STORY OF MY SONG, Kirwyn Sutherland

Kirwyn Sutherland is a Clinical Research Professional and poet concerned with black people in all aspects. He has made two National Poetry Slam Teams in 2015 (made the Semi-Finals) and 2016. His work has been published in APIARY Magazine, Drunkinamidnightchoir, BlueShift Journal, Bedfellows Magazine, Voicemail Poems, and Public Pool. Kirwyn has served as Poetry editor for APIARY magazine and is currently serving as List Editor/Book Reviewer for WusGood magazine.

Story of my Song

A language
A tongue
I poet
I take a word under a microscope
and split     or
I take a word and
add another to it
and then look for
a metaphor to
I house, in this way,
I build a container for
my atoms
I molecule but words
I stick
I take different combinations and
make sin-ner-gy
I sin, a heretic
I ner-not-a cult fool
I g, a gas
I choke the same
out a tongue
I blue
I blues a see new way
I sorrow happy
I sad smile
I dirge gospel
I make a curse
a hallelujah
I poet
I vessel, in this way,
I take up God
I plasmid
I change based
on a light shine
and then
I explode
I page
I spread
I stop thinking
a language
I express
air like
I riff off
I house, in this way,
I home
I familiar with
the creak in
the top step
I smell chicken
I hear it pop
I sound it out
I grease
I grease down
I slide a poem
out wet
I watch form
I name it
as it develops
a shape
I birth
a lot of
I sad sad
I sorrow sorrow
I dirge dirge
I blues the same way
I poet, in this way
I give the unknown a house

Ode to the last scene in Fresh

hoodie in sun
orb child gray
blood somewhere around

sadness must action
be taught strategy:
to make
poverty an orphan
to make
orphan black genius
could you call
survival a degree
granting program?

slick in and
out of grips
tell a lie
by being child-like
tell the truth
big scary mouth-like
screaming Jake’s
reality check down
to his chained death
Fresh atonement
ain’t no straight
line sometimes a
killer’s final web
ain’t justice but

chance/probability/timed runs
just enough
bricks to build
a case
a boy could
never move
a mountain into
a pebble unless
he could pick
up a drug dealer
and turn him
to white dust
beginning of chess
when the black
pawn is the
whole row is
the whole board
is the whole field
stops playing/
looks at his master/
drowns him

Ars Poetica of the Belly #2

That named me husky
big body boy clinging
to the leavings of
a shoddy selection
of too big khakis
and asymmetrical shirts
Protrusion out of
turn to the side
I see poke out
points where
laughing mouths
would affix

My own

The absurdity of how
big I make an image
To eat
To eat
Belief of a profile

Can you believe
I ate myself
Out of a mirror

everyday to

Ars Poetica of the Belly #2

that puts on a front
I could scream
but somebody
would hear me
So I hold it
I tell myself
‘the right time will come where a space greets my whole
self and every emotion I have ever felt and tucked won’t
feel ashamed’
So I hold it
and the hot
gets overwhelming
and I put my hand on my stomach
and feel an animal shifting
or my mother knocking
or something telling me
to unlock
but I promise
you won’t like me
without this
makeshift clamp
I promise
the secrets hidden in me
will change me colors
If I just burst
If I just say today, right now
I deserve
hearing how I really sound
I don’t know who would stay
I guess that is the risk a sane person takes?
measuring themselves against
blank evil and deciding
to eat a frame into it?
Me, I
measure and
measure and
and starve myself