Archive for the ‘Jenny Benjamin-Smith’ Category

Birthday

Saturday, April 3rd, 2010

When the planets turned ready
in slow-time abeyance for a rendition
of lives to clash, maybe Cherokee man
or colonial long hunter, maybe English renegade,
or would-be farmer plunging his hands in
black dirt to tease out a weed’s root system,
or maybe highland warrior who puts his
tired head to his suffering wife’s breast
assembled on this day, this ejection of red
and flesh, the gasp of Baby Boy Smith
for there was no other name.

Now there is the dark before the dawn
that brings the chirping of birds like those
within an ivy-covered wall of a university
building where we walked and my
umbrella snapped back continuously
in the strong wind like an animal trap
with sex and not death in its maw,
so on this morning the birds wake
for hours before the light and peep
out a missive for you today:
Look in your house, the nineteen year
old punk did not die. See all that
you have made, all the people of your mind,
all your broken, and all your gentle
are housed inside.

.

Jenny Benjamin-Smith, April 3 2010

The Magician

Thursday, May 28th, 2009

I can divine these brambles.
Or these gnarled flowers at my feet.
They obscure my heels as I
float on yellow horizons.
Tip the diagonal of my arms into
the numbers of years set down like dust.
I can, you see, lead you somewhere,
over rock and highland green.
I can conjure stone from earth
to make a window to another world.
Come with me. Take the tips of my fingers.
Interlace the leaves and set down
your sword, your wand.
You have no need for all the people
who make up your mind.
You have no need for the lily or rose
jabbing between your legs like a crude
lover. Walk this way with me,
and I will tip the stars down your throat.
Drop the grapes and roll them over the skin
of your neck. Only then will you have
the idea of splendor. Of the eternal.
All you need is this staff to guide your way.
All you need is to follow the shift
of my eyes. I may lead you somewhere,
or you could go the other way.
Sit down at my table. I’ll flip forever
like a figure eight. I’ll let you look
at me for as long as it takes.
Let’s begin. I promise. This is something
you won’t forget.

- Jenny Benjamin-Smith

magician

Postcard #1 from a Gondola

Saturday, March 14th, 2009

Dear Jack-Be-Nimble,

The sky is a particular gray-blue today, and it makes me think of you.  Your slate eyes.  Venice is, well, all masks and gondolas; I love and need it as I do my own internal organs that I picture crammed to fatal dimensions from a corset as if I were some courtesan fleeing the sacking of Rome to set up house on the water.  But this is a book I read, I think.  I am, indeed, drawn to the suspension of the place: the sheer possibility of falling or crashing from ground to saltwater canals and flowing into the Adriatic as golden-haired wreckage.  I wonder about you and where you are?  Staring into some dwindling camp fire, watching the embers smolder as orange particulars on tangled, gnarled roots used as kindling?  Are you in the fire, Jack, or are you stewing your own organs just outside of it?

Always Yours, 
Lucia, Your Venetian Courtesan                                                                                   

Today I…

Tuesday, May 13th, 2008

Witnessed an informal poll with black middle school boys about whether or not they can control their erections. Let me back track. I teach at a small school that serves students who have been reassigned from Milwaukee Public Schools because of bad behavior. These behaviors range from use of drugs or alcohol, sex in school, fighting, or habitual level four disruptions, which translates to really bad class room behavior. Think toddlers with adolescent hormones and a whole lot of attitude. There are four of us who run the program, and in truth, it would not be possible without the force, warmth, and general black grandmother/matriarchal power of our principal, my dear friend, Ann.

So this day, like many of the days, we face a barrage of needs to attend to and to address, both academic and social. On this day I was teaching a version of Tales from the Arabian Nights, and we just finished reading and discussing the characters of Shaharazad and Shah Riyar. And despite my explanations and analyses of why Shah Riyar made the law to have his new wife executed each day after the wedding, one of my students said, “Dude’s a fag.”

Where exactly does one begin? First, I established the referent for Dude, though I knew who he was I feel I must combat the proliferation of the use of Dude, so I usually say something like this: “Could you please tell me which dude you mean?” Then another student (remember, this is a class of all black middle school boys) said, “Why is it girls” (that’s me I supposed) “don’t ever know who Dude is, but guys do?”

I said, “Please enlighten me.”

He said, “Dude is always the main Dude.” Ah, Shah Riyar then.

Once that was established I quickly launched into the rude and inappropriate use of the word “fag.” Ann entered the room at about this time, and she can never resist a chance to stand up to ignorance, so she joined me in the front of the class, and together we tried to discuss the studies about being hard wired for homosexuality. Just to be clear it is not easy to keep this group focused let alone on a topic where many have their opinions from their own life observations, for example, “I just don’t get it. Guys with guys. That’s just wrong.” There were a few in the class who got it. God bless them, and they tried to help us, but the wall of ignorance was pretty thick, and I, exasperated from teaching my class and feeling beaten by the world, slipped to the back of the class and sat at the desk while Ann forged ahead, trying to reach them.

Then she did something that could have gone very wrong, but as usual with Ann, it is spot on with making a break through with a difficult situation.

She said, “Okay, think of it this way, how many of you can control your erections?”

No one raised their hands, and there was some looking about the room in confusion, so Ann clarified, “Do you know what that is? An erection is a hard on.” Some snickering ensued, and dare I say it, some blushing occurred.

She continued, unflappable as ever: “Don’t be embarrassed, I’m a grandmother, I raised sons. You get a hard on in the bath tub or when the wind blows a certain way, so I’ll ask it again but a little differently: how many of you cannot control your erections?”

Every boy in the room raised his hand. And on this day, we had a new student, Leviticus. Leviticus. He sheepishly looked about the room, wanting to blend as new students do, no matter how rough they come to us, and he put his hand in the air with the rest of the hormonal bunch.

“So you can’t control those right. Well, it’s the same with sexual preference, you can’t control it, your body reacts,” Ann said.

Something clicked. This got through to them. There was a lot of nodding, and the boy who used the word “fag” was conversing with his neighbor and shaking his groin in his seat, commenting on how he tries to shake his erections away, to no avail. This was not the usual educational break through, but it was something.

Ballade of Days

Sunday, January 27th, 2008

When we huddle closely in our bed,

the night shadows bleed tricks

upon the walls, and we, wet flesh,

sighs, and twists that vanish in the mist

of night and all its ghoulish subjects,

are we more than what we keep?

No more soul than silver, temporal and quick.

Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?

Who were you before, what person did you shed?

The font of being moving persons down a list

and we have the dead beneath us and in our breath.

This world we built on worlds before of things

and things and things that we can’t hold or keep.

I am countless children digging dirt with broken sticks.

Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?

Of morning and the gentle pressures as we wake in bed,

this shining, drawn-out dawn on thick

clouds in windless skies of blue-pink mesh

has made a yelping yawn, a wick

to light the skies, and you are here and fit

perfectly along my back and bend of knee.

We are countless children digging with magic sticks.

Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?

When you gently touch the inside of my wrist,

I am here in this day and in past and future weeks.

We are a tendon trimmed with feathers that persist.

Do the dead count our blessings as we sleep?

Child

Sunday, October 10th, 1999

You will remember that this world will not last.
You will remember that I’m the large sunny rock to
lie upon. Blend into me in case the world is too large.
You aren’t even listening.
Except to your own thoughts about noise and food.
I am trying to explain the world to you.
You will move away from me.
You may hate me. love me.
Funny.
I have not even given
birth to you. Have not even conceived you.
But there you are my unexplainable yellow
thought. Ages I have seen in old photographs.
Smells my parents put before me.
I will do the same for you even before
I have any semblance of a human to feed.
If I ever get there meet me
meet me because I will not know
who I am.

.

© Jenny Benjamin-Smith, 1999.