RONDRAE JEFFERSON
RONDRAE JEFFERSON
PSU BLACK STUDIES, WINTER 2024
BRIDGE UNDER WATER
GEOPOEM 3
Soar through the sky, this edifice full of frames
Suspended in a stasis, cursed with servitude
It’s face, a trampled fate, a tragic preclude
Peer into the murky mirror and imbibe mendacity
Know not the vision of your sol of souls
The clutch of society will cripple your tale
To make itself whole
Parcels, receipts, and barcodes
The barrage is ceaseless, concede and conform
Who is the arbiter of the social norm
Imagine yourself a savior in a myriad of forms
The power of thought, we are all the chosen one
Learn to learn and listen to reconnect
That child within cries out to direct
Onward towards purpose, we must harken this spark
From up on high
The essence of the world doesn’t belong in the dark
Ventilate thine reservoir and refuse to cry
Usher in creativity through the obstacles of life
Pry open the eyes to the blessings of strife
The sweetness of night, miracles raining down on slums
But none shall be free until the ways of old are done
This domain will humble if you only look close
Fall into the tide, allow your potential to float
Let it rise to new heights, cease all language of blight
Seize the freefall, this enchanting vantage point
Splendiferous rapture, beloved forever flight
Break open your voices for your future is ready to anoint
Do not wish to be seen or saw, pray to have sight
Yearn for your birthright
DECLENSION ASCENSION
Human nature does evermore publish itself. We tend to fall into this illusion of thinking that we are above the natural sequence simply because we are the dominant species of this planet. Our dominion feeds us this beguiling and surreptitious fallacy, as we crawl through such fast paced lives, addicted to the neverending stimulation that our technology impresses upon us. The vastness of this abyss, so full of whispering options, options whose cacophonies disorient and lead the innocent soul astray. A vastness that desensitizes, as we move further and further away from the shores of finite miracles that surround us in each passing moment. Assuage the heart of our world that cries out earnestly, desperate for reconnection, begging us to close this rift that we ourselves have erected with hands that abuse and hoard her resources. Our cities engulf and scar her ceaselessly.
Is this crystalized paradox a gradual self destruction or is this a testament to our creativity and ingenuity? Which side of the plane shall we glide; the side that sinks into the darkest of depths, or the side that rises beyond the horizon and into the heavens. For when one reality manifests, its antithesis is forced into existence. Alas, we are blessed with the authority to choose and so I beseech you, consider this common poison in the core of Portland. This is a place of frequent jubilee, peer into the tapestry of unyielding brick that is humble and stubborn. Remnants of the Mother linger in a state of depression, clinging to sorrow, refusing to vanish. Giant that pale in comparison to humanity's true capabilities, surrounding them with their foreboding bodies. They are the resistance to die. See the separation, witness how we manufacture pain. Surely, the things we build are emblematic of our capacity to harness the elements, our creations are symbols, evidence of a creator, the mere definition of magic. Yet in many ways we need humbling. Simply observing the ways of the natural world should be enough to humble any and every one of us. The humility, the harmony and the willingness to coexist. The rise and fall of the tides, the graceful transitions of the seasons. Though we are unworthy, the sun and the stars return again and again to guide us, taking turns bowing to the sea, only to rise and fall again. How much greater is this sequence than the glory of our creations? Creations that will only crumble and fade. Again, human nature seems to evermore publish itself, and yet we are lost in a sea of accomplishment in a pit of grandiosity. The sea and the sky themselves are nothing special, only pieces. We, ourselves, are only pieces. This is my perspective, let it be steeped in staccato.
CULTURAL PRECISION
What is it about the appearance of a thing that coerces us to associate its core with its exterior? Is it possible to glean all there is to know of ourselves through first impression and presentation? If so then this would explain why we go to such lengths to maintain our self image, why these places that aid us in this process hold such value. Then again, the sub-stratums of aesthetics are complex and powerful; they can be wielded causing enamorment and authority. There exists a deep seated need to project, to establish ourselves within reality by way of expression, even if that means creating our own reality. Is expression the only worthy validation?
The placemakers of the world; are they the sole curators of such splendor? We seek out these inculcating chambers that coax the core self to the fore, allowing it to shine as bright as any Star. Without Self. awareness reality is dimensionless. This desire to express is not our own, it is evolutionary and phenomenal by nature. It allows us to detect and experience the peaks of novelty that nourishes our Souls, reveals itself in our way of life; as in culture. We yearn most for Self. love and so we search for our reflections by day, we Conjure them up by night. Style and taste are Signposts that call to us. The child who grows to identify. "This is me," they say. “Will the world approve of me or will I suffer my greatest fear, alienation?" "Am I even real? How do I know that I matter? Please, just let me matter.”
Self presentation can be evidence of our internal status. As we grow and maneuver through the stages of development, this sense of self intensifies, our need to feel real is amplified. Who decides what is feasible, who is the arbiter of conception? The drama of creation is incomplete without infinite expression, meaning expression is fundamental. For a time we care not for the observations of strangers then we learn to depend on external sources for our bliss. These places that aid us on this abstract journey towards self actualization are vital. Culture is light perceiving light as consciousnesses coalesce to produce extraordinary things. Our capacity to perceive is enhanced by the caprice of experience. marvel at the detail, at the prowess of a hand.
BRIDGE UNDER WATER
What ever happened to those childhood eyes that could peer into the realm of possibility with ease? Those eyes, impervious to doubt, never to be encumbered by the veil of pretense and ego. Is it fate that implores us to embrace what we must become? Products of a world that shocks and seduces the conscience with sociological pressures until we are left with no choice but to conform. How does one withstand such an unrelenting barrage of judgment of labeling without becoming lost? Must we submit to indoctrination as the only means to a content end or is there more to this life than contentment?
I beckon you, assume the posture of Portland’s St John Bridge. Selfless in the sense that it carries many burdens as they tax day after day. Noble, as it performs the mandate that was given to it by ancient architects. Its strength lies within its foundation, pulsing through its being as it embodies the nature of a pillar. But those who use it care not for the turmoil within its heart for it years for expression that only exists outside the bounds of its archaic form, limited by itself. It protested the setting sun and its back burned by day, the burns intensified by ungrateful traction. Its only friend is an obscure reflection provided by a river, murky and full of distortion from local life. The river taunts the bridge with uncertainty even when its waters are calm, and yet it was the very existence of the river that gave rise to its creation. The St. John’s Bridge, a thing of sorrow and humility. | RJ