Ras Heru
Heru Stewart, otherwise known as Ras Heru, is a Newark, NJ. born poet, artist, creative entrepreneur and elementary school teacher. A life-long writer with years of performance, hosting, and producing experience, Ras Heru is a multi-dimensional presence and contribution to the region’s creative arts and literary realms. In 2018, Ras Heru founded Rebel Ink Publishing, which coincided with the release of his first full volume of poems, The Book of Heru: A Poet’s Portrait. Since then, Rebel Ink has published five more works of literature, including Ras Heru’s latest book, The Rubicon. Alongside Rebel Ink Publishing, Ras Heru also executive produces Rhythm & Words: Creative Writing, a 3-year creative writing and performance fusion event which has produced 20-plus sessions. Ras Heru is also a 5th grade English Language Arts teacher and social advocate, often aligning his creative ventures with causes, initiatives, and other opportunities to create lasting social impact with the same fervor and intention he allots to his work as an artist and entrepreneur.
How Doves Come to Tears
They tried to convince us that pretty things
weren’t supposed to cry.
They called us “angels”…”peacemakers”…
And told us to keep our smiles while the takers
of our treasures plundered all the things
that kept us happy.
They tried to convince us that we were beautiful…
Told us we were bound
to be the symbols of strength and hope
they themselves never wanted,
nor intended to be: they
told us to be the olive branch
while they built themselves to be the oligarchs,
then expected us to soar still with hearts
of stone heavier than our own fragile frames,
I guess
this was the game all along…
To convince us that we were made of magic
and miracles and, therefore, wrong
for feeling the sadness that accompanied
the chaos they caged us in…
Know
that there are no messages of peace we bring.
There are no promises fulfilled when we make appearance.
In fact, when you see us, I ask that you pray…
pray that the forecast doesn’t call for arrows when you see us
timidly taking ascension in the sky, and that you do not cry,
as we do, when an archer’s hand is just steady enough
to pluck us
from the only place we feel free.
A Poem About Things I’m Not Sure of
I have a confession to make:
I’m not quite so gentle all of the time. Most of the time
though, I’m okay with this.
You see…My mother’s first name is Patricia. Her last name is a city in Italy,
and though she has never been, I was raised by Black women with colosseums
in their bones,
sometimes,
I write poems from places where pressure and persuasion go
to dance beneath the moon.
I admit I am never ever quite able to get a firm footing over
the rhythm of the music, though on the other hand, my pen?
My pen seems to be capable of handling panic quite well, and well, frankly
Sometimes it makes me jealous.
Sometimes…
I try and sleep and I can hear the ghastly gallop of a
gladiator’s horse. I lie awake wondering if the stampedes I
feel in my chest can reveal or explain just why I know so much about
the fall of empires,
I toss and turn hoping my pen can be as lethal as a Roman
soldier’s sword and then I concern myself with why…
why I choose to compare something that gives me life to an
instrument designed to draw blood, I question
what is it about blood
that makes me pour into these lines…
What is it about glory that makes us seek out our destruction?
What is it about the soil
that makes us feed it dead bodies?