Jean-Sebastien Surena

Jean-Sebastien Surena is a Haitian-American poet and spoken word artist hailing from Queens, NY. In June 2021, Jean published his debut chapbook Quarantined Thoughts. You can find some of his work published or forthcoming in the Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Umbrella Factory Magazine, Spark & Stone, Orchards Poetry Journal, and others.

Black Lungs

As the sun peeks from behind the clouds

My mind, sometimes, peeks from behind

my eyes and I have a moment of elucidation

Everything is clear to me, and I have all the

information I need to protect those who are near to me

In these moments, I feel invincible

Then… the clouds roll over, casting

shadows that re-introduce fear to me

And just like that, I can’t see

Smoke spills over, covering my vision

and my– I can’t–I can’t– I can’t speak

Smoke pours down my throat,

coating my lungs in its acrid stench

And I’m losing all of my words,

my Creole, my English, my French

I used to speak in three tongues, and

now I struggle to find a single word,

a single name by which to call God

and ask him to cease the pain

I don’t mean to say it in vain, but God

everything I do is in vain, hopeless

The entire world around me is vain,

money the only lifeline that courses

through its veins, while the blood in mine boils

at the thought that we are valuing

pieces of paper more than our brothers

We see those without, and only see paupers

We only care for someone

for what they can offer, and if they’re

of no use, then they might as well suffer

Then my blood runs cold when the

realization starts to set in at my fingertips;

that this tale is as old as time

I try so hard to be a shining beacon

But it’s becoming harder to keep my

fingers gripped around the light

when they’re frozen stiff

How can I be expected to continue

to lift spirits with these bricks for hands

How can we be expected to hold on to life

in a country that can’t meet our demands

of compassion, and basic humanity

How can I be expected to keep a grip

on my sanity when the cries of my

peers have just become sound to me–

a droning that keeps on leaving

then coming back around to me

A pesky mosquito that finds it self

bound to me, a disease–

A disease of unease that grows every

second I can’t cleave colonial ties,

a disease that keeps my siblings tied overseas

And here I sit, with a premium seat

to oversee their demise

And I despise that I see through but

can’t unveil the lies

So I hide

I close my eyes, and let my mind

rejoin the sun behind the clouds

Death of a Poet

I must apologize to you all,

this will not be a beautiful poem

The poet in me has gone missing,

and I’m allowing the thinker

to write in his stead.

The thinker in me is thinking

that the poet might be dead.

Perhaps from all of the lead

inside the pencils that have cracked

under the weight of my expectations.

I have been expecting every poem I

write on freedom to lead to reparations

Every poem I write on love to take

my love life on a journey of elevation

Every poem I write on men to bring

my brothers out of their depravation

Every poem I write about the oppressed

to lead to an end to their occupation

Every poem I write about Uncle Sam

to lead to him rebuilding his nation

And none of it has worked.

Regardless of how many poems I

write about healing, I still experience hurt

Regardless of how many poems I

write about light, the darkness still lurks

Regardless of how many poems I

write about financial freedom, we’re still slaves to our work

Regardless of how many poems I

write about my dreams, my sleep is still disturbed

I’m still disturbed.

The poet in me only knows verbs,

he doesn’t know actions

He can spell “fractions,” but

has no solution to our divide

He can formulate a plethora of distractions,

but can’t for his life expose the lies

Feigns all this intellect,

but is so incredibly unwise

I am so incredibly unwise.

And no matter how many times I try

to devise some combination of words

that will ensure my cries are heard,

it will always sound like the

mockery of a caged bird–

parroting thoughts that I’m

no longer sure are my own

Traversing my mind as if a stranger

in another person’s home

Performances are starting to feel

like searching for validation

in another person’s home

I know I won’t find solutions,

absolution, or any absolute truth

So I have absolutely no clue

what it is I’m doing this for

Poetry hasn’t opened any

doors that my hands couldn’t,

that’s why I’m allowing my mind to

write the poems my hands wouldn’t.