2 local poets: ‘The spirit of activism has always been in LA poetry’

Southern California may not get the credit it deserves for its strong literary community and a great spoken word scene. However, poets Shonda Buchanan and Mike Sonksen tell Greater LA the poetry community could be the most diverse scene in the city of Los Angeles.

“You can do poetry seven nights a week, and, prior to the birth of my daughter, I would often do 2 or 3 venues in one night,” said Sonksen.

Here are some spots Buchanan suggests checking out to listen to or read poetry:

• The World Stage in Leimert Park

• Beyond Baroque in Venice

• Tia Chucha’s in Sylmar

• Obsidian Tongues in Pomona

• Flypoet in Inglewood

• Da Poetry Lounge in the Fairfax District

• Red Hen Press at the Annenberg Beach House

“The spirit of activism has always been in Los Angeles poetry,” said Buchanan. “Maybe that’s one of the reasons we are not as applauded and lauded as other people, because we are very much about speaking our truth as poets.”

Selections of their poetry is below.

You Will Not Die (for Andrew Johnson, my unborn grandson and Baby Lewis)

by Shonda Buchanan

Dear beautiful black wrestler boy

you are not the cutting of your locs.

You are instead the lotus wind that escapes from slits in the laughing earth

when a great tale is being told, when fault lines shift,

when virgins disappear, when houses crumble to dust.

You are not the scissor hands of someone you trusted

yanking out your roots and branches.

You are instead Hannibal’s 37 elephants, 15,000 horses, 30,000

soldiers making the Alps tremble in a destined march to end

an empire of tired, corrupt men.

You are not the timber sound of your hair falling

on a wrestling mat.

You are instead the tender moment when language

convinces love to come, to trust

and live in a dangerous place anyway.

You are not decent, complicit eyes ignoring your public rape.

Not one man’s small useless organ beating in placid,

soon-to-die chest.

You are not the weakness of your knees,

Not the tightness of your throat. Not the doubt cracking your lungs.

Your back to us, your cheeks dry,

shocked by the sudden taste of history in your mouth.

Boy becoming man

Man becoming leader

Leader becoming king.

Returned to us.

You are every black child, black student,

black boy, man, father, husband, uncle, cousin

they tried to keep down.

You are the porcelain of dreams, the wet of water

the cold jade of fire on the tip of a poet’s spear.

You are the darkest of darkness

where beautiful black magic is born.

You are magic.

You are gris gris and Coptic crosses.

You are not defeated.

You are the precious spell I cast when I write.

Your body is an ancient tongue that holds babies’ placenta-palm secrets.

You are Wanda Coleman’s ghost, pissed and on fire.

You are the ancestors singing of you

long before the stars wept slave blood when America was born.

You are the blade we polished again and again

by antebellum fire’s light

so we could live. So we could get you here.

You will not die with their hands in your hair.

We will not die with their hands in our hair.

You are James Baldwin’s caterpillar hatchet eyes.

You are family reunions and first loves and teeth under pillows.

You are books and prayer beads in the hands of children.

You are Aretha’s two changes of outfits in her casket.

You are cowrie shells in the hands of elders.

You are a beautiful blackrose boy

in a field of beautiful blackrose boys.

You are alive.

You are magic.

You are alive.

You are magic.

You, we, will never be defeated.

You are alive. You are magic.

Beautiful black wrestler boy.

You are magic. You are magic.

Magic.

Poet Mike Sonksen. Photo courtesy of Sonksen

I am still alive in Los Angeles!

By Mike Sonksen

I am still alive in Los Angeles

even as the price of rent rises

and gridlock strangles central arteries

I’m old enough to remember disco parties

and the build up to the 1984 Olympics

and news reporters like Jerry Dunphy

and Hal Fishman; I remember

when Fernando Valenzuela

was a rookie -- Years before I

loved Wanda Coleman and Bukowski,

my first LA poets were Chick Hearn

& Vin Scully -- Then I read Mike Davis

and Carey McWilliams and watched

the gospel of Huell Howser looking

at things that aren’t here anymore recalling former glory like Ralph Story I’m still

exploring

from Panorama City to Pomona

I am still alive in Los Angeles

as they build high speed trains

down Crenshaw and out into the San Gabriel Valley changes in transportation

for the new generation foreshadow

the nation’s transformation as millennials

on bicycles call for the return

of the Garden City; green in the 21 st Century

is a matter of survival -- witness the revival of the wetlands the riparian watershed is a

sentinel for sustainability unbridled consumption is a liability,

observe residents of Angel City playing

their part restoring nature’s heart

I am still

alive in Los Angeles from festivals to funerals, baby showers to weddings, each

generation ever more beautiful

reality is ever musical -- throngs of people mix and match creating the patchwork

mosaic of multicultural souls coming together to call

LA home. The community is a poem in progress called Los Angeles.

The angels in a city singing synchronicity from Central to Century City--

Olympic was 10 th street and Pio Pico was the last governor of California when it

belonged to Mexico, he was born a Spanish citizen-- see the city Zen

soaring to satori on a Saturday morning circling the Evergreen Cemetery

or hiking up hills in Culver City

I am

still alive in Los Angeles as mamas monitor laundromats from Lankershim to Long

Beach, I walk the long streets from Magnolia to Manchester, Rosemead to Redondo

Beach

I am still alive in Los Angeles though there’s no more open space; most of the wetlands

have been replaced by condos, Trader Joe's and makeshift dog parks. The expanding

corporate heart charts a frenzied facelift of never-ending Christmas but only a few are

on that wish list. There’s a generation of kids on snapchat

and commuters want that fast track

Alive in Los Angeles!

I am still alive in Los Angeles.

Thanks to family, friends and poetry. The past, present and future of my city gives me

energy. Untold generations of history from Biddy Mason

to Chavez Ravine to Toyo Miyatake punctuating the power of place turning the page

sharing authority because we share the story

of the city unfolding -- no hierarchy,

we all belong to this city – its oral her-story.

I am still alive in Los Angeles! Today I drive around LA with my son and daughter like I

once rode with my grandfather.

There’s no more Perino’s or the Brown Derby but there’s still Fosselmans, Cole’s,

Philippe’s and the Pantry. My children spill ice cream in the back seat, Together we are

alive in a city of destiny.

I am still alive in Los Angeles!