Alexis Florentina
Alexis Florentina kommt ursprünglich aus Tampa, Florida und lebt nun in Sneinton, einem Vorort von Nottingham. Sie bezeichnet sich als „half Black, half-Filipino writer“ und aufstrebende Dramatikerin und Dichterin. Aktuell studiert sie an der Oxford University Kreatives Schreiben und ist aktives Mitglied verschiedener lokaler kreativer Gruppen (GOBS und Nottingham Black Creatives Network). Ihr Gedicht „Still dreaming despite everything“ wurde kürzlich vom Nottingham Writers‘ Studio veröffentlicht; ihre Lyrik präsentierte sie 2024 auf dem gemeinnützigen Festival Hockley Hustle und im Nottingham Playhouse.
Alexis Florentina is originally from Tampa, Florida; now she lives in Sneinton, a suburb of Nottingham. She is a half-Black, half Filipino writer, and an emerging playwright and poet. She is currently studying at Oxford University for an Undergraduate Diploma in Creative Writing, and she is also an active member in local creative communities (GOBS and the Nottingham Black Creatives Network). Her poem „Still dreaming despite everything“ has recently been published by Nottingham Writers‘ Studio, and she has performed her poetry at the 2024 Hockley Hustle and at Nottingham Playhouse.
misremembering
when my memories wake up in a minefield,
and a cobalt blue sky hangs heavy above,
all it takes is one step,
for the bursting bright flashes to begin.
shadowy figures hover over the hard parts
while I lose my footing and fall.
then nothing, but nothing.
only haziness clouding my irises, and—
I believe, in the bombs.
a cacophony of shouts and doors slamming shut.
I press my ear to one of them.
the sounds of a defeated woman on the telephone
pop like bullets through my lungs.
she’s so hateful, so angry, Ma says,
she’s nothing like us.
every shot from her mouth a powerful cutting.
my heartstrings unravel and tangle at my feet.
I know there is sunlight in me, but—
I believe, in the gun.
a glass table shatters beneath my feet.
the shock like a brown leather belt I’ve known,
that cracks like a whip, like a foreshadowing,
while I run away right into a cruel pair of arms,
that won’t stop slamming me
against the rough angles of an itchy brown couch,
my skin burns raw and rashes over.
sometimes, I hear a gentler voice softly cradling me.
her careful fingers pull broken teeth from my cuts.
she washes all the blood away, still—
I believe, in the breaking.
Tittesworth Reservoir, Spring 2024
While watching a solitary duck
who dives and resurfaces on a quiet, cold lake,
(what must he think about being alone?)
you would think that I would care more,
that I would even, feel a little affronted,
as I watch him pop up to the surface
of this lonely lake and finally see:
how very little that solitary duck
thinks, about me.
Then I really start to think,
about how little the lake itself
cares for my presence here,
not just the solitary duck,
the trees don’t, and neither do the rabbits
rummaging through fields behind me,
(why would they stop to ponder over a
sad little woman sitting on a bench?)
and the clouds that threaten rain,
the gentle breeze that slows, and the bees,
and the brown, trodden leaves,
how little, how unoften any of them
think, about me.
You would think these revelations
make me feel incredibly small,
but in truth, it makes me feel, very little at all,
so I’ll sit here and watch this solitary duck diving
and resurfacing, for a little while longer,
(I hope he fills his belly with a fish or two)
then I’ll walk away from this whole scene,
a few brown rabbits may scatter in the wake of
my retreat, I’ll stop thinking about that solitary duck,
and he’ll continue living, until he doesn’t,
and not once will he ever
think, about me.
From Tentsmuir to Tampa
There’s sand in my raincoat,
it crawled into my left pocket,
while I meandered along a beach in Scotland,
don’t know how long I’ve carried it,
(maybe two weeks?)
Suddenly, it was just there,
pushing its way into the nailbed on my index finger,
and it reminded me:
of how my dog Winnie nearly stole a ham sandwich
from a kid on the beach, and
how my anger swelled with ocean tides,
how it sharpened on a crisp, cool breeze,
as I watched that little boy’s dad scream in her face,
and that reminded me:
of how my Ma’s hands snapped so easily into fists,
all thirsty and ready for violence, and
how her voice growled out, You’re Grown Now,
while a hot pan of oil sizzled against my back,
and my feet stuck like glue on that yellow linoleum floor.
Suddenly, it was just there,
pushing its way into the part of me that cannot look away,
don’t know how long I’ve carried it,
(maybe two decades?)