Georgia Ann Banks-Martin
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Georgia Ann Banks-Martin was born in Lincoln
Park, Michigan and raised in nearby Detroit her
poetry has appeared in Möbius: The Poetry
Journal, Ariel, Xavier Review, and After Shocks:
The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events.
Currently, she lives in Montgomery, Alabama
with her husband Roger D. Martin, their three cats,
and dog.
Park, Michigan and raised in nearby Detroit her
poetry has appeared in Möbius: The Poetry
Journal, Ariel, Xavier Review, and After Shocks:
The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events.
Currently, she lives in Montgomery, Alabama
with her husband Roger D. Martin, their three cats,
and dog.
Dancing Doll
.
Some say Sambo wears
bright reds
blues and greens
dances
on street corners for large groups of people
grinning
as he did when snitching to the master
encouraging him to beat his slaves
in return for a fairer share of tea
potatoes
meats
grinning
when writing hateful notes
taping them to his dorm room door
later saying
“I found these after class today”
Forums were held
programs created
deans declared
dangerous racists
but I remember meeting Sambo
on his way to eat pancakes topped with butter
made from the flesh of three trickster tigers
a boy who had no right
to wear a red coat
blue trousers
shoes with crimson soles and linings
to carry a green umbrella
The Floor-Scrapers
The stripping has begun,
Long smooth strokes, use long smooth strokes,
says the older man to his apprentice,
as if all should be respected:
the spots of indigo paint long covered
with a rose pink rug,
the places my tap shoes pocked
the floor’s face like acne,
each time I jiggled my feet for family friends
whose lips knew the expected words so well
it was a burden to stay silent,
She’s a star¬–––
Delightful, just delightful–––
the day mother bought my first heels
made me walk with a dictionary on my head
till the book kept its place,
Shoulders back,
chin up,
step light,
no one should hear you coming.
Terrace of a Café on Montmartre
The drive from Munich to Merano covers,
with sheets of hazy vellum,
my memories of Cinderella’s twenty-seven blue,
gold-leafed towers,
replaces them with castles whose spires reach
into the sky like Cathedrals
I will not forget,
though the walk up, then downhill,
dragging overfilled bags,
the comment I made that Merano,
its window boxes overflowing
with fuzzy leafed geraniums
looked like Montgomery,
the picnic table with white starched cloth,
where I ate in an outdoor room,
will be,
‘till on the plane home I begin to write
and remember the eatery in Italy
where waiters wear waistcoats, black pants,
stiff ankle-long aprons,
where I ordered shrimp with tomato pesto,
not because I missed home ’s sweetness,
but because I wanted to know if it tasted the same.
.
Some say Sambo wears
bright reds
blues and greens
dances
on street corners for large groups of people
grinning
as he did when snitching to the master
encouraging him to beat his slaves
in return for a fairer share of tea
potatoes
meats
grinning
when writing hateful notes
taping them to his dorm room door
later saying
“I found these after class today”
Forums were held
programs created
deans declared
dangerous racists
but I remember meeting Sambo
on his way to eat pancakes topped with butter
made from the flesh of three trickster tigers
a boy who had no right
to wear a red coat
blue trousers
shoes with crimson soles and linings
to carry a green umbrella
The Floor-Scrapers
The stripping has begun,
Long smooth strokes, use long smooth strokes,
says the older man to his apprentice,
as if all should be respected:
the spots of indigo paint long covered
with a rose pink rug,
the places my tap shoes pocked
the floor’s face like acne,
each time I jiggled my feet for family friends
whose lips knew the expected words so well
it was a burden to stay silent,
She’s a star¬–––
Delightful, just delightful–––
the day mother bought my first heels
made me walk with a dictionary on my head
till the book kept its place,
Shoulders back,
chin up,
step light,
no one should hear you coming.
Terrace of a Café on Montmartre
The drive from Munich to Merano covers,
with sheets of hazy vellum,
my memories of Cinderella’s twenty-seven blue,
gold-leafed towers,
replaces them with castles whose spires reach
into the sky like Cathedrals
I will not forget,
though the walk up, then downhill,
dragging overfilled bags,
the comment I made that Merano,
its window boxes overflowing
with fuzzy leafed geraniums
looked like Montgomery,
the picnic table with white starched cloth,
where I ate in an outdoor room,
will be,
‘till on the plane home I begin to write
and remember the eatery in Italy
where waiters wear waistcoats, black pants,
stiff ankle-long aprons,
where I ordered shrimp with tomato pesto,
not because I missed home ’s sweetness,
but because I wanted to know if it tasted the same.