Love is the lifeblood of humanity. Enter this portal to desire, dreams, and destiny: a little red book. This is the ninth poetry collection by Kelvin C. Bias.
Blue Milk is a mood: A concoction of poetry for your collection. The eighth book of poems by Kelvin C. Bias emerges from the idea of creating personal libations—with actual liquids or metaphorical ones. A drink may start with something as simple as a glass of milk, and end with something profound far beyond our blue planet. The choice is yours.
On Wednesday, May 13, 2020, I turned 50 years old. It was just another day. Just another day of worrying about my family, worrying about the state of the world, worrying about finding a job, worrying about COVID-19 and tantrums and remote learning, wondering what I would do for the next 50 years, if I live that long. To celebrate turning 50, to celebrate existence in general, I decided to write a poem for every year of my life. The process made me wonder: What have I truly accomplished in 50 years? Which begged another question. Is it important?
THIS COLLECTION OF POEMS conveys my anger and sadness over the current state of America—black, brown, yellow, red, white, and blue. On May 25, 2020—Memorial Day—a white woman named Amy Cooper walked her dog without a required leash in an area of Central Park known as the Ramble, and Christian Cooper, a peaceful, bird-watching black man, asked her to leash her dog. The legacy of slavery writ-large in the astounding fact they had the same surname. Amy responded by calling 911 to say that "an African-American man" was threatening her and her dog. Christian calmly recorded the incident. (Imagine what might have happened if he hadn't.) The video went viral and provided a painful reminder of the tradition of white women falsely accusing black men of a crime. Later that night, in Minneapolis, Minnesota, a black man named George Floyd, who was not resisting arrest, was pressed face down into the pavement with a knee to his neck for seven minutes and 46 seconds—seven minutes and 46 seconds—by white Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin. Floyd died as he narrated his own death. "I can't breathe." Protests over Floyd's killing raged in cities across America for days, weeks...forever? On July 17, John Lewis, civil rights icon and Georgia Congressman, died from pancreatic cancer, and a few days before he passed, he wrote an essay to be released on the day of his funeral. On July 30, it ran in The New York Times. In his essay, Lewis wrote: "When you see something that is not right, you must say something. You must do something." The Last Will & Testament of the United States of America is the poet's way of saying and doing "something."
Why do we have a 24-hour day, 60-minute hour, and 60-second minute? Thank the ancient Egyptians, Sumerians and Babylonians. Going further back, in humanity's early days, time was simply measured by the interval between sunrise and sunset. Today, we have much more precise methods. One second is defined as the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of a cesium 133 atom. Confusing? Yes.
Sometimes what transpires in daylight is the purest. Each day is a new dawn, a chance to reinvent yourself, find new love, rekindle an old one, and peer into the sky and feel awake, living life by your own clock. Reading poetry is like living life by your own unit of time. Lose yourself in your own sky. If The Sky Is Awake is the latest poetry collection by Kelvin C. Bias.
When everyman Calder Boyd starts to lactate, the Manhattanite becomes a media cause célèbre nicknamed the Milkman and old and new problems spill forth. The son of a former NBA star and a Norwegian artist, Calder copes with his strained marriage, losing his copywriting job at a boutique ad agency, a male-empowerment espousing mailman and a porn-star performance artist who wants to exploit him. He also deals with his late father's legacy and his wife's past indiscretion—all while breastfeeding their newborn daughter. Calder eventually becomes a pawn in the battle between a feminist organization and a militant men's society as he tries to become a better husband and man. The Fourth Estate, sex, art, love, memory, marriage, and family converge during the snowiest winter on record in this commentary on contemporary American fatherhood.
These poems represent the vestiges of man from the perspective of a distant future. Akin to radio signals, the remnants of humanity streak toward a black hole where art, politics, love, technology, philosophy, science and the yearning for eternity accrete. Prophetic, stoic, polyphasic, the words disassemble and recombine on the other side in search of a new sun. I hope these poems find a closer home in your personal universe, heard but you're unsure of their origin, like whispers.
Love is a liberation, an act, a rebellion, a restriction, a communion. This poetry collection covers the universal topics of love and sex. We don't always get it, but we all crave it. From erotic to platonic and from marital to familial, love comes in many forms.
Encompassing the realms of dream, fantasy and reality, the poems intend to engender not just love, but more pointedly, lovemaking. Lust. Love. Languor. These are three states of mind and body before, during and after the most pleasant poetry of human interaction: consented sex. We all possess desire and we are all made of dust. Immaculate dust.
Is eternity a quantifiable entity? An existence that can be divided into smaller particles, assembled and disassembled like a puzzle? Can it be bent? Borrowed? Recycled? Eternity is elusive. It constantly seems beyond our grasp yet always within our reach. 21 Particles of Eternity, the fourth poetry collection by Kelvin C. Bias, covers topics as disparate as Mars and pornography, and ranging from the environment and parenthood to politics and death. The poet posits this: perhaps there are hidden portals where eternity can be glimpsed for fleeting moments, and the quest to find them brings meaning. How many particles will you find?
In this city the doors are always unlocked,
And love is a benevolent prowler.
Doubts, hate, voter suppression,
Cast aside, faster than wildfire.
We dream in open halls of power,
Where demagoguery is outlawed.
In this city the doors are always unlocked,
And democracy is alert, a growing child.
It isn’t chained away in the basement,
Overturned by subterfuge and greed.
We lust for no need of destruction,
A land where The Hill works well.
In this city the doors are always unlocked,
And everyone has what they need.
Freedoms, not antagonistic fiefdoms,
Abound and multiply: peace is found.
We no longer have a need for
Hounds and blood.
Appears in Kelvin C. Bias' new poetry collection:
THE LAST WILL & TESTAMENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Photo by Kelvin C. Bias
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