Power of the Protest Poem

FOR THE CONSIDERATION OF POETS

where is the poetry of resistance,
the poetry of honorable defiance
unafraid of lies from career politicians and business men,
not respectful of journalist who write
official speak void of educated thought
without double search or sub surface questions
that war talk demands?
where is the poetry of doubt and suspicion
not in the service of the state, bishops and priests,
not in the service of beautiful people and late night promises,
not in the service of influence, incompetence and academic
clown talk?

The protest poem— it was first brought to our attention when learning of Denise Levertov and her antiwar poems, which at times ostracized fellow poets against her. We are moving out of pastoral, cubist, modern art poetry into what Haki R. Madhubuti is searching for: a real poetry that demands change. Another poem that does this is Danez Smith’s “Dinosaurs in the Hood.” In the poem, Smith says,

Nobody can say nigga in this movie

who can’t say it to my face in public. No chicken jokes in this movie.
No bullets in the heroes. & no one kills the black boy. & no one kills
the black boy. & no one kills the black boy. Besides, the only reason
I want to make this is for that first scene anyway: the little black boy
on the bus with a toy dinosaur, his eyes wide & endless

his dreams possible, pulsing, & right there.


Like Madhubuti, Smith uses repetition and concise lines to drive home their point, especially the line “& no one kills the black boy.” The first time I read “Dinosaurs in the Hood,” I laughed at first as Smith outlines all the Hollywood celebrities they didn’t want anywhere near their imagined movie (Quentin Tarintino and the Wayan Brothers). But the tone becomes more serious as we march down the page until we reach the meat of the piece of art: “& no one kills the black boy.” When you get to the end, whether you are religious or not, there is a sort of prayer that comes out, a silent Oh God, please, don’t let the black boy be killed. Protest poems are hard. They require the poet to really care so deeply about something that it can’t stay inside anymore.
Amiri Baraka in “Black Art” says, “Poems are bullshit unless they are teeth or trees or lemons piled on a step.” Later in the poem, he continues with “we want ‘poems that kill.’ Assassin poems. Poems that shoot guns.” While I don’t love Baraka antisemitic and misogynistic imagery, I do agree with him here. What good is a poem that has nothing real to say? This is part of the reason that I love confessional poetry and nonfiction essays so much. Tell me something real, something vulnerable, something that hurts to give.

All that being said, it is very hard to write a poem with a meaning already in mind. My first semester in the MFA program, I would come up with these big topics and themes and meanings first, then try to write a poem around it. This did not work very well. All of my poetry sounded forced, like trying to fit leftovers into the wrong size tupperware. It’s only when I became more honest and vulnerable that I was able to start producing anything poem-like. The key, I have found, is that your meaning is already inside you, waiting to come out. Whenever you start writing, it is going to bleed into your poem with practice.

I really loved the chant quality and jazz feeling of the poems. I’m not sure if it is chantable, but this poem of mine is a pantoum and is supposed to be a performance piece. It is also my twist on a protest poem, I hope you enjoy!

MANTRA PANTOUM

You couldn’t have known he was someone to fear,
my therapist says to me after my assault,
in moments like this, when you feel choked by tears,
repeat this for me, it wasn’t your fault.

My therapist says to me about my assault,
in eight out of ten rape cases, the victim knew the perpetrator
It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault—
I know you don’t believe it now, but you will later.

In eight out of ten rape cases, the victim knew the perpetrator—
I’ve heard so many stories of my friends
who didn’t believe that, but now do later;
I defend them, but my story I can’t comprehend?

I’ve heard so many stories of my friends
getting slipped things and not remembering;
why can I defend them but not comprehend
why it wasn’t my fault even though I was drinking?

I don’t know what turns people to committing
crimes, but my therapist said after my date did assault
me, it wasn’t your fault, even if you were drinking.
IT WAS NOT MY FAULT, IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.