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Kenya T. Mitchell - Bio & Poem
Born in New Orleans, K. T. Mitchell began writing at age ten, spurred by a love of words and an analytical mind. Since then, Ms. Mitchell has published work in New York Magazine, Stanford University’s Black Arts Quarterly, Howard University's Amistad Magazine, The Adirondack Review and Tribes Magazine. She has also given performances at CBGBs and La Mama Theater.
Currently Ms. Mitchell has a collection of short stories. At the time of her publication she was looking forward to beginning graduate studies at UC Davis and Harvard in the fall.
Cambridge, Sundays
Who knows how many feet have flowed over
the stone stairwells of Gonville and Caius?
Relentless as a current they smooth bows
in each step. Cambridge is two towns Sundays
Gilded chalices filled with liquid vice
Grapes pulverized straight from the vine
Over pursed lips, tongue gushes paradise
Ruddy punts under the Cam’s canopy
Molten English shire under willows
Poles stir mossy muck, navigate circles
Tipsy on Guinness, drunk with Heavenly
All traverse the Arch of Humility
Even Jesus drank with those bereft
Of belief in resurrection from death
K. T. Mitchell / Kenya T. Mitchell
Poets’ Espresso newsletter
My Brother—June-July 2009
Born in New Orleans, K. T. Mitchell began writing at age ten, spurred by a love of words and an analytical mind. Since then, Ms. Mitchell has published work in New York Magazine, Stanford University’s Black Arts Quarterly, Howard University's Amistad Magazine, The Adirondack Review and Tribes Magazine. She has also given performances at CBGBs and La Mama Theater.
Currently Ms. Mitchell has a collection of short stories. At the time of her publication she was looking forward to beginning graduate studies at UC Davis and Harvard in the fall.
Cambridge, Sundays
Who knows how many feet have flowed over
the stone stairwells of Gonville and Caius?
Relentless as a current they smooth bows
in each step. Cambridge is two towns Sundays
Gilded chalices filled with liquid vice
Grapes pulverized straight from the vine
Over pursed lips, tongue gushes paradise
Ruddy punts under the Cam’s canopy
Molten English shire under willows
Poles stir mossy muck, navigate circles
Tipsy on Guinness, drunk with Heavenly
All traverse the Arch of Humility
Even Jesus drank with those bereft
Of belief in resurrection from death
K. T. Mitchell / Kenya T. Mitchell
Poets’ Espresso newsletter
My Brother—June-July 2009
