Wednesday, April 8th, 2026

H. WordSmith Reads

Black Writers Studio | MidWeek Reflection

Dear Friend of the Page,

April is here, bringing National Poetry Month with it.

It’s a time to return to rhythm, to breath, and to the space between what is spoken and what is kept inside.

This week, I’ve realized something important: Rhythm isn’t just decoration in our lives. It’s a vital force, a way to survive.

For Black people, there has always been so much that had to remain buttoned up,

contained, translated, and reshaped for the comfort of others.

So much that could not be spoken freely in the open air.

And yet,

It was never lost.

Because it found its way onto the page, and from there, it grew.

There, in the margins of notebooks, in letters never sent, in poems whispered more than written,

We have always made a place to live fully.

Not perform.

Not explain.

Not reduce.

But live.

The page has long been one of the few places where we could lay it all down.

Grief without interruption.

Joy without suspicion.

Anger without consequence.

Love without permission.

Published or not.

Bound or loose leaf.

Passed down or kept hidden.

The simple act of pen meeting paper and voice finding its rhythm becomes a kind of freedom.

What sustains this freedom is rhythm.

It’s not just the rhythm of poetry as we’re taught to name it, like meter, line breaks, or structure.

but the deeper rhythm:

The one that sounds like a grandmother’s voice telling a story at the table.

The one that echoes in gospel, in blues, in the turn of a phrase that says more than it explains.

The one who knows when to pause.

When to repeat.

When to leave something unsaid so it can echo.

You may not always have the words to name it,

But you know when it’s there.

And you know when it’s missing.

Because writing without rhythm sits on the page.

But writing with rhythm,

It lives in the body.

It lingers.

It returns.

It stays.

This week in the Studio, I invite you to listen differently. Hear your words:

Not for correctness.

Not meant to be polished.

Not for what you think the page is asking of you.

But for what your body is already saying.

Where does your sentence breathe?

Where does it tighten?

Where does it want to repeat itself, even if it doesn’t “need” to?

Follow that.

That’s where you’ll find the lasting rhythm and truth of your writing, the heartbeat of your voice and story.

A Studio Practice

Write one paragraph or one poem, starting with:

“There are things I have carried in silence…”

Do not rush to explain.

Do not rush to resolve.

Let the lines fall where they need to.

Let repetition come if it wants to.

Let the rhythm lead, even if it surprises you.

Especially if it surprises you.

There are times when you have to see yourself whole and healthy, even when trauma tells a different story.

Let rhythm be one of the ways you return to that wholeness.

Not by erasing what you have carried,

But by giving it a place to move.

With you in the work, always,

We are Friends of the Page,

and we write the work forward. ✍🏾