Scenes from December 1, 2012 Poets in Unexpected Places crew on the Brooklyn bound Q. Samantha Thornhill. Ngoma Hill. Darian Dauchan. Elana Bell. Adam Falkner....

Well folks, this is a P.U.P first…read on and you’ll see what I mean. The day started as any P.U.P day in my experience has— a mixture of giddiness, excitement and, yes, a fear, as we gathered outside the Staten Island Ferry terminal on this gorgeously sunny and windy Saturday. Jon asked that I start things off with a song, and as soon as I looked out at the massive and gorgeous Atlantic, I knew exactly what I wanted to sing, a praise song to Yamaja, the Yoruba Goddess of water and protection. As I began to sing, the ocean sparkling behind me, one man walked by and said, “You have a gorgeous voice, thank you.” He could sense that something was about to popf and sat close by to take in the rest of the P.U.P action. From the other side of the ferry, a woman began shouting “English, B–, sing in English,” but I kept on… As soon as the song finished, the notorious Ngoma popped up with...

Rising Fascism on the Staten Island Ferry          So it’s saturday afternoon the Pop Up Poets invade the S.I Ferry today we’re a bit short staffed our ranks being smaller than usual we forge on relentlessly Jon Sands,Corrina Bain,Elana Bell, Osunyoyin Alake Syreeta McFadden and yours truly As we enter the ferry Elana has a strange feeling Osunyoyin says it’s premonition I’m plodding along trying to psyche myself into doing this Suffering post traumatic slave syndrome I really don’t like large ships Elana sings a praise to Yemoja in Yoruba some deculturalized spanish chick ironically harrasses her to speak english more of a reason that multiculturalism and tolerance should be taught in schools assuming that she went to school in the first place I launch into a poem trying to Shift her Paradigm she continues to scream profanity and holla I take it as a...

  Which also happens to be St. Patrick’s Day. I step into the bright buzz of Union Square. It’s only 2:30 in the afternoon, but I’m already nervous about the holiday activity that’s legendary in this city on March 17th. But most of my jitters fade away when I join the circle of fellow PUPers gathered at the Ghandi Statue. We head down into the station to hop on the Q train to Brooklyn. A dapper and highly decorated service man stands directly across from me. I tease the captain in a friendly banter about his ornaments, knowing that what was about to go down was probably going to be unlike anything he’d ever seen. I have a good feeling about this. There is already a sense of the unexpected in this car. The doors close. Anticipation on the part of the poets is palpable. Adam journeys us in deftly into the Q train’s flips and curves. Then comes the realization that we had entered...

The first to arrive, I wait at the base of the Gandhi statue and watch as this unexpected March warmth worked its magic through Union Square. We’re all a little more exposed today, offering stretches of previously shrouded skin to spring’s first bursts of sunshine. All too eager to expose enough of myself to don my first sundress of the season, I wasn’t feeling quite as easy about the way in which I was about to expose myself for the first time. There, in the midst of dodging the already drunk St. Patrick’s Day celebrators, I nervously sipped my iced coffee and tried to dodge my own fears. I was about to join the PUP team in breaking down the walls of the expected, breaking the accepted social contract between strangers on the train. One by one, the PUPs trickled into the park, and it was time to step into the subway and out of my comfort zone. I swallowed my last drop of coffee and...

Flood-tide below me! I watch you face to face; Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face. Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me! On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose; And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. It all begins with Whitman.  Well, sort of. When we gathered around the Gandhi statue one April afternoon and offered the passengers of the Q train, poetry, we were met with some resistance. Then, the miraculous transformation followed, after Samantha offered her sweet reminisces of blackberries from the local grocery store in her island borne tongue, Adam danced as if all his cool depended on everything and Jon invited us to cleanest joint in...