam in August of 2018. His writing often draws from lived experience and emphasizes connection, ritual, and resilience within Black communities. Darrien’s website may be found here: https://darriencase.com/
If you are enjoying The Community Table and would like to support our work consider making a donation. While the offerings on the Community Table will always be free - we appreciate any support you can provide to continue helping us set the table for creating community.
We will meet for the Community Table every Monday at 4:30 pm or 8:00 pm (EST) - Go to our calendar at this link for details: https://courageouscommons.com/events/
You can also see our many upcoming events with Dr. Sally Z. Hare, and others on our events page at this link: https://courageouscommons.com/events
February Courageous Citizen
Welcome to our February Circles of Courageous Commons posts dedicated to courageous citizens and truth-telling that is not always loud, but more often it is steady like a heart beat, the flutter of the birds wing, or as steadfast as the moon and the sun.
This powerful "How to Make a Poem Cry" by Darrien Case invites us to see navigating life from his perspective, his lived experiences, his feelings -- "I will never miss the years of being the only Black poem sitting in a classroom" calls me to remember the first 5 Black students and 2 Black teachers who came to my all-white high school in south Louisiana, a pilot desegregation project. And to ask, what was it like for them?
the poem is not ready for global apathy