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Anora Mansour Poem
In Praise of Buddy Bolden
by Lucien Q. Senna
1. You have shown me dissipation, the tome, rhythm, and cool sonorous blue…
2. The right consciousness is always dream, it wakes in us ideology and topos.
3. Not only the blues like melic, like persimmon and soda
4 Not anything, just blonde sorrow.
5. I can’t wait to choose my own fall, the bass and pica.
6. Did you taste the drug, the white world of sound…
7. Nothing will prepare me, not even drums and delusion. I wander in their halls, their tantrums. But mine was regression and rebellion. The plumb edifice of transgression.
8. When we play, nothing else matters, not the placards on the train, not the yet and the how. We find plums and pendulums.
9. I told them this was not enough. No horses, no shoulders, no fields to drown, only blank cotton testimony and confession.
10. When we leave, we leave the pipe and the parts of the body. You whistle like a factory. Me, like an empty room.
11. I would like to test myself, and remove these old tunings and feathers, these tulips.
12. Do it then. Leave for the salty tincture of the city, the North.
13. The leaves were all cankered when I returned. Like a salvo I burned. Not for them. Not for this place. But for this rotten reflection. The only true rejection of process.
14. You meant to leave the phonetic terror moon, the New Orleans horn of sand and distraction.
15. Leave me to fall. For this is all that I know. I accept, I accept this black stone of mine, mine own three lives, my crime.
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Copyright © Anora Mansour | Year Posted 2025
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Anora Mansour Poem
42 Mirrors
By Lucien Quincy Senna
Mirror, mirror
tell me all,
Who I am
Who I was,
painted seagreen with vanity
or socketed modesty.
Pride and pain
my old pretenders.
I am full of dead men's bones,
their advance over me.
I trashed and trotted
other people's causes,
statecraft of the most
sinister skull-duggery.
Mirror, mirror
see me now,
my strawberry leaves
for I am no longer twenty-four.
Pinking the raw edge of silk,
trusting it all.
Then that Ramshackle Empire
came clattering for me
a penal code
institutions for troubled women
"Pull your bellies between your knees!" said the nurse.
The hours pass upon the eastern turn
my faith anew while I was interred there,
until I somersaulted
out of the deep waters.
An ocean greyhound
who was simply considered
a whited sepulchre.
A mask for women over forty.
Copyright © Anora Mansour | Year Posted 2025
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Anora Mansour Poem
And you walked with me
in drear-nighted February
through the smell of petrol
in the farmer's yard.
Your song is a piece
of global clay
and clay grows wild
magnetic Gael roses.
The splendour of colour in this life
is as rare as holding a symphony
midst the siren's wail
and shockheaded metal violence.
Light of my eye
hazel and sallow flower
You were imprisoned by a bit part
in history--
granted a proletarian choice
by dawn gryphons--
denounced what you loved
with dignity.
Victims and riots
in so many parts--
Peace may yet be possible
in this moment,
as you lead me up the creaking stairs,
gently by the hand.
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Copyright © Anora Mansour | Year Posted 2025
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