Why I Write These Poems

By Louis Moten

"Why I Write These Poems" is reprint of the 2002 classic, by Louis Moten and offers a timeless example of an African American Male unbridling his truth in an unburdening exercise.  This collection of poetry and experiences is written in the vein of vulnerability and transparency leaving just enough room for healing and resolve.  Expression in this volume is evidence of the how the black male truth is not devoid of emotion and vulnerability, and is furthermore a muscle that must be exercised regularly.    

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louis Vernon Moten
• Release date: Sep 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9798682265503

Book preview

LOUIS VERNON MOTEN

Snapshots  

As I write these words

I realize that exhausting these thoughts

are but my cry for air.

Being under water

in the womb of a mental prison

is a torment that invites a greater appreciation of being born.

Not re-born, but born.

This is but the first... my baby steps.

I write these poems to give a rhythm to my walk through life

I write these poems to make the world’s hard truths easier to swallow

I write these poems so that my idea may live

so that my words can inspire

so that others will acknowledge their thoughts and ideas

and offer themselves to the world as the gifts God meant them to be.

God created creators of creations and we write these poems.

I will now invite you to view my photo album

Some of the pictures may be blurred

because some of the emotions were stirred

Some of the captions don’t fit

because circumstance edits my script

These pictures are beyond virtual reality

and because there is  not yet a recording to accompany this book

and because you are not listening to me

down at the Blue Room on 18th and Vine

and because you are out of ear shot

and still allow me to share my experience...

My friend, I tell you right now... that’s why I write these poems

that’s why I write these poems

that’s why I write these poems

that’s why I write these poems

WHY I WRITE THESE POEMS (Memoir I)

The thing I like most about writing these poems is being able to paint pictures without the skills of Van Gogh, or Picasso.  Having done some reading and research on Picasso. I have grown more appreciative of his work.  Understanding that the motivation behind his genius was competition, somewhat levels the playing field between the renown and the average.  An Original Hip-Hop fan in the worst way, I grew under the tutelage of black on black dozen play, a bi-weekly barbershop walk, cool-people talk, wino-wisdom, uncles in prison and holiday dinners gone bad.  We camouflaged our souls with masks called  ‘I hate you’ because you remind me of me if I were looking at you and saw the reflection of my future grow dim in your open but closed eyes.  Our penises were out of control, our vaginas were cheaply sold, and our plight was masked by the lies we told. My piss was lemonade in the snow... I think back and wonder if I liked pissing in the snow so much, because it was white.  But we really couldn’t talk about that, because we didn’t have a plan on how to melt the snow that was freezing us out... So we talked about each other. 

I got props from my peers because I could talk about you and make it rhyme.  As Hip-Hop offered the megaphone to the urban core it didn’t matter what you had to say as long as you had the most to say.  Thus grew the competition.  Battle rhymes.  He said his rhyme, I said mine... My rhyme moved the crowd, his rhyme moved me.  Moved me back to my lab to my pen and my pad and I reflect on both his rhyme and my rhyme combined...then write something that would outwit, outlast, and stump us both.  I needed that crowd to give me my props. I needed that validation.  I needed that feeling of greatness.  Chalk it up to testosterone, machismo, my zodiac Leo... or take off my mask and reveal my high need for acceptance.  I love Picasso. 

I’ve since recognized that the simplicity of greatness is actually the consistency of production.  I have adopted the idea, with its biblical overtones, that unused talent is a sin. 

I attempt to share my ideas with the world as God did with me, but humbling myself to the reality that my idea may find its way to the mind of someone else should I not allow it to flourish.  My poetry is my understanding of emotions and motivations.  And all of my poetry isn’t poetry, but regardless of how one’s mind categorizes my work, I will always consider my work ‘These Poems’.

As you thumb through these snapshots, you will find this journey is a trail of twists and turns, peaks and valleys.  Some roads bumpy, some roads smooth.  If you tap your left foot two times then your right foot once and bob of your head between intervals, you will discover the tempo of my thoughts.  There is a rhythm in all that I write.  The rhythm functions as the symbiotic fluid, which aids in sustaining the life of my words.  If you are one who struggles with rhythms, keep reading and you will find that... that’s why I write these poems.

These selections are but mere blinks of memories of tomorrows.  The way tomorrows used to be...the impatient wait for tomorrow to be the same as today.  The constant joys...the untiring, unbridled, spontaneity experienced by a child.  Those days when the grass was the color green, the sun the color yellow, and the night was a burdening necessity.  As time performed its duty and eloped with my life, my day was aborted of deliberateness, then  artificially inseminated with circumstance.  To the day, I became less of a guest and more of a tenant. 

Over time, I grew to miss my forty acres and I was ready to name my mule...

A Tenant To The Times

Like many, I became an outcast

Caged...

Peeking out through the bars...

Spying on the zoo of life...

Watching, as those watching me,

passed by and watched me

as I watched them pass me by.

My eyes became cameras

and I took pictures and stored them

in the chaos of my thoughts

until there was no more room.

I noticed others around me did the same...

I witnessed the pictures in their minds contort

and create static truths of life.

Those not knowing what to do with those truths

defied the realities through mimics and mocks,

sabotaging all of the pictures in the dark-room.

They camouflaged their anxieties with

‘Mary-Janes’ with merry names

like crack-cola-cane

Sharp knife pains and dirty mattress stains

Thieves of life - Fists on wife

Burglaries and robberies

No jobs for these

Pimps and curbers

Deadbeats and murders

These – were - not - some - of - my – fa-vo-rite - things

How would I intercept the conjure of these snapshot imprints on my brain?

It was hard getting a clear picture from processing the negatives

I began to express on paper, those things that screamed in my head...

I found that I could add my own contortions through words...

This helped me find some order in the chaos...

...kept me from falling victim to the camouflaged walk through the day

The insanity deterred

My mind no longer disturbed,

...and that’s why I write these poems

Reminiscin’ (Part 1)

Reminicsin’, back to the days we wore bell-bottoms

Fat afros, soul train, brothers pop-lockin’

Upset cause I was too young to get a job

My heroes were Shaft and Linc Hayes from the Mod Squad

Giving the ice-cream man a hard way to go

Throwing rocks and shooting B.B.’s at the metro

Big ol’ banana seat on my western flyer

Using fat duck tape to fix the flat tire

Never raised a fuss too afraid to cuss

Said dang too loud, and mama’s looking for a mouth to bust

Pops didn’t take no mess either

Do your homework and your chores before you watch Leave it to Beaver

Ya had a funky little attitude – ShklaPowwwww

Pops knock that attitude right outta ya mouuuuth

Even the neighbors beat that ass when you did wrong

And you still got a whoopin’ when you got back home

...man....these are the things that you find when you’re reminicsin’.

One Day At A Red Light

(Headed West At The Corner Of 18th &Prospect)

He was just standing there

as I pulled up to the red light.

I started to feel the pain and anguish he must have felt

as he shivers and shakes.

His eyes wide  ...a