☀ What Sparks Poetry: Tiana Nobile on A. Van Jordan's "M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A: Poems"

Morning: What's another word for rage if not loss?
Set out for boat ride on the Wilson Line
With other district champs, but not allowed above
The bottom of the boat. History in my nostrils, flared.
A pigeon asked me for a quarter
In the park. A beggar ate crumbs from my hand.
Lunch: White House. Washington Monument in background,
Mother and Ms. Norris in foreground. Chiaroscuro, a word
I must remember. Elizabeth Kenney is a Negro girl
From a southern district, somewhere in North Carolina.
She's wringing her hands. I must keep my head. Everything moves
Like it's from a different planet. Street vendors have more hands
Than Vishnu. No one is in love in DC. Where do the babies
Conic from in this town? No, how do they survive? An old, Negro
Man is dancing in the middle of the street; he moves his gloved hand
East, and the cars move toward the sun, he moves his other hand
West, and they head toward the ocean. Someone loves him who walks
The dotted line. How else does he get his shoes off at night?
Night: my hand disappears inside President Roosevelt's as he
Congratulates me, just for showing up, before the competition.
Elizabeth Kenney misspells Appellation in round one.
Now, I'm alone and the dreams set in:
I see Ethel Waters pouring tea at a table in the audience.
Was Asa Philip Randolph really shining shoes in the lobby?
I ask again, where do the babies come from? And I'm snapped
Back to the spelling bee as the announcer repeats Nemesis
As two tongues dance like a poor child for change
Behind his teeth.