ABOUT
My writing style/voice is best
described through this scenario: Langston Hughes, Kofi Awoonor, and Ama Ata Aidoo run a literary magazine…
Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo is my author name (middle name’s pronounced jee-YAY-jawm, last name’s pronounced AH-doh).
I write mostly poetry and short stories. My writing style/voice is best described through this scenario: Langston Hughes, Kofi
Awoonor, and Ama Ata Aidoo run a literary magazine…and some of their contributors include Nii Ayikwei Parkes, Chris Abani, Efua Sutherland, Dimitri Reyes, Walt Whitman, Kofi Anyidoho, Danez Smith, Franny Choi, Countee Cullen, Claude McKay, Billy Collins, Safia Elhillo, Stevie Smith, and Robert Frost.
I am the author of The Dedicadas, a poetry chapbook (shortlisted for the GAW Literary Awards and finalist for North Street Book Prize), and its full collection counterpart, Washed Over. My work has been recognized by a number of awards such as the Nan Lacy Poetry Chapbook Contest. In addition, some of my poems have been published in various avenues, including Tampered Press literary journal, Land and territory anthology, and Masques: Poetry of Identities anthology.
MOST RECENT PROJECTS
Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated (also available as an audiobook)
(poetry, full collection)
Washed Over is a book of poetry that explores the many forces and beings that inspire the poetic imagination and narrate one's journey through life.
CLICK HERE TO BUY PRINT AND EBOOK!
CLICK HERE TO BUY/STREAM AUDIOBOOK!
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"Within 80 pages, Addo shows his readers that the political is personal, and what is personal is poetic." ―Vuma Phiri | Barrett Book Reviews
...this collection fills me with hope, inspiring me to revere the world around me and give as much as I take, to challenge destructive systems and practices, and to grow from both shared communal knowledge and what I know to be true for myself." ―T. Walters | Civic Media Center
"If you are in the mood to read some wonderful poems and remarkable stories make sure you take the time to read this body of work, you won’t be disappointed at all." ―Kenitra Mounger | That's So Nitra
"If you read poetry and if you don’t read poetry, Washed Over is the poetry you need to read. The hope, the serenity and the strength...are rare feelings I’ve encountered in contemporary poetry." ―Eliza Lita | Coffee Time Reviews
Editorial review of Washed Over, review written by T. Walters
After reading Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo’s first full-length poetry collection Washed Over, I find myself asking a lot of questions, and feeling a vast range of emotions. How do we grow and learn from and be in community with one another? How do we find joy and meaning in everyday aspects of our lives? How do we unravel wretched histories and weave a more colorful future? What heartful rhythms and melodies drive my hopes and dreams? How can I have the grace and gentleness of the prancing springbok? How can I approach writing as building a collective claim to freedom?
This is the point of poetry: to evoke such strong feelings and thoughtfulness, to ask ourselves seemingly-silly or incredibly serious questions, to imagine and dream of the world in such a way that we want to keep on living in it. From the book’s cover to the content structure to the detailed dedications, Addo’s collection is thoughtful, innovative, and brilliant. The cover, to me, brings to mind two or three birds with their beaks pointing towards a purple circle (maybe a berry?), and appears to be a literal continuation of his debut chapbook, The Dedicadas. Perhaps now we are getting the bigger picture.
There are so many incredible themes Addo infuses in his work that I could write an entire essay unraveling them all, but I’ll give you a few of my favorites. Of course, the section headers themselves (‘Humanness’, ‘Natureness’, ‘Obsession’, ‘Devotion’, and ‘Humanness Reprise’) are all wonderful thematic markers, and they interplay with each other, but there is even more meaning to be uncovered--which I excavate each time I pick up these poems.
This collection is filled with intricate details that encapsulate a wider frame. He starts the book with one of the most precious, integral aspects of our humanness: our names. Addo illustrates this specificity from the first poem “On Names…Dziedzorm” with an in-depth description of his middle name (pronounced Jee-YAY-jawm), which itself is spelled differently depending on the alphabet you know and use. Though his work expands across a wide range of human emotions--grief, anger, despair, hope, sadness--he hones in on joy, radically declaring “Long live Happiness!”
This dedication to happiness and its pursuit is a central theme throughout the book: some pursuits of happiness leave us bereft of hope, where those in power “Take everything, give nothing” such as in “Anthropocene…A Live Event” (one of my favorite poems). Other pursuits, like that of learning and being in community with our kinsfolk (and that’s not limited to blood relatives), such as in the collection’s final poem “Life’s Students,” inspire us “to be one with the universe that poured its stardust into” us--a new baptism of sorts. This final poem is a dedication to and reverence for learning with and from community, describing how awe-struck one can be at how different and how similar we are--and how much we can gain with a little give and take.
Being flawed is one of our most human traits, and our most reliable. However, living in this country, we are taught that this and our ‘abnormalities’ are “Design Flaws” to be fixed in order to be perfect. However, Addo proclaims “Should I be so aesthetique that I don’t contribute to/elevating our human condition, then beauty has/failed me.” Thus, embracing so-called imperfection, learning from our real mistakes, unlearning false histories, and tearing down facades is one of the most essential ways to be and grow. One of the ways in which Addo continues to grow is through the very act of writing, it being his “claim to freedom”, as he describes in “I Write About My Joys, I Write About My Pains” (also one of my favorite poems). This poem adds complexity to the theme of happiness as it expands to include our vast range of emotions, their seemingly-contradictory nature being, yet again, one of the most human aspects of our existence.
However, we humans are not alone in this world--nature is an incredibly important part of our everyday lives! The admiration with which Addo details and delights in the natural world is so overwhelmingly joyful, and it imbues me with gratitude. The personification used by the author in “My Beloved Snow Flurries from Appalachia” strikes me with awe and giddiness. He ends the poem with a question: “But do you ever wonder to ask the dancing flurries to relay/what makes them so happy? ‘Where’s the joyful music, which way?’--/what would they say?”; I still find myself coming up with answers (perhaps they’d say “onward,” or maybe “inside,” or even “everywhere”). These poems are thoughtful and inspiring in the best way: prompting ideas about complex simplicities and simple complexities.
Of most importance, this collection fills me with hope, inspiring me to revere the world around me and give as much as I take, to challenge destructive systems and practices, and to grow from both shared communal knowledge and what I know to be true for myself. I feel the urge to be present, remembering our ephemeral place in the universe and that “Now is our minute, we things so minute.”
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Review by T. Walters of Civic Media Center; reproduced with permission from Walters and Civic Media Center
The Dedicadas: A Chapbook (shortlisted for the GAW Literary Awards and finalist for North Street Book Prize)
(poetry, chapbook)
The Dedicadas is a collection of poems, each having its own mood, yet all in harmony through a shared connection: poems dedicated to the forces and beings that inspired them.
Click here to buy on BookShop by BookBaby (paperback and ebook)
Click here for alternative buying options (ebook only)
Author’s note: during the first year of publication I am donating a portion of proceeds to ARTSPEAKS and the Library Of Africa & The African Diaspora (LOATAD).
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"Who we ought to be, who we want to become along with longing to be heard and understood… Addo’s book lovingly gives space to each of these pursuits and challenges us all along." ―Shannon Calloway | CMC Book Club | Civic Media Center
"Having read the collection, I have been changed. That is what poetry should do..." ―Ed Bedford | Coffee Time Reviews
"Addo's collection is another necessary read as we try to work through America's reckoning with racial discrimination and systemic injustice."―Carrie Honaker (writer)
Editorial review of The Dedicadas, review written by Shannon Calloway
There is something uniquely, perhaps even supremely, human about longing to be understood. We search for identities, and search for ways to qualify and quantify who we are. What matters most to our identity? Is it where we are from? Our childhood nicknames? Perhaps it is the unique way our tongue drops to the back of our mouth when we speak words that might sound like nonsense.
“The Dedicadas”, Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo’s newest collection of poetry, came to me in a flight of this exact sense of longing. I’m new here… how do I stand out while having you also understand that I am actually… just me? In the poem “Ey Bee Bee Ey”– Addo answers exactly that question: “Of best I can only be (am present), and on Mercy hover.”
As implied by the title – each of Addo’s poems is dedicated to a person, place, event, or feeling. Each of them another small part that came together to make a whole. The progression of the book is intentional and expressive. From the first poem “On names… Addo” the reader understands that we are on a journey. With the reminder “And many more are the kings in that family,/each ruling a chosen road in the world.”, we know the importance of where we come from. Our identity starts with a name.
The narrative continues with “Seeking”, reassuring me that we will be on this journey for a while. Addo encourages me, “…the truly/foreign and exotic is that/most familiar thing, perhaps the self.”
With his poetry, Addo explores a breadth of human emotion. His prose is sprinkled with the playful cadence of little kids at recess, the meditative rhythm of gratitude, and the complex language of privilege. I laughed out loud as death asked for their back to be scratched because “…Eternal/ Life say the favor/ need returned” in “WE ALL GON DIE!” I breathed a sigh of relief understanding that the letters of the alphabet all had their place, and as “Black Lands in White Ocean” reminded me, “‘Z’ and ‘Q’ much, much less so./ Being nomads, they float by like/driftwood, but they do bring good tidings when they drift by.” The imagination and the delightful use of nonsense words like eillovicolic, fafeigh, crusteneered, and ocrumbit make “Twas There, On The Lee” a remarkable adventure. The peculiarity of language is heartwarming. It is another chance to remember that we are all humans, constructing our own identities, our own realities.
Addo uses direct imagery and vivid language to approach subjects that may be impossible to understand. “Knocking on my Door” ends with “Save for Appalachia’s peaks and green moor,/covering screams in sycamore.” Dedicated to the people affected by the transatlantic slave trade; grief, loneliness, and longing form a complex of emotions that reach out across the ocean, searching for others who might understand. “English C” and “Nothing To You” are both playful and ironic. They use unique patterns and relatable dialogue to approach what it means to be Black in a culture that doesn’t value the whole of Black excellence, and to interrogate those very systems (in fact, the dedications on all of these explain this).
There is a dialogue between who we are, who we were, and who we will become. Who we ought to be, who we want to become along with longing to be heard and understood. Addo’s book lovingly gives space to each of these pursuits and challenges us all along. What does it mean to just be, and how do we thank those we meet along the way?
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Review by Shannon Calloway of CMC Book Club, an initiative by Civic Media Center; reproduced with permission from Calloway and Civic Media Center
PAST PROJECTS
Nothing so far.
LIVE EVENTS
FEATURED WORK
“Life’s Students”
I'm sleep-dreaming about cosmic dust
and about learning and about beings.
One stands by and the space I claim
honors them just the same as it allows
my occupancy. Their hat shields
the back of their neck and not
the sun from their eyes. I think
to be prideful at the soft shade
created for my eyes by the hat
protecting my face from the rays but
I breathe in stardust and wonder,
are their desires not the purest;
what are eyes without a neck
to lift them to greet the world?
One walks by and her skin's shimmer
glows of a different lineage
from mine. Her tongue does not tell
the same myths and knowings of my
inheritance. I think to see
myself as favored but I see on
her face a crescent smile like
an awakening planet and am
opened to amazement,
knower of all there is to know yet she
finds no fault in braving our shared
elements and our same atmosphere.
I build a table and it is sturdy and
holds many dinners and banquets. I marvel
at my handiwork and think myself
genius, then one comes and he crafts my
table into watering cans to quench the
earth and into seed troughs to feed
animals. A breeze sprinkles its cosmic
dust onto my ears. I hear the many creatures
of the galaxies, full with feasting, speak
and their energy puts me in awe,
a provider who nourishes the soul, see
how he banishes a type of hunger that a
tableful of delicacies cannot conquer.
I’m awake in a flow of cosmic dust
and of learning and of beings, and they
are here and I am here and we are stirring.
They are floating around as students
but maybe not in the way of writing a thesis
or speaking in academic jargon so esoteric
the best theorists cannot decipher any of it.
No one pretends to have memorized all
the books and equations, instead each
is a scholar of the secrets of the world
and adorned to match.
They wear a t-shirt as their gown.
She wears a scarf and it is a stole.
His backward baseball cap
will be called a mortarboard.
Let the necklace be an honor cord.
Let the heart be a medallion, shining
with all the promise no school or book
can grant. Their diplomas and credentials
are their minds and deeds, determined
to be one with the universe that poured
its stardust into them when
they first took life's breath.
***
Dedicated to these, my favorites of life's students (and to all the ones I am yet to encounter):
Juliah, Lenah, Micah, Noelah, Sarah
Eliaz, Enyonam, Esi, Foster, Godsway, Maija, Makafui, Matilda, Mawunya, Serdem, Vilmer, Yayira Aga.
Morkporkpor
Desmond, Kweku, Miriam, Raph, Rose, Samuel, Prince, 5BN Basic School crew 2001-2007
Erkow, Sedi, Yayira Agb.
Alan, Anna, Cassie, Paula, Reagan, Savannah D., Walker
Ethan, Ricky, Taylor, Travis
Bianca, Nicole, Zelda
Caleb, Elijah H., Emily Ha., Isaiah L.
Joe, Steadman, Wilson, CovYoGro 2008-2012
Alex A., Ellyn, Lindsey, Maddie, Matthew A., Randle, Sara F.
Courtney C., Jesse
Brittany Z., Jay, Khidr, Nathen, Roman, Ryan+Gavin, Sara J., Timmy, Tony N.
Michael+Shawn, Suzanne
Bree, HVHS Track and Field 2011+2012
Gabe
Alyssa L., Ashley S. (Chicago/Radford Ashley), Chad, Emily S., Jamous, Joseph, Julia, Kaleb, Kyrsten+Savannah M., Laura, Melly, Myles, Nikki, Patrick, Sean, Spencer, Stephen B., William, Canterbury House+UKirk RU+The Shelter crews 2014-2020
Brandon M., Briana, Chris, Ezgi, Jeffery, Libby Sh., Matt, Moriah, Shiza, Tegan, Tess
Phill
Alyssa A., Andrea, Brittany B., Edna, Geoff, Gina, Jordan L., Maggie
Courtney S., Katie D., Katie S., Kenzie
Desiree
Jacob
Elikplim
Brandon K., Danielle
Rachel S., Tori
Amy W., Bekah, Erica, Jordan C., Kara, Leah, Libby Sc., Olivia, Rachel B., RU COSD class of 2018 graduates crew
Clint, Brittany F., Steven C.
Amy R., Dalton, Daniel, Elise, Heather W., Jarrod, Kayla, Kendra, Sarah L., Sebastian
Cody, Nick
Ashley S. (Kingsport Ashley), Blaine, Blakely, Emily Hu., Isaiah C., Matthew D., Matthew P., Shane
Allie, Summer, Grace, Savannah R.
Chastity, Heather F.
Scott
Evans, Oliver, Renaud, Steph B. F., Thursday Night Poetry Jam crew 2020-2022
Chioma
Gavs, Henry, Naphlim
Crispin, Rufus, Afrique Soccer crew 2020-2022
Ayanna
Bryan, Cayden, Clinton, Darrion, Ed, Robert, Sage
Adam, Bear, Carlton, Caroline, Femi, Izu, Jaxon, Jenny, Mae, Sam M., Stephen K., Will, Chapel of the Incarnation/EpiscoGators 2020-2022
Aubrey, Jim, Sherwin, Steven R., Vivek
Elijah A., Eric, Josh, Kendi, Sam A., Tobi, Tony G., Triza
Chelsea, Craig, Kim, Sara H., Tammy C., Yvelaine
Alex V., Angie, Brandon P., Ciobha, Christian, Courtney W., Davis, Faris, Hannah, Holly, Ian, Janelle, Jess, Jio, Katie K., Kaylee, Lindsay, Maddie, Meagan, Sav, Steph G., Tevin, Tracy, Vivian, Yoko
Allie Ph., Ashley G., Brandon B., Brenda, Chloe, Dee, Erika, KJ, Kookie, Monique, Natalie, Shawna, Tammy O.
Drew, Emily L.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“Have Car Will…”
Have car, will
Go. Come. Fall in love. Religion. Dance. Death.
Sex. Accident. Road rage. Pet. Silence.
Model humans. Laugh. Toyota. Day.
Yo mama jokes. Music. Wedding. Poetry.
Tears. Racing. Wanderlust. Play. School.
Flat tyre. Podcasts. Insurance. Sing.
Friends. Work. Snow. Moving boxes.
Sleep. Black Jesus. Turning signal.
Shopping. Sports. Assholes. Lost. Taxes.
Relax. Roadkill. Transmission. Birth.
Windy. Sunshine. Phone. Discover.
Exit. Swerve. Drink. Death. De-religion.
Hold hands. Learn. Audiobooks.
DIY. Photography. Explore. Forget.
National Public Radio. Heartbreak.
Gas station. Remember. Eat. Rain.
Daydream. Date. Speed. Nostalgia.
Hitchhikers. Travel. Ganja. GPS.
Stress. Noise. Grow. Home. Family.
Funeral. Broke. Yard sale. Life.
***
Here’s to life on the open road and lessons taught by journeys.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“On Names...Dziedzorm”
(Mina míakpɔ dzidzɔ, long live happiness)
To those who neither
speak the Ewe tongue nor
use its alphabet, Dziedzorm is how
you write my middle name, Jee-YAY-jawm
is how you pronounce it. To you
who do not speak the tongue
but know the modified alphabet,
Dʒiɛdʒɔm is what my people give you.
To us, who both speak the tongue and use
the alphabet, Dziɛdzɔm is what we call me.
"I Am Happy" is what we call me,
Happiness is my birthright.
Joy I am, see me on the pavement as a
stranger and I will have a smile on
my face and spring in my step. You
will feel compelled to say hi or at
least nod a greeting. I myself do not know
why it happens so, but it's a good omen.
Know me well and the corners of your
own lips will be perpetually upturned.
Granted, you may grow to get crow’s feet
from all the laughter, but as fares
go, it's not too high a toll to pay
for the love and warmth and felicity
that'll be your company.
My people say it's predominantly a
girl's name. If that's the case I wish
to be referred to as Duchess Daisyduke.
If happiness is girly then I shall be the
girliest man alive! I should like to be called
Sovereign Kween Dziɛdzɔm, Bearer of Mirth,
from Akome to Adidome to Accra,
from Roanoke to Radford to Gainesville,
to the far reaches of my dominion
that are waiting for my presence.
To all that is to come. Long live Happiness!
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“Dancing on the School Bus”
(In celebration of the euphoric spirit)
There's a kind of motion to banish
demons before the driver says sit and
warns of detention but there'll be more
vicious omens skirted before a teenager's
scared by threats of the opportunity to eat
lunch alone with the flirty school librarian.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
from “Anthropocene…A Live Event”
My son teaches at the school in town. He wishes
for an increase on his meagre pay. He fumes, adding
that my administration does not equip him with the proper
schoolhouse resources and must do so himself. He is hoping for
reimbursement from us. We say what a savings! My niece was a pupil
at the school in town until last week. At the schoolhouse she left
this life when holes tore through her body. The trigger used is our
most lucrative model yet, sells better than hot cross buns. One a
penny, two a penny, hot cross guns! *The fourth and fifth are free
(*loyal customers only eligible for this giveaway, see fine print).
As one acquainted with trade and commerce, I know the expense of
things and know that burials can be expensive so I will at least pay
for my niece's funeral to ease the financial hardship on her parents.
***
Dedicated to the victims and descendants of the Transatlantic Slave Trade, and to the people of the lands that suffered their departure.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“Knocking On My Door”
There is nobody knocking on my door,
not for kinship, not anymore.
Save for Lake Volta's wash to flood my floor,
shrines Afadjato furthermore.
There is nobody knocking on my door,
not for friending, not anymore.
Save for Elmina Castle's human store,
caging life young in sophomore.
There is nobody knocking on my door,
not for prayer, not anymore.
Save for Atlantic's sad salt on my shore,
ships and tears to Baltimore.
There is nobody knocking on my door,
not for romance, not anymore.
Save for Appalachia's peaks and green moor,
covering screams in sycamore.
***
Dedicated to the victims and descendants of the Transatlantic Slave Trade, and to the people of the lands that suffered their departure.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in The Dedicadas: A Chapbook; 2021
“On Nicknames...Okpobi-o”
Short-sleeve caramel-coloured shirts,
shorts and skirts brown as soil. I am lanced
back in years to Ghana. Accra. Burma Camp.
5BN Basic School, this is Form 6, our last time
at primary school. My classmates call me Okpobi-o,
five-years-strong. Someone tells me why,
forbidden nectar of Pidgin dripping from his tongue:
“My padi, in Form 1, you fit be the new
boy at the time ooo. We for fit aks you say what
be your surname? Wey you fit say it be Okpo.”
Reminiscing laughs ring around the cement and I need clarity:
“Whaat! Na wetin be dis wey you dey talk? But I know
what my own name dey be! I say it be Addo,
not Okpo. Na okpo be dove ooo.”
Clarity sees me and arrives:
“But we dey know am! We know
it be no way you fit call yourself okpo,
but there be too much noise in dat room dat
day; everybody dem for converse, so when you
dey say ‘Addo’, it fit sound like you
dey say ‘Okpo’. We all fit laugh am and we dey tink
it be joking matta so we fit start call you
Okpobi-o from dat day on naaw.”
Now my laughter joins the mirth dancing from
green wall to green wall and I am humour's vessel.
I was young at six when I was christened,
I was 'Okpobi-o', 'Oh Little Dove'.
And what is in a name? I am here no more little.
Still I will do my best, I will be a dove.
To carry to you an olive branch.
***
For my 5BN padi dem, big ups for dem happy yesterdays wey we pikin dey run some tings.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in The Dedicadas: A Chapbook; 2021
“Driving Through Fire Woods”
The sign reads "Blue Ridge Parkway."
The speed limit says 45, but it feels
much better to push 65. Gives the
illusion of driving through fire.
Tree trunks and limbs, fallen twigs,
underbrush; tinder and kindling of
all sizes are they. The leaves blaze
gold and brown and crimson and yellow
and orange; tendrils of the flame. The
road is black and grey and white; coal
and firewood and ash.
Behind you, the wind churns up jovial
leaf sprinkles as you drive. Up above,
some tree branches crackle and let out
puffs of emberleaves that wade through
smoke-grey sky and come to rest on earth.
As you drive through the flame you look
to one side and see the valley blazing.
The river that swims through it refuses
to extinguish the inferno. You look to
the other side and see the cliff zoom by.
Its warm-looking rocks and bushes and
trees want to reach into the car and
hug you.
Ahead in the distance you see an eagle.
It looks down at its dominion and sings,
"My kingdom is a torch. Let it shine, let
it burn!" The season is autumn--you're driving through
fire woods, and you're smiling, and you know: this is the only
time in anyone's life that being engulfed in flames
ought to feel cool.
***
In marvel at autumns, for the cool warmth of their colors.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“Macroaggressions...Get Stabbed or Get Punished”
I (upon seeing Tony in the hallway after class)
Yo, Tony. What's up, man. How's things going so far today?
TONY
Meh, Geometry wasn't all that bad today. You? How was Art?
I
It was alright: some girl brandished an X-Acto knife at me.
She came to class looking all disheveled.
Hair fit for a bird to nest in, pale-pink skin dry and flaky.
She gave me her greeting, "What's up, Blackie!"
I looked up from my work and simply said, "You look drunk!"
That got her upset...something about how
Dad's alcoholism has affected her. Anyway, so she got up and
picked up an X-Acto knife from the table.
She started coming at me with that thing and I said, "Whoa!"
At that point I guess the teacher could feel the tension.
It went on to the principal's attention.
He heard the issue and gave the girl a one-day suspension.
The teacher didn't see the whole situation…
the story she told him was that she was busy checking emails.
Right there, but couldn't confirm the details.
She made it sound like she was a world away, like, in Wales.
Well, principal said I provoked the girl to threaten me with
that knife, meaning he thought there was plenty
of blame for both sides, code that he wanted to punish me too.
He gave me in-school detention and musta felt he
was being really gracious 'cos he gave me a warning: next time,
my punisher probably wouldn't be quite this lenient.
***
Dedicated to those whom our systems punish when they try to avoid the blade of the attacker and that of the system.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“So Much Rain Pours These Days”
(In contemplative amazement at the power of unrelenting rains)
So much rain pours these days
that the green does battle
with the paved world
to see who can contain
the biggest ocean.
The grass stalks, green with
life, wear the clearest and
lightest beads of water as
their pearly prize. And they release
the rest of the drink to their earthy
storage below to be
conjured up later for the reaping.
But the concrete jungle,
black and grey and white with envy
and not to be outdone, opens
his bosom to the sky and
welcomes its tearful embrace.
And those silky tears he cannot
dress himself with he drinks,
the sidewalk drain is the
thirsty maw that gratefully
opens wide for the quench.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“Chaos Creating Its Own Order”
(Here’s to entropy, that force which crumbles our curated façades to reveal our deepest vulnerabilities and fears)
Chaos creating its own order. More beauty than
the marching orders of structure and
predictables. Chaos commanding, breathing ones
and lifeless things all on track
to entropy. The order the universe gave us,
gave to itself. Consistent, unfailing,
steps ordered. Orderly. We are engineered
to follow. We march. Float. Horizon approaching.
And soon our gaze will be a stupor toward the
dimming hour. Now is our minute, we things so minute.
One moment of rapture. A blinking of euphoria,
to savour daylight's final gifting.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in Washed Over…Or, Things Dedicated 2022
“Nothing To You”
You love to consume the entertainment we producing
dance, dance
But you ain't wanna accept the thoughts we offering
down, down
You love to hear the music we making
dance, dance
But you ain't gonna support us make it
down, down
You love to see us when we making it
dance, down
But when you gonna want us to make it?
***
For Renaud Lajoie, Jarrod Key, and everyone doing their part to interrogate our systems.
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poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in The Dedicadas: A Chapbook; 2021
“Seeking”
(For Dwayne Dickerson, for sparking a momentary reflection on the self)
You, searching in far off lands for a
change to familiarity.
You searched in hopes for something
refreshing, different.
Then when the journey for difference
consumed, while sifting through the
hallowed sands of pursuits
unexplored you learned it; the truly
foreign and exotic is that
most familiar thing, perhaps the self.
------
poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in The Dedicadas: A Chapbook; 2021
“WE ALL GON DIE!”
(Dedicated to all of us and our many billion backs that need scratched)
WE ALL GON DIE!
Yeah yeah, I know I
sound alarmist but I'm
just tryna point out
one day all our flesh
gon be gone from here.
That thing we call
decomposition, yeah it
gon happen to all of us.
But we'll die don't
mean we doomed. For
every action there is
an equal and opposite
reaction.
So yeah, let's go
ahead and scratch
Death's back a billion
times over cos
guess what? Early this
morn I heard Eternal
Life say the favor
need returned, and
*hoot* do we got a
whole lotta backs
that need scratched!
------
poetry
© Reinfred Dziedzorm Addo; Originally published in The Dedicadas: A Chapbook; 2021
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