Cycles of my Being program

I. Inhale, Exhale

America – I hear you hiss and stare

Do you love the air in me, as I love the air in you?

Black boxes of cargo

Black boxes in holes

Hysteria, Hysteria – I hear you hiss and stare

Black eyes and blackouts

Blackjacks and nightmares

America – do you care for me, as I care for you?

Do you love the air in me, as I love the air in you?

 

II. Hope (pt. 1)

When walking hope is a swagger

When breathing hope is oxygen

When drunk hope is wine When dirty hope is water

When unfilled hope is a well

When unwell hope is medicine

When impatient hope is patience

When lonely hope is company

When poor hope is money

When hungry hope is meat

When hunted hope is a knife

When sleeping hope is a lullaby

When angry hope is a blade When wounded hope is what heals me.

 

III. Whirlwind

Lord, I’m trying to break myself open; this song of mine wants to be a whirlwind.

You are both religion and assassin.

I am both assassin and religion.

My armor is made of flesh and spirit. I am your story.

I am your lyric.

Lord, I’m trying to break free of prison; this song of mine must become a weapon.

You are both compass and situation.

I am blindness, rumor, insight, vision.

My courage is made of flesh and spirit. I am your story.

I am your lyric.

Lord, I’m trying to break free again.

This song of mine is made of love and skin.

This song of mine must become a weapon.

This song must become a whirlwind.

 

IV. Hate

Tell me, what causes one to hate?

Hate takes on many shapes.

It is subtle, overt, passive, often wrapped in disguise.

Hate wears white sheets, black suits, high heels, and boots.

Hate is powerful, all encompassing, and enrapturing.

Tell me, could it be that you hate me because you hate yourself?

The very essence of me you despise.

But why, when I am in the stage your ancestors helped create?

…and that, being magnified, only breeds more hate.

You don’t know me. Still you hate me.

Your contempt for me does not allow you to see me for who I am.

I am God’s creation, flesh personified, in His image.

You hate the God in me, and the God awful too.

You don’t know me. Still you jeer me.

Your hate becomes a shackle you cannot break.

You nor I are born with hate, but hate flourished because you chose to cultivate your hatred.

Your hate lies in wait until you choose to activate hate.

Make no mistake, hate leaves carnage in its wake.

I hate that your hate can decide my own fate.

 

V. Hope (pt. 2)

When weary hope is a hymn

When uninspired hope is vision

When perplexed hope is reason

When unsettled hope is peace

When lost hope is direction

When frustrated hope is calm

When unsure hope is certainty

When worried hope is serenity

When betrayed hope is forgiveness

When depleted hope is reserve

When dancing hope becomes grace

When fatigued hope is a second wind

When dead hope is life

 

VI. Each Day I Rise, I Know

Each day I rise, place foot to floor the weight of consciousness I know.

 

Each day I rise, I know…to always say hello.

Sun glow tooth-snow hair flow

Mirror blows a flute of crows

Each morning glow at the window

 

I have something to praise

Sunbreak toothpaste hair glaze

Mirror gaze a flute of blue jays

Moaning, amazing & misbehaving

Each day I rise, I know

 

I have something to love

Sun-dusk toothbrush hairbrush

Mirror blush a flute of thrushes

Each day I rise, I know

I think of this as a project wherein the voices of black men combine to create a new and magical expression of black manhood. This, at least, is my impression after working with Larry Brownlee to shape the cycle’s arc. We had long, rich conversations about masculinity and blackness. Larry wrote the wonderful cycle parts "IV. Hate" and "V. Hope (pt. 2)"amid our conversations about the project. The other works in the cycle are adapted from a series of sonnets I wrote during the first 200 days of the Trump presidency. They cover a range of feelings and topics and will be in a forthcoming manuscript, American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin, (Penguin, 2018).

Here the sonnets have been rewritten (sometimes dramatically so) as songs that maintain the lyrical core of the poems. New pieces include “Each Day I Rise, I Know,” which I based on a passage from a poem Larry wrote. His lines reminded me of Maya Angelou. The piece that begins, “When sleeping hope is a swagger” is the result of later conversations with Larry about ending the cycle with a gesture of hope. After writing it, I asked Larry to write a poem using the same structure. Initially I thought we might combine the two, but after reading Larry’s piece, I thought we should end the cycle with it. It brings the cycle to a conclusion of unity and hope. Once Tyshawn Sorey's music is added, our voices will constitute a unique and moving cycle of expression.

Terrance Hayes, Poet