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Springer, Christina

Springer, Christina


Christina Springer is a text artist who uses poetry, dance, theatre, film and other visual expressions.  Her most recent performance piece “She Diva Died. & Come Again?, is a multi-media show exploring the challenges and joys raising of a Black man.  This production was made possible in part through a grant from The Pittsburgh Foundation’s Advancing The Black Arts. As an arts organizer, she is the force behind The Svaha Paradox Salon which just released its first anthology “Electronic Corpse: Poems From A Digital Salon.” As a featured artist for Miko Kuro’s Midnight Tea, she performed in Greece, India and Pittsburgh, PA.  As an Artist In Residence for Historic Royal Palaces, she delivered four mixed-media projects with youth at the Tower Of London and Hampton Court Palace.  She has taught creative writing at CityLit College and The University Of East London.  Her poems have been published widely in anthologies and literary journals including: “Gathering Ground: A Cave Canem Reader,” and “The Complete Idiots Guide To Slam Poetry CD,”  Recently produced dance-theatre scripts include: “Living Ancestry” and “Kikombe Cha Kisiri Mato: A Kwanzaa Myth” produced by Umoja African Arts Company and “The Splooge Factory” produced by Composer’s Collaborative. Her 1999 CD, “In The Image Of Angels” sold over 800 copies.

Dinner Party In Yellow

serving people fixture the
mahogany paneled mansions
with glass stained, hidden

stairs, trap doors, floor board foot buzzers
we freely imagine ourselves Persian ~
one flaw hidden to remember ~ brown

paper bag ball gowns burlap sack legs
stretching over seas seers of fingernail dirt
under flesh colored glaze at the table

intoxicated by itty bitty siddity delusions
in rhinestone stilettos sly eyed badinage
bootstraps nailed to bare feet

our ears drink too much blood
we feed each other with our fingers
laughter too weak to lift food

whisper spandex suggestions
the new girl’s labia performed
the dance of the 7 veils

before her clitoris
demanded two satin spotlights
ostrich feather tongues &

copper penny eye shadow.
the new girl inhales I never exhales
the fuck, bitch. cracks the gold

leaf mirror glass she thought
were her friends. us not even decent
enough to squeal so sorry ~

just what it is
beneath fox stoles.

Them Ghosts

them ghosts gonna
respect no privacy or tenderness
hobble they tires like runaways
pick out suspension busting potholes
cut strings like ham
sing the stillborn song holler down


holy hell          them ghosts gonna
sprinkle glass in they food
rub fingernails on they larynx
bite out they tongues
burn up they dinner in they belly
break they fingers suck marrow
out they phalanges ‘n metatarsals
put brambles on they eyeballs


suffocate they      them ghosts gonna
be in the shower, in the mirror steam
playing thorns on they eardrums
yank they arm hairs out
salt paper cuts
brand they tastebuds
rub on they like they was


rub on          them ghosts gonna
ride the wails of they skinned knee children
watch they young sold far
push say please up they nose to they brain
chop down they money tree
confetti they money times
five generations         them ghosts


never forget



Typical Pittsburgh Conversation About Race

[Negro lies on the sidewalk]


Al:              Look at that wound!
Be:             That’s a bleeding wound!
Clear:        That’s a bleeding wound! Open all the way down to the bone!
Dammit:    That arm has a bone in it!


Al:              Look at the bone!
Be:             That’s a bone with blood all around it and ripped muscles!
Clear:        Are you sure that’s not a ligament or tendons?
Dammit:    It certainly is something.
Whitey:     It could be a movie prosthetic. Are you an actor?


Negro:      A little help here? I’m bleeding out.
JC Negro II:  Anyone got a bandage? [Rolls up his sleeves.
Kneels down. Holds Negro’s wound together.)


Al:               Um, I’m actually just about to use this band-aid.
Be:              Here, have this organic sea foam and Indonesian dirt tincture.
Clear:        Have you tried yoga?
Dammit:  We should get a Hazmet team in to clean up this concrete.
It’s a biohazard. Think of future generations!
Whitey:    I’ll write up a report about this polluted concrete right away.
Ow! Paper cut!

Negro: (whispers )a little help?

Al:              A paper cut! Are you okay?
Be:             Omg! White light! White healing light all around you!
Clear:        Call an ambulance!
Dammit:    Omg! Omg! Omg!
Whitey:     Owwwww! I’m dying!

JC Negro II: I got this! [Rips off his shirt. Tears it into strips of bandage.
Wraps Whitey’s paper cut. Turns and looks at Negro.]            You
got this, Negro?

Negro: I got this.