Sugar Lumps
and
Black Eye Blues
Tamesha S. Hawkins
Wordclay
3750 Priority Way South Drive, Suite 114
Indianapolis, IN 46240
© Copyright 2007 Tamesha S. Hawkins. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
First published by Wordclay on 12/12/2007.
Printed in the United States of America.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
To a journey unforeseen
For being my strength
Dorothy, Charlese and Eloise
***
For Nana
Thanks for not letting me fall
***
For Dr. Kimmika L.H. Williams-Witherspoon
&
Keisha L. Johnson
Thanks for honesty, understanding and life lessons
***
For an oratorical beginning
The Lakewood Chapter of NJ Orators
***
To the‘240’ Family
A mystical journey of laughs, love and poetry
MENU OF MOMENTS
7…FORWARD
9…INTRODUCTION
COCKTAILS & APPETIZERS: The Beginning
12…Tuned Out
12…Blind Iris
13…Unmarked Grave
14…No Red, No White; Just Two Blue Lines
15…Futuristic Planning
15…I Am What I Am
16…Impurities
17…Journey
18…Love Touches
19…Many Thanks
19…I’m Speaking, No Interruptions
ENTRÉES: Wrapped Present Memories
21…If Only I Could Write Like You
22…An Ode to The Past
24…Funky Town
26…Reflection of Your Rejection
27…In The Midst Of Sorrow: A Revelation
28…In Search
30…Fiery’s Paintbrushes
31…Come Save Me
32…More Than a Rendezvous
34…Package
35…Sugar Lumps and Black Eye Blues
38…A Song for the Blues
40…Masked Salvation
DESSERT: Servin’ It Up and Thinkin’ It Over
42…A Man in a Suit Is Dangerous
43…A Christmas Moment
44…Want U 2 Love Me
46…Revealed: A Ballad
47…Onyx Dream
48…Some Happy Episodes
49…His Music
50…Only You Can
51…No Longer a Lazy Mind
52…Life’Song
53…Rambling Alphabetical
54…I Still Want It
55…Remission
FORWARD
***
Sugar Lumps and Black Eye Blues is the clever, contemporary and memorable debut work of Tamesha Hawkins. Chronicling the joy in growing into adulthood and the, sometimes, pain of (as she writes In the Midst of Sorrow) being “loved to death”, Hawkins’ work, crystallizes one young woman’s journey but speaks to all women about identity and our search for “filling”.
As the book’s divisions or, as she calls them, “Menu of Moments” suggests, the poems in this collection prove to be the “food” that has comforted this young author’s soul. Gracious and generous, in Sugar Lumps and Black Eye Blues, Tamesha Hawkins prepares a table for her readers from the work that has provided “food for comfort” for her all these many years of her young “20-something” life.
Honest, open, sometimes “boiling hot”, “come as you are”, “down-home”, B.Y.O.B.—some of the pain and tribulations that are main ingredients in her work can be “searing”. The moments and stories that the author creates will, no doubt, hang heavy on your consciousness and your emotional pallet, as they will be hard to forget once the book is down and the initial “read” is done. You will, nevertheless, be drawn to Hawkins’ table again and again to appreciate the depth of experience in her work. Certainly, you will, I’m sure, savor the imagery in the unmistakable “twist” on language lines that are uniquely hers.
There’s double entendre in poems like Impurities, where she ruminates about identity “white on the inside”. Her work incorporates “mind-boggling” prose in lines like: “I want to be the eraser shavings that held your mistakes” in If Only I Could Write Like You. Poems like A Christmas Moment are cute and charming and make powerful statements about duplicity and political economy while still making you smile; and no one captures the “risqué” in love-making like Hawkins’ can in Only You Can. And, yes…I hazard to guess that every reader will take long moments to pause and ponder poems like Reflection of Your Rejection with Hawkins’ powerful lines like:
“emotional wounds/
make tombs/
that Jesus can’t even move over.”
Without a doubt, the most painful poems in Hawkins’ collection are also the most passionate; but as we know from life’s lessons in hell’s kitchen, sometimes even when the “food” is scorched, it can still be good and “good for us”.
As Tamesha Hawkins continues to make a name for herself as a poet/ performer, Sugar Lumps and Black Eye Blues will surely be a “must-have” addition to every bibliophile’s collection!
Kimmika L. H. Williams-Witherspoon, PhD
Temple University
INTRODUCTION
***
“Understanding the Lumps”
As a young girl, my mother used to sit in the corner for hours lost in the wonders of books. She would conjure up dreams and methods of escape from her everyday struggles. Being the fifth of nine in a single parent household due to the early death of her father and not having her life handed to her on a silver platter, books became her compass to map routes of reality.
I, like my mother, longed for escape. Not because I wasn’t happy, but I needed to seek understanding and a sense of security. At seven years old, I juggled the divorce of my parents, a move to a new town, a new baby sister and becoming second in command before developing a sense of self. To mask anxiety, poetry became an outlet for me. The writings of others spoke to me in ways my parents never could. Such images from the works of Robert Frost (The Road Not Taken and The Lockless Door) and Nikki Giovanni (Woman Poem and How Do You Write A Poem?) comforted me as I worked on finding a voice for myself.
Decades between us, my mother and I had one thing in common; words. She read them while I wrote them to ease woes. Poetry became my accent to speak of tales, observations and various unbelievable moments. Sugar Lumps and Black Eye Blues serves as that observation of life, a journal of emotions and a revelation of self and others. Each piece highlights a quest of understanding love, lust and lessons through the eyes of a budding woman. Sugar Lumps and Black Eye Blues blueprints mental and emotional connections that may have been lost in daily tasks or events that have been shielded by the veil of the subconscious. The overall goal, of the book, is to mend the past to foster a promising future in all aspects of relationship. In taking time to savor the vulnerable delicacies, you may find a piece of your own truth.
I encourage you to “break fast” from the routine of the everyday. Find a comfortable spot to dibble and dabble or loosen your belt loop to laugh, cry, lick your fingers and tap your feet to the entrée’s I serve. Whatever suits your fancy, just decide to enjoy each moment and I hope to see you for seconds!
COCKTAILS & APPETIZERS
The Beginning
Tuned Out
I am
Like an old forgotten piano
Waiting to be fine tuned
Sitting alone
Desperately longing
For someone to lend a helping hand
Rusted and scratched eternally
From being undiscovered
Wishing that someone would discover
The essence of the music that lurks inside
So the world would realize how wonderful
I am
Blind Iris
A ticking time bomb
Soiled in regret, pain and agony
Yet defeat hasn’t completely stolen her soul
Worked for years finding her niche
Not realizing she is great all by herself
Emotionally flammable
Still wears her heart on her sleeve
And always giving the love that she is in search for
Unmarked Grave
In my flesh ridden
Tomb, I consume you daily
And you don’t notice
In my flesh ridden
Tomb, I consume you daily
And you don’t notice
Lying in a space of God’s creation
Six feet under circumstances
Greed, self pity, trials and love
A rigor mortis moment in time
She lies here
Hopefully finding the peace
That she was searching for
A daughter, a sister, a niece, a granddaughter, a lover
Too many who needed it
But much of nothing to herself
I consume you daily
And you don’t notice
No Red, No White; Just Two Blue Lines
In order to live
The American Dream, I
Sacrificed my child
Twice, without the choice
Disgrace would grace the eyes that
Granted my soul life
Futuristic Planning
Premeditated goals
Ambitions caught up in a one night stand;
Denial
Avoiding the silver lining by wadding in shallow streams of consciousness
I Am What I Am
I am disaster
I wonder what the hell they see in me
I hear the positivity that they spew at me, but all
I see is that…
I am disaster
I pretend not to notice I hurt
I feel inadequate
I touch my soul to ensure that the flesh is alive
I worry that no one will take the time to do the same, for
I am disaster
I understand that there has to be a light at the end of the tunnel
I say “Lord hear my plea”
I dream of soaring above the suffrage
I try to ignore the urge to be invective to my spirit
I hope to succeed, though I still believe that
I am disaster
Impurities
Eats the underwear
Cleans the floor, the countertops, my mind
To punish it, I drank it
It retaliated, punished me
Through cleansing the impurities
It was one
Knocking me unconscious
Lying there helpless
Unsure of why
I thought that was how you become white on the inside
Since, I was always being accused of it
Journey
Broad and Susquehanna
Cecil B. Moore
Girard
Fairmount
Traveled to Spring Garden
But no evidence of the latter
Up the stairs to 17th street
A bar and a black man that couldn’t pass it
Greet me, smile at me, and bring fear to me
Yet I stay
Walk in a duo to his place, cavern of uncertainty
Unlock the door the to this personal prison
The fragrant man smell pierces my nostrils
While he penetrates me…unwillingly
Drinks not the cause
But true answers unknown
Crying because of the invasion
Realizing that the smell of man no longer smells sweet to me
Love Touches
She holds me
Fresh, clean, dripping wet from the sink
Towel not completely doing its job
Decoration
I coo, she smiles, our bond
One of many
Enjoyable, refreshing soothing
A daily repetition, I don’t mind
She holds me
I am fresh, clean and dripping wet from the sink
Towel not completely doing its job
Decoration
I coo, she smiles, our bond
Ritual
One of many
My first bath
Many Thanks
I walk with my head up
Not due to arrogance
Not due to conceitedness
Not due to haughtiness
But because I worked hard to be somebody
I’m Speaking, No Interruptions
Searching for the onyx dream
I continually live in a maze
Zigzagging, scurrying in a haste to end up no place
Non-existent you are
I, not knowing this spend years,
Lifetimes, and eternities to remain hopeless
I tire
No longer shoving the soul into a false sense of security
Surrendering what’s left to an unmarked grave
This destiny unforeseen
A story of
Sugared lumps and black eye blues
ENTRÉES
Wrapped Present Memories
If Only I Could Write Like You
You amaze me every time you step up to the mic
The oceans’ bottom doesn’t have shit on you because you are so deep
I would do anything just to be close to the words that you spit
I want to be the eraser shavings that held your mistakes
Your computer typos, your pen scribbling
The drop of hot sauce that dripped from the greasy chicken
You had for lunch on the subway ride to class
While writing your poetry homework assignment
Because it was able to touch your page
I want to be your last minute thoughts
Your brain farts, your performance stumbles
Anything I could be in order to be next to your genius
Can you cry under water so that one day I could taste your wisdom
Through the tap water of my poetic uncertainty
The visual projections that shine through your rhyme
Answer the question of can blind people see in their dreams
Hell yes,
Your iambic pentameter is the music that sings on in their subconscious
You dazzle me
If I wasn’t weighted down I’d be swept off my feet
But somehow you send me on a rollercoaster journey
That will exercise my mental state
And I lose emotional pounds from your words
Can I take a class in your poetic madness?
My poetry is even hard for me to decipher and I wrote the shit
Even after writing this poem I feel inadequate
I would do anything just to be your mediocre
So I can have a fair chance
An Ode to The Past
Takes me back
Takes me back to the playground
Where grass tickles the toes and hands touch clean sand in sandboxes
Mother’s snacks placed in a diaper bag that I was too old for
But I didn’t care, my momma loved me
As she watched me play, living and loving life
The sun beats down on me
Just like she would if I didn’t come-a-runnin’ by the second time she called my name
But I was too busy
Busy bobbing on seesaws, swinging on swings
and whirling on the big toy thing
That could have you spinning in circles for hours
As your mind vomits from being dizzy
You stand up and do it again because you subconsciously love the feeling
Takes me back
Takes me back where grass tickles the toes in a playground
Where I was once safe
People looked out for me then
Blanketed my fears with a pallet of comfort and joy
But times have changed
I dread life because it is no longer a game
Dwelling in a world where societal norms seesaw
Tossing emotions back and forth
Battling my creditability by the fickle standards of this fucked up nation
Yet still being judged because being black
and swinging both ways is taboo; strike two
Whirling around in the sea of confusion, I am the future
I want to go back
Back to a time where my only concern was touching clean sand in sandboxes
Where grass tickles the toes lulling me into serenity as I play
And eating mother’s snacks, placed in a diaper bag that I was too old for
But I didn’t care, I saw then how much my momma loved me
As she watched me play, living and loving life
Funky Town
Day breaks me as I slip on pajama pants
Causing back to ache
No time to address the pain, cuz I’m running late
Showering with shampoo
Ain’t no more body wash left
“Shouldn’t have bought that Long Island Ice Tea last night”
Air drying, vagina blowing in the wind, no clean towels
No time to address the frustration, cuz I’m running late
In route to SEPTA station
Fell down steps, new jeans no longer new
Still missed the 8:45am train
Train that runs every 8 minutes, 10 minutes late
Surprised at the smooth turn over from orange to blue
So, I took a sigh of relief
EL train comes, find non-moist seat
Collect my thoughts and wait for my stop
2nd and Market
“NEXT STOP, 13th STREET”
Doors open
My ease lifted by an odoriferous element
A man, six feet with a bald head nearly skimming the train ceiling
Entering at approximately 950 pounds…
Minimum
Sits in the seat next to mine
“Isn’t there a three-seater he could take advantage of?”
Both not skinny people, he should have known better
I was there first
Sealing the deal, mashed into this space while a smell hits my nostrils
Nose hairs ablaze from the funk
Emanating from the pores he missed during his bathe
Cringing, shoving my face into the corner
Praying his stop was on its way
No time to weep, cuz I’m running late
His stop came, thanked Jesus
Unfurled myself from the crouched position
Eased into a lean, only to hear…
“NEXT STOP, FRANKFORD”
FUCKKKKK,
Are you shitting me?
That fat, funky pore ridden fuck made me hibernate to the ends of Philadelphia
No time to kick his ass, cuz I’m running late…
For work
Reflection of Your Rejection
I’m a reflection of your rejection
You’re just hating because I do you better than you could ever conceive
You better believe that there’s more to come
I’m through sipping your venomous libation
Tired of your continuous degradation of my soul
You’re swole,
That the things they tried to change in you
Are the things they love in me
Sick of putting you on this elevation
As you climb to continue to push me down
Because you see me a reflection of your rejection
Drained from living this falsified perfection
So I am trying to get diesel
The fuel you are feeding me is lethal
Desperate need of a resurrection
Your emotional wounds make tombs that Jesus can’t move over
Just step back,
You’re all fiction; no facts
And weary from absorbing all your slack
In The Midst Of Sorrow: A Revelation
I can’t make you love me; if you don’t
But I remember when you told me you did
Later taking it back claiming to be love just for me
Yet I stayed
I’ve allowed you to pitch a tent of false security inside me
I camp there for hours hoping that you learn to love me because I know of nothing else
Bringing suffering to myself
Like an emancipated slave with no freedom papers to unhitch my bondage
Mentally shackled, emotionally tired from the bullshit you try to feed me
Like a snake to its prey, squeezed so tightly that survival means death
I consume all of your venom because I know of nothing more
Yet you continue to use me and I continue to stay
Both at fault; not one willing to escape from the shadow of denial
Conditioned myself to believe that I am worthless
Without worth, without you
Living by this credo, I found comfort in your abrasive embrace
Your touch feels like sandpaper scraping and erasing away my joy
Your eyes grip my soul, squeezing so tightly that my aura can’t make a stifling cry
Making me tremble with fear when you hold me
Your hands fold together, in one rapid blink black and blue bruises highlight my vision
Your territory is once again marked
Your kisses assure me that it would be the last time, this time
So I stay
Upon my forehead I feel your lips, small lancets that tear my images into shards
Pieced together, they wouldn’t resemble my being
Every time I pray for change another bruise emerges
So it can’t get any worse than this
Unsure if I want to survive because maybe
If I knew me well enough to love me just enough
I wouldn’t have become accustomed to letting you love me to death
In Search
In search for regularity,
I try to cleanse the hate that floods the crevices of my mind and unsure of why
Because you’re the one that really fucked up
Fucked up so bad you fucked me up
All because you wanted to fuck and I told you no
But all I have is this emotional bulimia
Hording everything inside until I can find a sheet of paper to spew my thoughts
Constantly looking for purity between white lines
To mask the black ink blotches that I claim as emotions,
I am without clarity because you cloud my sanity,
Becoming the fog that continues to block my senses,
Senses that no longer sense my sense of self
Yet I still smell, feel and taste you every minute of every day and I want it to stop
Like a predator to prey
Hovering over my existence plotting the destruction of my salvation
Stop stalking me
Stop fucking stalking me
That’s what I want to yell to you but tears stifle my demand
Only they can be heard as I cry myself to sleep,
Weep into unconsciousness as my mind vomits answers to answerless questions
In my haze all I am able to purge is that you made a fool of me
Tell me why
When I have emerged from greatness
Where my lap is the throne from which your lineage can be formed
Without my support your domain will never reign supreme
Why I am still nothing in your eyes
The vision of my crown and glory has rusted away from all the shit you’ve done to me
Rewrote my being in just one moment
Never knew that you’d be the one to steal my joy, my ability to love, my sanity,
My trust, my dignity all in one fucking moment
You castrated my soul with vigorous pounding on sealed territory
Stabbing your phallic flags in places that didn’t belong to you
Each thrust I cry as your hazardous materials melt away my essence
I rot from the inside out lying in a puddle of “NO’s”,
The only thing that rings clear is that, you made a fool of me
Tell me why
Why couldn’t you respect me? That’s all I wanted someone to do
Somehow I’ve allowed your homicidal tendencies
To glock- nine with my mental state
All because I thought that being alone would hurt me the most
You portrayed yourself as being the man that would make a difference
The difference was that you were no different
A mere child in the suit of a man
Who believes that two drinks seal sexual contracts that only one of us
Had the opportunity to sign, no negotiation, just pressured
Forced into submission, treating me less than your equal,
Down sizing my humanity
Slave to your insecurity of power and for what,
I did nothing to deserve this yet
You made a fool of me, tell me why
Fiery’s Paintbrushes
As red as the crimson stream flows within you serves as a venomous libation
I wallow in your aqueous solution, seeping into my pores
Becoming bluer than the longing eyes seeking freedom through the windows of depression
Fucking just to be fucked
Galvanized in your cum, sticking to your phallic floor
As red as the crimson stream flowing within you serves as a venomous libation