Twenty-four year old Pearl Quick was born and raised in New York City. A spoken word poet, she co-teaches poetry all over the tri-state area and in many states around the nation. She hopes to start small, self-sustainable programs in the Bronx for young women of color and to complete the first draft of her memoir speaking about her weight in 2014, when she graduates. She is currently attending Sarah Lawrence College where she studies Language, race and poetry and carries around the documentary To Be Heard in which she stars. It documents her life and the lives of two of her friends as young slam poets, finding their voices and speaking out against inequalities close to their hearts. She considers the film a great accomplishment and hopes to use it as a platform to teach high school students all over the world to find their voices through performance poetry.
POEMS BY PEARL QUICK:
Play our war drums.
Allow the beats of this body,
to cover bruises held like a second skin from wars that lay out blue prints imprinted in between our hips.
Brown skin hold black and blues like lost identities and society says
“I wanted it”
Stigmas are injected into flesh,
leaving us paralyzed and sensitive
steady tracing our roots on a rotting family tree
and while licking our wounds find security in words crumbled in fists,
and on the backs of hands
Which one of us planned to hide from the Big Bad Wolf.
Sheep’s clothing holds signs of a militia that wages wars in missionary on the bodies of Congolese women
and after they have taken turns
her husband turns away ashamed
because a woman of “decency” wouldn’t have allowed this to happen.
Our vaginas no longer birth babies but taboos.
Take a good look!
This is what it looks like when a woman “Asked for it”
her soul being ripped from tendons left heavy and hanging from a virus that rivered her wrists like lead.
Savagely discarding mothers, daughters and sisters
leaving us bitches,
Isolated and marginalized
We women hide, blame ourselves for what is taken, accept the beatings for refusing to have sex without a condom
Left used by men who have gotten what they came for,
being called a whore must be some kind of position
possessions don’t have voices!
Property weren’t given choices
and rape in a marriage doesn’t exist.
You can’t sweep a generation under your rug; the bodies are beginning to smell
Her beauty left dribbling from swollen lips
her intelligence left on white pages
with red ink [POSITIVE],
we are tested,
placed in a box labeled double standard and told to
“Act like a lady”
So for your sake, I hope I remind you of your mother,
and your daughter watches as her skin begins to bruise
cause see we are your greatest resource.
I may have been made from your rib
but We are the backbones of this foundation,
slowly tracing your vertebrates like crumbing bricks!
so be careful…
You wouldn’t want all of this to crumble down around you… would you?
He is a afraid of the dark.
The dark exposes something inside him he isn’t ready to explore.
He used to speak through inebriated words of success and fears and now all that is left are hopes and wishes.
His smile leaks of misery like molasses the color of his skin made up of rough housing and mistakes.
He waited so long to be heard now he stays silent afraid uninteresting phrases or ignorant thoughts would expose his secret insecurities.
He is afraid of the dark.
They expose the diagnosed inferiority that slides between his conscious as if he were slipping into a transfixed state of remembering.
Childhood wasn’t toys and naps; they were midnight movements, abuse and seeds. Dirty floors piled high with forgets and now his turmoil is exposed.
Misery begins to attach itself upon his spirit and pull him into directions he is unable to name.
He sits in his room afraid to move, or to stay so songs on repeat replace movement for melodic and I sit by the door hoping he will see the worry in my eyes and begin to remember that his sister loves him.
My brother is lost.
Can you help me find him?
My brother is searching, are there any words that can retrieve him?
He is afraid of the dark.
The dark exposes something that is too sensitive to explore so I write this for him for his words have since been lost under lashing out and dreams.
I want to penetrate his.
Plant seeds that will grow into ideas.
He is so afraid to fail he refuses to wonder anymore.
My brother is waiting
Will someone come?
I am too afraid to ask “when”? Too afraid to have him answer… ” I am not sure ”
Time is but a lover that gives us brief moments of pleasure followed by less and less time to stay in moments worth keeping.
He is stagnate. Promised to a world that never claimed him he wanders aimless around hidden agendas and want.
My brother isn’t safe here, will you take him?
Catching him when he falls only gives resentment a home.
I am weak.
Overshadowed by a deep sense of dread.
After all Why can’t I save him? Why do I think I can? Why do I feel guilty that I no longer have the strength to even elaborate on this circumstance?
He is afraid of the dark and last night I heard his thoughts. Silently they slipped through his window and into mine.
Held me close like a lover, swept my thick curly hair behind my ear and whispered ” Allow us to speak through you ” How do you mediate between a man and his emotions?
My brother lives inside himself and I’m afraid I can not reach him.
He is afraid of the dark.
He embraces his fears.
They are much easier than dealing with greatness.
I want more for the guy who speaks of futures like Fairytales.
My brother is tortured.
My brother is talented.
My brother isn’t afraid of the dark… He is afraid of the light.