All of Me: Spirit, Survival & Sacred Love is a powerful collection of poetry and prose that explores the sacred journey of healing, ancestry, love, and self-return through the lens of a Black woman deeply rooted in Gullah Geechee, Southern, and spiritual traditions.
Spanning generations of resilience—from the Low Country to the concrete streets of Los Angeles—Emily Clarida writes with raw truth, ancestral fire, and spiritual grace. These poems are more than verses—they are soul sermons, memory maps, and prayers written in blood and breath.
Divided into nine chapters, this collection reflects the layered path of becoming:
From self-affirmation and spiritual awakening
To love, loss, and longing
To resistance, rage, and rebirth
To the quiet act of coming home to one’s truest self.
Clarida speaks on code-switching, trauma, womanhood, survival, pleasure, generational pain, and the divine wisdom passed through dreams and bloodlines. Whether reflecting on the loss of her parents, spiritual altars, or navigating corporate spaces that suffocate truth, her words are intimate, unflinching, and liberating.
This book is not about being unbroken. It is about being brave enough to honor the cracks—and bold enough to gather them into art.
All of Me: Spirit, Survival & Sacred Love is a powerful collection of poetry and prose that explores the sacred journey of healing, ancestry, love, and self-return through the lens of a Black woman deeply rooted in Gullah Geechee, Southern, and spiritual traditions.
Spanning generations of resilience—from the Low Country to the concrete streets of Los Angeles—Emily Clarida writes with raw truth, ancestral fire, and spiritual grace. These poems are more than verses—they are soul sermons, memory maps, and prayers written in blood and breath.
Divided into nine chapters, this collection reflects the layered path of becoming:
From self-affirmation and spiritual awakening
To love, loss, and longing
To resistance, rage, and rebirth
To the quiet act of coming home to one’s truest self.
Clarida speaks on code-switching, trauma, womanhood, survival, pleasure, generational pain, and the divine wisdom passed through dreams and bloodlines. Whether reflecting on the loss of her parents, spiritual altars, or navigating corporate spaces that suffocate truth, her words are intimate, unflinching, and liberating.
This book is not about being unbroken. It is about being brave enough to honor the cracks—and bold enough to gather them into art.
“Rooted in strength. I sit between the past and the future, guided by what lives within me.”
Big Mama Came Cracked
for the ones who still hold love, even with the broken things
She came wrapped in old tissue and time,
A queen in porcelain black,
Her smile soft as sweet hush now faded,
Her crown chipped, her face traced with cracks.
The box whispered stories in silence—
Of hands that shaped her long ago,
Of shelves she stood upon in waiting,
Of children who may never know.
Her skull bears the line of a fracture,
A story not told, but still true,
And I cradled her like a prayer
Because I know pain, too.
I wanted her whole to be Big Mama,
A guardian of roots and grace,
But she came to me broken,
Just like the world—just like my face.
And I saw myself in her ruin,
In the damage that time can’t conceal,
But also in how she still stood there,
A quiet, unwavering will.
Because trauma don’t strip us of beauty,
And cracks don’t diminish our worth.
We carry the stories of struggle,
The hard-earned salt of the earth.
Big Mama, with fractures and wisdom,
You are welcome and whole in this home.
We are all broken relics of love—
But none of us broken alone.
Georgia in the Kitchen
A Poem and Story for a Doll Made of Love
In the hush of a South Carolina night,
a daughter woke to the hum of memory—
the low whirr of a sewing machine
no longer in use
but alive in spirit.
Her mother, Georgia, had passed—
dementia taking pieces of her mind,
but never her soul,
never her hands,
never the love she stitched into time.
The daughter, moved by the echo,
sat before the machine,
threaded her grief with courage,
and began to sew.
Her first creation was named Georgia,
after the woman who taught her
without teaching,
who wrapped wisdom in quiet looks
and soul food and Sunday songs.
And now, Georgia lives again—
not as ghost but as cloth,
with button eyes
and rooted hands,
dressed in the love of lineage.
She traveled from Gullah soil
to find me—
to stand in my kitchen,
watching over pots and prayers,
reminding me
that women like Georgia never leave.
They transform.
They whisper.
They wait to be remembered
in the middle of the night—
as the hum of legacy becomes our own.
After the Ocean
Nine years alone, I held my heart
like a fragile thing in trembling hands,
tired of almosts,
tired of cracks that echoed louder than love.
Then you came—
a voice across oceans,
warm like West African sun,
saying all the right things
while I unlearned my fear.
I opened slowly.
A two-year bloom.
A long-distance hope,
built on midnight calls
and dreams I packed in silence.
But love, it turns,
and truth comes late.
You changed the rhythm,
lost your place.
Inconsistency wore your name
and betrayal showed its face.
Now I sit
with this ache in my chest—
not for you,
but for the woman who believed
this time would be different.
I don’t know if I’ll try again.
Love is a language I no longer speak—
not fluently,
not freely.
Not yet.
The Hawk Behind My Shoulder
for the messengers I did not call, but who came anyway
That morning,
the sky still waking,
my heart still heavy from whatever life had asked of me lately—
I sat on the rooftop of my old job,
book in hand, trying to breathe
before the grind took hold.
Then something shifted.
The air stilled.
The moment thickened.
I felt it before I saw it.
A presence behind me—
not loud, not harsh,
but certain.
I turned—slowly—
and there it was.
A red-tailed hawk,
perched behind my left shoulder,
as if summoned by some part of me I hadn’t met yet.
Fear kept my body still,
but my spirit leaned forward.
There was no wind, no sound,
just the wild stillness of recognition.
She looked at me
not like prey,
not like a threat,
but like she knew something about me
that even I hadn’t claimed.
No wings spread.
No cry.
Just presence.
And power.
I didn’t speak,
but my silence said,
I see you. I’m listening.
And before I could ask what the message was,
I understood:
Sometimes, the divine does not speak in words.
Sometimes, the ancestors send a feathered sentinel,
a creature with vision sharper than fear,
to perch near your softness
and remind you:
You are watched.
You are chosen.
You are held by something far more ancient
than your schedule or your sorrow.
We Owe Ourselves
We are the gold they could not bury,
the hymn hummed low in cotton fields,
the hand-sewn names stitched into our bones—
proof we were always more than what they called us.
We are our own reparation.
Every soft yes to rest, to joy,
is a payment made in full
to the souls who had no choice but to endure.
We braid our roots with lavender and fire,
stand tall in our own becoming.
To love ourselves is to resurrect the royalty
they tried to erase but could never unwrite.
We Still Know the Water
by a Gullah Geechee descendant
We come from hands that knew the soil,
From tongues that spoke in rhythm and toil,
From shores where ancestors called our name,
And crossed the tides through grief and flame.
Our grandfolks left when trains would moan,
Chasing steel dreams, northern stone,
But roots don’t die in shifting sand—
They whisper still from Gullah land.
Crab shell shields and spears held high,
The memory won’t fade or die.
Black like us—resilient, true,
Blue like the sea that carried us through.
Green like rice fields, cotton rows,
Gold like sun where okra grows.
They thought they moved us far away,
But blood remembers every day.
We still know how the hymn goes low,
Still cook with hands that hum slow,
Still feel the call across the breeze,
That rides the hush between the trees.
Self-determined, still we stand,
Though distant from the sacred land.
The flag may wave in hands unknown,
But in our hearts—it’s always home.
So here we are, in city skies,
Still dreaming with our elders’ eyes.
Though miles may stretch and time may part,
We carry Gullah in our heart.
The Bridge I Am Becoming
I carry more than my own name—
echoes of women who swallowed storms
and men who broke under silence.
Their grief found root in me,
but so did their grace.
I walk with the weight of what was done,
but I no longer let it drag my spirit.
I’ve turned pain into practice—
gentleness, like morning light,
touching even the hurt places.
To heal is not to forget.
It is to forgive where I can,
to set boundaries like fences wrapped in ivy,
to soften without surrender.
I honor them not by holding it all,
but by laying it down,
brick by brick, breath by breath—
becoming the bridge they never could cross,
and letting others walk gently with me.
The Mirror Speaks
I used to search with open hands,
For nods, for praise, from shifting sands.
In every glance, in every word,
I begged to feel seen, to be heard.
But mirrors do not lie or bend,
And truth begins where trends must end.
No louder voice than my own name,
No softer strength than self-made flame.
I learned that claps may come and go,
That love can drift, and ebb, and flow.
But what remains, through storm and shade,
Is the quiet knowing I have made.
I am not made of their applause,
Nor broken by their silent pause.
Their yes or no won’t dim my light—
I bloom because I know my right.
Now I don’t chase a fickle crowd,
Nor bow to make the empty proud.
My worth is not a borrowed song—
It’s been within me all along.
So let them cheer or turn away,
I validate myself each day.
With every breath, I claim my space—
No longer waiting to be embraced.
Prayers in the Market
I stand where chains once kissed the dust,
Where cries were swallowed into rust.
The air still holds a trembling note,
Of names unsaid, of throats that choked.
Barefoot, I bow where they were sold,
My breath a flame, my hands a fold.
I call their names in silent weep—
The ones they swore they’d always keep.
O ancestors, I bring you light,
A prayer born from the edge of night.
Your bones beneath these cobblestones—
You are not forgotten. You are not alone.
I kneel where grief and courage meet,
And lift my voice from sorrow’s seat.
Let every tear that graced your face
Now rise as rain, and bloom with grace.
The Soul Contract of Emily
As remembered, rewritten, and reclaimed
I, Emily,
entered this lifetime with open eyes
and ancient memory.
I agreed to be born into a lineage
of builders, believers, and broken hearts
so I could learn what it means
to heal from the inside out.
I did not come to be perfect.
I came to remember.
To pick up the pieces of stories
scattered across plantations, rivers, and oceans,
and stitch them back into song.
I came knowing that pain would greet me.
That betrayal would find me.
that silence would often be louder than love.
But I also came with fire in my chest
and honey on my tongue.
I came with a voice meant to unearth what was buried.
I came with eyes that see beyond the veil.
I chose this life—
with its grief, its glory,
its rejection, its reunion.
I said yes to this body,
this skin, this story,
this strange and sacred becoming.
I agreed to forget
so I could remember.
To fall,
so I could rise.
To know what it means
to be the bridge between worlds—
between the African kingdoms and the Appalachian hills,
between the enslaved and the settler,
between the rootworker and the rebel,
between the broken and the whole.
I came to restore balance.
To speak light into the dark.
To love without losing myself.
My contract is not with perfection.
It is with purpose.
To love deeply.
To create boldly.
To forgive what I can,
release what I cannot,
and carry forward what must never be forgotten.
I am not here to be tamed,
boxed, or explained.
I am here to become—
again and again—
until the sky recognizes me.
This is my vow.
This is my power.
This is my sacred return.
—Emily
I Affirm
I affirm my very existence
I'm not a fake or a pestilence
I'm mere bliss with a dash of perseverance
I am the one who takes control
I hold my soul
attaining all goals
a realization must come
like how the West was one
L. Hill said you might win some but you just lost one
my life takes off like that bullet from that gun
682 miles ...per hour taking what’s mine
cultivating my mainframe
while y'all niggas try do the same thang
but you're just a lame
is your brain fried
living within the web of lies
forced to despise
what I came to bring
I have thoughts that will make your ears ring
Tinnitus is what its called
I spit at a decibel that's way to raw
but I affirm what I came to do
haters I'll step all over you
grinding yo ass into the ground
taking yo breath, stunt your sound
wreaking havoc when I come around.
Wombman Reflected
Do you see what i see? an outlaw....
i got a question
do you see what i see?
i look in the mirror and see a womb man
that has been misplaced by society
thrown into many categories
not knowing which is jah’s rightful place for me
from ethnicity to mental and physical attributes and abilities
how i look or what you motherfuckers think of me
or what i appear to be and should be, well i don’t agree
not being accepted cause i have less money than those
whose shit don’t stink and wear the status of a primrose
am i supposed to get in where i fit in
or be content and complacent to the scraps of life your servin’
that’s absurd and i’m not the one your hurting cause i’m not undeserving
i don’t deserve to be cast aside, struggle and strive just to stay alive
i have a drive that is hella mean
i’ll bitch smack your ass and take what belongs to me
i look in the mirror and kiss myself everyday
thinking that one day my father jah will take this pain away
so do you see what i see?
i am a strong & beautiful black womb man
that has been disrespected and disregarded in this place called society
Main Entry: 1so·ci·e·ty
Pronunciation: sə-ˈsī-ə-tē
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural so·ci·e·ties
Etymology: Middle French societé, from Latin societat-, societas, from socius companion — more at social
Date: 1531
1 : companionship or association with one's fellows : friendly or intimate intercourse : company
2 : a voluntary association of individuals for common ends; especially : an organized group working together or periodically meeting because of common interests, beliefs, or profession
3 a : an enduring and cooperating social group whose members have developed organized patterns of relationships through interaction with one another b : a community, nation, or broad grouping of people having common traditions, institutions, and collective activities and interests
4 a : a part of a community that is a unit distinguishable by particular aims or standards of living or conduct : a social circle or a group of social circles having a clearly marked identity .. b : a part of the community that sets itself apart as a leisure class and that regards itself as the arbiter of fashion and manners....
Roots and Roots
They told me to stay away from magic,
but I was born of it.
Born of women who stirred soup pots
while whispering prayers,
born of hands that knew which root to pull
to cool a fever,
which leaves to steep when sorrow
sat heavy in the bones.
They told me to fear the unknown,
fear the herbs hanging in kitchens,
fear the bottles lining dusty shelves,
fear the hush of ancestors in dreams,
fear the mirror, the moon,
fear the breath I take each morning
as if waking up isn’t already a miracle.
But aren’t we all magic?
The way the body moves,
the heart beats,
the spirit dreams
and sees what has yet to come—
isn’t that magic, too?
They call it ESP,
second sight,
a gift, a curse,
but when my ancestors visit in dreams,
when they come with warnings,
with messages hidden in symbols,
it feels like coming home.
Home to the stories whispered on porches,
the lore told over pots of stew,
the hush of a mother rubbing salve
on scraped knees while praying,
the hush of a grandmother brewing tea
to quiet storms inside.
They say food is medicine,
but isn’t it also a potion?
A cake mixed with sugar and prayers,
a stew stirred with intention,
a tea poured with love—
aren’t these spells we forget to call spells?
They say roots and berries,
I say roots and roots,
rooted in the land,
rooted in the blood,
rooted in the knowing
that what is natural is sacred,
and what is sacred is magic.
I am reclaiming what was mine,
before fear dressed it as danger,
before shame tried to silence it,
before they told us to forget
who we are and what we know.
I am a roots woman,
hoodoo in my marrow,
dreams in my breath,
prayers in my footsteps,
magic in the mundane.
And I will return,
bare feet in the dirt,
hands in the earth,
heart open to the hush of spirit,
listening, learning, becoming.
Because I am magic,
because we are magic,
and we are never far from it,
only one breath,
one root,
one prayer away.
At a moment when we most need powerful reminders of how the past resonates in our present, Emily Clarida has created a gorgeous collection that is simultaneously culturally significant and deeply personal. All of Me: Spirit, Survival & Sacred Love is a glowing example of poetry’s capacity to meditate on the horrors and hopes of history as well as the ways in which these realities are embodied today. In her sharp illustration of self in the context of history and through her exquisite control of formal elements, Emily Clarida delivers a brilliantly composed book of great importance to our thinking about race, gender, and survival.
Clarida’s most impressive accomplishment is the poetic navigation of complex, intersecting temporalities. This collection is a tapestry woven across time, connecting deep histories of racial oppression and systemic violence alongside the contemporary manifestations of resilience, resistance, and affirmation of self. Drawing on images of slavery, civil rights activism (past and present), historical figures, allusions to other poets, and autobiographical experience, Clarida establishes a nonlinear narrative of witnessing and rebirth.
This is a poet with an exciting, innovative control of composition. Free verse, rhymed metrical sections, shifts in genre, rhetorically honed uses of spoken language and literary/historical reference—Clarida moves with intention and poise. One of her finest pieces, “Wombman Reflected,” combines all of these elements in a single poem. Launching from the question “Do you see what i see?,” the poem resists and refuses the position and interpretation of the [white supremacist, misogynistic] onlooker—“I’ll bitch smack your ass and take what belongs to me/ i look in the mirror and kiss myself everyday/ thinking that one day my father jah will take this pain away.” But the poem also turns into a vivid critique of modern society through the very definitions and etymologies of the word. The reader, with all of the influences of society within them, must examine that society in the mirror that a dictionary entry holds up. Clarida’s use of comparative connotations and word origins reveals what society could be, what history asked it to be, what it failed to become, and the principles to which we might hold it again.
In short, Emily Clarida’s All of Me: Spirit, Survival & Sacred Love is a must-read testament to poetry’s power as a temporally affective medium. Each poem here is its own reflective journey, elegantly rendered in Clarida’s exceptional verse.