LINE LEVEL #15
Welcome to LINE LEVEL: Craft Lessons from Poets of Color, a monthly column in which writer, editor, and educator Joanna Acevedo zooms in on an element of craft from the work of BIPOC poets. LINE LEVEL unfolds in three parts: an excerpt of a poem, followed by a contributor’s note, followed by Acevedo’s own exploration into the poet’s world of language. Guided by a curiosity that yields learning, we are invited to consider historical context, stylistic influences, and more, all the way down to the level of the line. This month, Acevedo discusses “For Mama’s Boys,” by Adesiyan Oluwapelumi, whose chapbook, Mouthful of Cinders, will be published by Akashic Books in 2025.
For Mama’s Boys
We were boys
before the world tore our innocence
apart from our lips.
We used to chase lizards,
now our feet rummage through perils:
a serpent’s venom, say oró is in the wealth
of a luxuriant garden, say orò.
This is the origin of our tremor,
the bustle of our hustle, ìbí mí je ìbí.
We seep through stables like horseflies,
where filth is home
where home is anywhere
where the night holds us guests.
On empty streets,
our hearts drown
in the liquor of silence.
It burns.
Our hands, like sieves, sift
every grain of tenderness.
Here, time is the wind’s spine.
But we journey into the world with blunt blades
and pored bucklers. There are no guidelines.
Mama’s boys write their own survival.
Contributor’s Note // Adesiyan Oluwapelumi
Time nips from us without repentance at every stroke of the clock’s hand. Either it be memory or the loss of our innocence. During my transition from adolescence into adulthood a few years ago, I found myself wrestling with the impermanence of time, of things, of places, of people and experiences. And it became quite frightening.
I remember ransacking through my old gallery once when I stumbled upon my tenth year portrait. Bespoke sockets filled with eyes. A smile, arched like a sickle, enough to pluck joy from its height. But years past, it all feels like a faraway dream seemingly close and yet fingertips away. Now, I realize the fragility and pricelessness of one’s innocence.
Using the first-person, plural pronoun, among many other devices, I wanted to create a collective persona voice that spoke as one the stories and struggles of others, including my own experiences growing up. I wanted the reader to feel a sense of camaraderie in this struggle for identity and the search for belonging.
Another nuance of syntax was the staggered stanzas as I wanted my readers to resonate with the feeling of dislocation and uncertainty that came with navigating through this formation period, but most importantly, I wanted them, “us”, armed with the hope of survival to all of life’s attendant joy, contradictions and struggles.
Craft Lessons from Poets of Color // Joanna Acevedo
In poetry, we are stuck with the idea of the narrator as some kind of pipeline to the author’s real life and their specific experience. But the narrator can take all kinds of liberties. The confessional poetry giants—Robert Lowell, W.D. Snodgrass, Theodore Roethke, John Berrymen, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath being the household names—have kept us in a vice grip. Social media has only exacerbated our hunger for the shock value of oversharing. Poetry is much more than a peeling back of the layers, and Oluwapelumi shows us this very conscious move away from the first person narrator and into the collective plural voice; his shift allows for an accessibility and creative freedom beyond lived experience and the doors it opens only add to its connective possibility, rather than imposing limits.
We can see an excellent example of this in Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We Real Cool,” which shows the power not only of the sonic power of rhythm and rhyme but also the way the plural narrator can speak for communities while still maintaining a singular perspective—the balance between the author themselves, their attention to craft, and what they are trying to communicate with their decision to write in this form. Brooks is showcasing social inequalities and their consequences and in such limited language, this is extremely clear. Her collective plural narrator shows us the lack of awareness in the community she describes while showing the reader exactly how aware she is, and how they should be aware, too.
Poetry classes—and writing classes in general—are always told to add details and be specific. The concept of using a plural narrator, a “we,” narrator, seems to veer away from that specificity. But Oluwapelumi gives us plenty of detail. His mention of chasing lizards and empty streets show the desolation that is the heartbeat of his poem. The poem cuts right into our heart meat and stays there. We learn and we feel. Although we may not share his experience, as readers approaching this poem, the plural narrator invites us into this unfamiliar world, offering us a chance to stand in these unfamiliar shoes and experience a life from a perspective different from our own as Americans (if that’s who we are).
We all encounter difficulties as we come of age, as he notes in his contributor’s comments. Bringing us into his own memories gives us the opportunity to place our experiences in context, draw connections from around the world, find solidarity in the universal language of poetry, and feel close to someone who is far away from us, but also, so close; this paradox is the power of poetry and why it is such an enduring art form, a human tradition from the very beginning and one that will never entirely be lost, even if it may adapt to the times. Poetry has always helped connect different groups of people and the changing world hasn’t stopped this connective force.
Oluwapelumi mentions stanza forms. We can defer some of these questions back to writers like Plath, oddly enough, and although she was not the creator of these techniques, she certainly used them. In poems like “Lady Lazarus”, her stanzas are choppy and fractured, her attention to sound and repetition remaining the most memorable and historically noteworthy elements of the poem and her work at large. Oluwapelumi’s stanzas allow the reader to feel the disjointed way his plural narrators have experienced the world, and as readers, we both consciously and unconsciously understand this craft choice.
Truth is a tricky idea and in poetry, it’s even trickier, but with regards to craft, the way we manipulate language is one of the tools in the poet’s toolbox that allows the writer to help the reader realize the poet’s intent. As we learn and write, we become more aware and more in control of our craft decisions. Understanding not only the power of our words, but how we deliver them, is a vital part of the growth of any emerging poet, and a worthwhile avenue of adventure. It’s about the journey, not the destination, and this is exciting. Keep looking for the forks in the road. It might seem overwhelming, but the forks are the best part.
Adesiyan Oluwapelumi, TPC XI, is a medical student, poet, essayist & Poetry Editor of Fiery Scribe Review from Nigeria. He & his works are featured in The Republic, Electric Literature, 20.35 Africa, Isele Magazine, A Long House, Brittle Paper, Fantasy Magazine, Poet Lore, Tab Journal, Poetry Wales & elsewhere. His chapbook Mouthful with Cinders was selected by Chris Abani and Kwame Dawes for the APBF New-Generation African Poets Chapbook Box-set Series (forthcoming Akashic Books, 2025). He tweets @ademindpoems.
To read more of Oluwapellumi’s thoughts on craft, check out his interview at LINE LEVEL CHAT.
Joanna Acevedo
Joanna Acevedo is the Editor in Chief of Frontier Poetry. She is the author of three books and two chapbooks, and her writing in multiple genres can be found across the web and in print, most recently (or forthcoming) in The North American Review, Hunger Mountain, and Cream City Review. Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prizes, she teaches workshops and creates resources for emerging writers on numerous platforms, receiving her MFA from NYU in 2021. She also holds degrees from Bard College and the New School. To learn more about her and her work, please visit her at https://www.joannaacevedo.net/.
