Listening to Billie – a Poetry Mosaic commission for Trespass Magazine

I’m driving through Nevada
at sun break in an open top Cadillac
listening to Elvis, a thin-tooth comb
in the back pocket of my faded jeans;
James Dean couldn’t be from anywhere else.

I’m praying in a masjid in Bed-Stuy,
sitting on Brooklyn stoops listening
to Billie Holiday. My aunt is crying
at the news of Obama’s win, the Swahili
under my tongue pushed to the back

of my throat. I’m not ashamed to say,
that his skin makes me love him. America
feeds our appetites for everything. A country
that births legends. I’m drawn to this dream
because it’s almost impossible.

The stars and stripes are prison bars,
in-mates in orange jumpsuits, held
without trial. I’m burning the flag,
protesting against Vietnam. This regime
has changed hue, but remains intact.

There’s no easy description for this strange
new fruit. There’s so much greed, people
consume themselves. The American dream
is a lottery, but if we win we win millions.
America – All I can I recall are the names

carved by your fists, your drunken elegies.
Gives her back to her teachers and waitresses,
the wildstyle writers who paint the city
with colours, not blood. She belongs to those
who dance in Harlem, tears running down their faces,

to all those who think and dream about her.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2009

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

What do you feel when you see that stars and stripes and has that changed since Obama became President?
What does the American Dream mean to you?
Whose America is it?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part.

Brian Jackson
I feel no different about the stars and stripes; the regime has changed hue, but remains intact. There will be no deep ideological difference in the goals although the means seem to be in the process of being rethought, as indeed they must be.

This is a new world with new players. New techniques must be devised to maintain the old dominance.

Rosie Knight
The stars and stripes remind me of the scars and prison bars holding in all the prisoners in orange jumpsuits, without a trial.

In my heart the American Dreamt means driving through Nevada in an open top old Cadillac listening to Elvis with someone you love. In my head it’s the relentless search for power, driven by money, whether out of greed or poverty.

I want America to belong to all the young spoken word poets, teachers and waitresses, all the wildstyle writers painting city walls with colours instead of blood. Though I truly think America belongs to the bankers, the government and a very small few rather than the masses it should belong to.

Chrystine Bennett

The stars and stripes are a charged banner, years spent Pledging Allegiance then watching it burnt during the Viet Nam War. For some, those who like America and Americans, the stars and stripes is the flag of saviors. For others: a symbol of greed, a sign of bullies and foolish naiveté.

America belongs to all those who think and dream about her.

Andreas Grant
The American dream has always been the dream of the enlightened despot. I tend to be drawn to this dream because it’s the dream of the impossible. And sometimes the impossible does happen. The American dream is a lottery, the cruelest of all, but if we win we win millions.

Sean Thomas Dougherty
After you got laid
off all I could recall
in that restroom stall,
were the names carved
by your fists
and their drunken elegies.

Maura Flynn
I feel the Stars and Stripes will in the very near future come to represent a less imperialist ideal now that there is a new leader at the helm.

The old ideology of the expression seemed to allude to success, fame and wealth through thrift and hard work. Now it seems to be about vulgarity. Excesses. Insatiable appetites. Greed to the point of people almost consuming themselves.

America sort of belongs to us all. James Dean couldn’t be from anywhere else. American can feed our appetites for just about everything with greater aplomb.

Warsan Shire
America belongs to those who danced in Harlem with tears running down their faces. I pray in a masjid in Bed-Stuy, sit on Brooklyn stoops and listen to Billie Holiday, ride the subway to queens, smile at strangers in carriages, think of the legends this country gave birth to, the wars it had begun, if one cancels out the other.

My aunt cried when Obama won, the Swahili under my tongue pushed itself to the back of my throat. I’m not ashamed to say, that his skin makes me love him.

America belongs to those who danced in Harlem with tears running down their faces.

“Listening to Billie” was commissioned for the Americana edition of Trespass.