A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
It doesn’t ask for applause.
It asks for recognition.
Not of perfection. Not of grandeur.
Just of survival.
A kind of life.
Not the life.
Not the ideal life.
A life shaped anyway.
There’s something almost defiant in that line — I had no model.
No blueprint.
No inherited map.
No visible template for how this was supposed to work.
And yet — something was built.
We don’t talk enough about the people who built themselves without instruction manuals. The ones who had to invent adulthood. Invent stability. Invent confidence.
Some of us weren’t handed examples.
We were handed absence.
And we made something anyway.
That’s not small.
Maybe celebration doesn’t have to wait for completion.
Maybe it’s enough to pause and acknowledge that you shaped something from what you had.
Not flawless.
Not finished.
But real.
What have you quietly built in your life that deserves acknowledgment — even if no one else sees it?
these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!
Personal Reflection:
When I first heard this poem, it was on audio. It was so different from What I thought poetry was supposed to be. While in school, we had Frost, Whitman, and others shoved down our throats. Though I had grown to appreciate the classics, I definitely had a bad taste in my mouth when it came to poetry. I discovered the beauty and complexity of poetry. Thank you, Lucille Clifton and the many other poets in my library.
Memoirs of Madness 