RSS

Daily Archives: March 19, 2012

March: Jasmin Michelle Smith

Jasmin Michelle Smith is currently a blessed bi-coastal! She lives in
Southern California, when not studying at Sarah Lawrence College, in
Bronxville New York. There she is currently a Junior concentrating in
Education, Psychology, and Poetry. She has dabbled in all of the arts:
performing, visual and written, but lives for music and poetry and
hopes to remain in the presences of creation forever. She is pursuing
a Masters in Education, through Sarah Lawrence’s Art of Teaching
Program, a 5 year Graduate program. With this degree, she intends to
infuse her passion for educating children with her love of the arts,
ultimately hoping to get children expressing themselves and learning
through creation. In addition to writing, studying, and working with
children, Jasmin acts as a co-chair for a Women of Color affinity
group on campus, sings in and manages an all female a cappella group
called Treble in Paradise, and works as a poetry editor for literary
journal Dark Phrases. Her poetry can be found in that same literary
journal, in Volumes 21 & 22.

Response(ability)
If it is up to me, it is up to me and thus is my love: untainted, eternal.”
- Saul Williams
 
If it is up to me, each dew drop that manifests itself
in the moments between dawn and restlessness
will teach us to wake slowly,
holding steadfast to the stars,
in fear of forgetting what it felt like to be whole.
 
If it is up to me, our heart beats will be our only knowledge of time,
allowing us to lose ourselves
in the stillness of stale summer air
as the silence between our breaths becomes music
only we can hear.
 
If it is up to me, my love will shower you in gardenias,
bury itself in the hollows of your collar bones and
plant kisses in the cracks of your skin
so that when spring finally reaches us you will remember
the warmth of my fingertips buried beneath the dirt.
 
 
 
                                                                      “… So I’ll leap from the edge knowing nothing of the fall.
                                                     How much time do we have before the end? As the world
                                                              rushes in, I’m compelled to look back home and I’m
                                                           finally conscious of how this began. The beginning of
                                                                          a lifetime in the chains of the leaper’s end.”
                                                                                                                         – Deas Vail’s The Leaper
 
 That man boy with the microphone didn’t have eyes the deepest shade
of green, or the brightest shade of blue. They were black with distance
between us, and like the night they captivated me, made me shake.
As vast and wise as the sky full of stars I watched- only to be lost in them.
They spoke the difference between darkness and dream. A dream
where only I could exist with him. His eyes sought me out in the crowd
at his feet, called me stubborn, and pleaded with me to let go,
a phrase I know all to well in theory, but never in practice.
Those eyes taunted me and assured me with the most beautiful intentions
that I was the formula for love. I love you, he promised silently with each verse,
each chord, but you can’t think of the night’s darkness without shaking.
He knows this, that man boy with the microphone. He does not mean to hurt me
(just as I do not) any more than I mean to believe him, but speak to me in a lover’s tongue —
tell me you’ll leap with me from the edge, and I will love you forever.
 
 
 
Where The Heart Is
(From a mother to the father of her children)
 
Your blood runs through the veins of my children. Yes, mine.
These hips exploded, cracked like the surface of the earth
to bring forth new life. She came first,
a most beautiful cactus in mid-Spring
with thorns like your fingers. Made me bleed,
made me forget with her sweet scent and your smile.
Then fire and lightening shoved through my flesh
after long clouded hours of listening to ticking clocks mocking.
You taught him to be late.
You always left me waiting.
This is home.
 
 
 
 
3 Comments

Posted by on March 19, 2012 in Uncategorized

 
 
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.