“To A.G., The youngest African American inaugural poet, on seeing her black excellence strive.” By J.C., ‘26
How does this sound?
22 year old black African American poet
2020 was so heroic
The hill we climb sounded like a rhyme
Amanda Gordon exceeded at Harvard which seemed impossible
For what people believe
But she did this with ease
She started at a young age
It starts with her grades
From elementary school to Harvard
Now in Los Angeles where she spends her days
People look at black people like they can’t read a page
But now everyone is just amazed
“To Michelle Obama, a former First Lady of a past president, on hearing her performances.” By P.A., ‘26
Her words rise like sunrise over quiet streets,
Warming hearts to believe in their own light,
She moves with the calm power of the river
Carving new paths where walls once stood
Her strength plants seeds in every young dreamer
And her courage teaches them to bloom.
“To C.J, a loving brother, on seeing his self-expression.” By Y.J., ‘26
Your presence is a blessing to the people around you
Like a magician you surprise people
With your unpredictable, but hypnotizing personality
You tend to move like a loose leaf in powerful gusts of wind
Like looking through glasses, it’s clear you were born to inspire
You’re forever passionate like an undying fire
“To Drake, a Black artist, on listening to his cathartic music.” By L.M., ‘26
You sing enchanted melodies through my phone
Which said melodies go straight through my bones.
You suddenly remember your upbringing
And move your sun to let your predecessors shine.
Not only does your song sound pleasant,
The words cut deep into my soul.
“To R.S, a Shifty African American Fighter, on observing His Stoicism” By B.S., ‘26
The sounds of blows shot through the gym, like bullets in the night.
A seemingly barbaric test of strength and proof of plight.
His face never changed, like a robot; without soul.
But he graced the ring with more technique and life than the world would ever know.
Many watched him, learned from him, and struggled through strain.
But none learned the best, since he learned through pain.
His form was proper, and his strikes were precise.
The movements were lethal, yet confusing like dice
So when I copied his actions, I failed enough to call it a sin.
But my dad simply held my shoulder and said, “Again.”
I’d fail, and I’d fail, and I’d fail, and I’d fail.
But if the day ended with me better than before?
He’d pat my back as if I’ve braved the waves
And send me back to the shore.
