Peasy Poets roll the political and personal into one another, we write poems that wake and make us come clean. Unruly, wild, too original and dry humored, our poems are here to be brave and undivided. Provocateurs, we do not fear our human embodiment—the Peasy Poet is not complicit in our disaster and enslavement. The Peasy Poem has a maze of memory, a series of translated gestures, whispers, coded and redacted, haptic and void, it’s a poem that feels for the records. The Peasy Poet has diasporic kinships, agitates what makes us numb and separated, reminds us of our bodies, our senses, our knowing. It is nobody’s business what we do with our here. We are not afraid to wait and listen. The Peasy Poem is a score for how to say hello again, we feel it on our napes. This is our c s i g h t e. Peasy Poets are writing with the future at our backs and the future passes, first, through our kitchens.
We use poetry to comb, our bodies the verb.
Our poems go for snap, sweet, to the edges our multi-directional reach.
We pick and craft our tools to build our poems.
We account for our daily lives, for this is bread, this is closer truth.
Our poems are the sum of our parts, the physics of our naps, our co-creative heat.
We make trouble with our poems, line-up our questions, rattail the walls down.
There is no silence we will not break, we poet for the electric shift.
Our poems remember, return, recover, recognize, read, receive, respect.
The poem is a body between. We treat it well, we tend to its elements. Then ease.
We honor the poem’s cycles, the ways it curls and splits, transforms and loves.
Our poems dread from straight time, show how thicck a moment can be.
Our poems are space for self-braiding, roots for getting back to feeling.
We poet the art and style of our spirits, we be the rage.
We use our identities to cornrow, afro, grease and wave our poems free.
Each poem is a rinse and learning again. Each poem grows us.
Therefore, we are crowned by beauty.
