Jason Reynolds: Grab the Mic April Newsletter.

It’s April, which means it’s … NATIONAL POETRY MONTH! Honestly, this might be my favorite month of the year besides February, and July. Oh, and there’s December, which is my birthday month. And there’s something about September, too. Anyway, April is here. Which means poetry is here. Poetry is always here, but during April it’s pushed onto the main stage to shine. So, this newsletter will be a poem. I’ve been hiding out in the woods working on some things, and, well … that’s where my head is.

BREWSTER, NY

it’s cold in the morning.

my bones are late for work

and so am i. and so i am

 

preparing a wood burning stove,

twisting a section of yesterday’s

and today’s times into wick and fuse,

 

tucking it into an iron belly,

lying logs on top and lighting.

learning a new way to warm.

 

it looks like sun blazing through

a small window and bullies the shiver

from the room. my bones crackle.

 

i am thawing and grateful for kindling,

melting awake in the morning,

glad to burn up bad news, first thing.

 

and trying not to think about

what else is up in flames locked

behind that door. because

 

it’s cold here. and i have too much

work to do to think about what’s been axed

for me to feel my fingers.

 

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2 Comments

  1. Esther Briskin
    April 5, 2021 at 9:18 am

    Poetry is always here! And you make it come alive. I love your poem Brewster, N.Y. I love that you turned your newsletter into a poem.

    You have inspired me on this cloudy, gray, flower-less Monday morning.

    Thank you Jason Reynolds.
    Sincerely,
    Esther Briskin

  2. Johnny Barrett
    April 5, 2021 at 9:27 am

    The Stove stocks luck
    and luxury of styles
    in its entirety
    and it’s locked
    any look at it
    from inside can see
    the lock is deadly
    my dear and endures
    the time to open it
    up to the sky to
    rain an harvest
    an April cherished
    tree, my ears
    can’t wait to read
    from AG to her best
    self the day is around
    the needle, woven into
    the wool of fate,
    righteous and we dance
    oh dance to the prayer
    in words of worth
    and wealth to the
    geography of parks
    where we walk, dance
    and walk again and
    again for a few gems
    to pass on to an end,
    an afternoon of beauty

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