Amara Jackson: 'Rebirth' and 'Nocturnal' Interview

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MEET THE POET: Amara Jackson

Interview by Katherine Preza Leonor

Amara Jackson (she/her) is a poet born and raised in South Central Los Angeles, currently living in Downtown Los Angeles. She is currently pursuing her educational Masters at the National University and attends multiple open mics in the LA area. She is currently looking for a home for her manuscript The Absence of Light which is a beautiful interpretation of her survival of trauma, heartbreak, racism, poverty, abortion, therapy, and silence. She walks through her truth unapologetically and her book perfectly captures the rage, grief, survival, and most importantly, joy of getting to write one’s resilience. Jackson describes herself as: bold, reflective, and rooted. Her social medias are: INSTAGRAM [@quietleader]

I met Amara at the Beach Writers Conference at USC for the Community Literature Initiative program in June, and this is where I first came in contact with her phenomenal poetry, and became a fan of her book The Absence of Light. Amara, to say very briefly, is a force to be reckoned with, and mark my words, you WILL see her book on the shelves one day. Her book is still finding a home, so publishers, peep that! The poems we will be focusing on are My Birth and Nocturnal. Her poems, We Fly Still, Nocturnal, No One Is Illegal on Stolen Land, and Ode to the East LA Donut Man will be published in the Los Angeles Poet Society’s upcoming anthology: Nostalgia, Los Angeles. The highlighted poems which will be imbedded after the interview are Nocturnal and My Birth. I am excited to have been part of Jackson’s journey and ecstatic for the world to see part of her personality shine through in this interview. 

My first question was: Who do you write for?

JACKSON:  I write for everyone. I hope any person could pick up one of my poems and relate to it. However my main audience is women, specifically women of color.

PREZA LEONOR: Based on the piece we selected (We Fly Still and Rebirth), we would like to know your thought process on this piece and how you hope this piece impacts the world around you.

JACKSON: For “We Fly Still”, I wrote this poem during the fires that happened earlier this year. The poem is not about me, it's about the city that I love. Right now with the ICE raids happening we need to hear a message that helps us to push through hard times. 

I completely agree. The ICE raids and everything happening in the United States is deeply concerning and horrifying, to say the least. Helping each other is a form of protest, so please do what you can to get your voice out there and speak for those who are afraid. Jackson's writing is reflective of what is inside her heart, so reading We Fly Still stuck to me.

PREZA LEONOR: What emotions were you feeling and how do you think this translated onto the page? Is there anything you had difficulty with? 

JACKSON: During the fires (Palisades and Eaton), I was home so worried for me and the only thing I could do was write a way out. I was feeling a mix of anger, grief, and urgency.

PREZA LEONOR: What are some social issues you focused on with your manuscript, is there any that you are actively involved in?

JACKSON: The social justice issue I wove into this piece was environmental justice because wildfires aren’t just natural disasters; they’re also the result of systemic neglect, climate change, and unequal access to resources. Marginalized communities are often hit the hardest, and I wanted that truth to be present in the piece. The impact of watching the sky turn red, knowing not everyone has the means to evacuate or recover, stays with me and that’s why I wrote through it. In the Absence of Light, there is an exploration of themes such as survival, grief, rebirth, silence, memory, Black womanhood, intimacy, and generational trauma. It’s a reclamation of power sometimes soft, sometimes sharp. The manuscript moves through pain but doesn’t stay there. It’s about healing in public. About finding light in the wreckage and telling the truth even when it shakes. I also stay involved in movements tied to racial injustice, environmental racism, immigration, gentrification, reproductive rights, and mental health awareness especially in minority communities.

PREZA LEONOR: Amazing, truly. To have such topics in one book is so inspiration and gravitational. It must've took a long time to compile such vulnerable pieces. Now, what does your process look like? I imagine it's long, so how do you overcome writer's block?

JACKSON: My process is layered. Sometimes a line comes to me out of nowhere, on the train, in the shower, mid-conversation. I write it down immediately! Other times, I sit in silence, let my emotions settle, and write through the stillness. I don’t always wait for inspiration; I show up for the work even when it’s uncomfortable. When I feel blocked, I don’t force myself to write poetry I journal, paint, read something outside my genre, or go on a walk. Movement helps shake things loose. I’ve learned that writer’s block usually isn’t a lack of ideas, it’s a fear of not doing them justice.

PREZA LEONOR: What are your inspirations and influences?

JACKSON: My inspirations are rooted in the voices that came before me and the ones that walk beside me now. Audre Lorde, Maya Angelou, Nikki Giovanni, James Baldwin, and Aja Monet taught me the power of language, truth, and survival. But I’m also deeply shaped by local legends Jaha Zainabu and V. Kali

PREZA LEONOR: What are some themes that are relevant throughout your manuscript?

In the Absence of Light explores themes of survival, grief, rebirth, silence, memory, Black womanhood, intimacy, and generational trauma. It’s a reclamation of power sometimes soft, sometimes sharp. The manuscript moves through pain but doesn’t stay there. It’s about healing in public. About finding light in the wreckage and telling the truth even when it shakes.

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MY BIRTH by Amara Jackson

My birth as an open-legged revolution.

I come from splitting sky,

Pools of dancing plasma,

Mouth full of thunder.

Imagine trying to silence

My erupting sonic boom.

Surrender your eardrum.

Try grabbing the wind

With a lubricated palm.

My foot stays steady

On shaking earth.

Each step – a mountain,

Unapologetically 

In everyone’s 

Way.

So, get

The fuck out 

Of my way.

I’m coming through 

Loud,

Black, 

And tender – like thick inner thighs

Being rubbed together.

With a South-Central spirit.

East L.A

Back-alley

Rumbles.

In-school 

Lockdown.

Gunshots.

Locked kness 

When we touch

The ground,

Wishing we could touch the sky. 

A spirt of 

Holding dead bodies 

Before I held dead presidents.

Kissing punching firsts

Before i ever kissed lips.

A black ring around my eye 

Before i rung around roses. 

Gage and san pedro.

Deep 60s.

Shoes hanging from the telephone line.

My spirit is a quiet pit bull,

Hungry–waiting for your shoes 

To cross that gate

So i can take a bite outta that ass.

My spirit 

Is oceans away from home–

Motherland,

Jungle, 

Royalty.

so , i took the 

Desert sand

And grew palm trees.

Robbed this drought

And cried it into the Euphrates.

My spirit is 

Malcolm X’s vocal cords.

By any means necessary.

4.o GPA. M.A.

Private university. 

Generational curse broken.

Only Black student 

In my master’s class.

Token.

Gold coin.

Talk slick 

and I’ll still fry you on both sides

like sirloin.

My spirit 

is not afraid of a redneck

Trump supporter.

I come from cholos 

that would bash your skull,

skin you,

feed you to their 

Rottweiler. 

My spirit 

says you bow your head 

when you see me walking through.

Muse be a spacecraft the way

I shift the air around me 

when arriving or departing.

A prolific,

prophetic, 

prodigy,

privy,

potent,

proficient,

peaking,

pinnacle,

pilgrimage,

patchwork,

painting

picasso

pupils.

prison.

pipeline.

protected.

pure-hearted.

protagonist.

My spirit 

Amara chukui.

Nigerian, Igbo.

Chineke,

Nna

Fu ihe 

A to

Muo

Di ike.

An undeniable god 

With a soul of a warrior.

My spirit.

---

Nocturnal By Amara Jackson 

I am tethered to

the grimy freaks,

The face-pierced,

Covered in tattoos,

Reeking of weed and regret.

Awakened for darkness,

Finding solitude among flashing, manic lights.

I belong to

the gloomy after dusk

To the Figueroa whores in skirts too short,

Heels too high for the peeking twilight.

I belong

To the tiptoeing wino

calling out,

"Hey there, pretty lady, let me hold a few dollars."

I always offer a smile of hope.

Trembling hands dive to the bottom of my purse.

I look him in the eye,

Press three crumpled bills into his palm

Not as intimidation,

But as acknowledgment.

A reckoning with humanity.

A nod to the ones who slither like earthworms,

Never seen, never heard,

Only known to exist in places the light doesn’t reach.

When you get on your knees,

Dig until your fingernails blacken with soil.

Rummage through society’s forgotten

That’s where you’ll find

my people.

My night owls.

My artists.

Phantoms haunting Sunset Blvd,

Vast eyes and hollow cheeks,

Convulsing, wild, and wanting.

I belong to

Drag queens

in handmade custom dresses,

Putting on a better face than me.

They throw a hard punch,

Will beat your ass in a high-pitched voice.

I belong to

The singer

with needle markings on her arm,

Humming through the withdrawal.

Life has become her best performance.

Thick eyeliner hides sleepless nights,

Hides her boyfriend’s display

Of hate

Disguised as love.

I belong to

The poet

who carries all she owns in her bag.

Poverty made her afraid to throw anything away,

So she only releases words.

Trauma flows from her lips like smoke,

Attempting to contain the fire inside.

Damaged vocal cords

Belching out a screech of pain.

The world calls it poetry.

I belong to

The lost child

who wanders

Aimlessly through the empty realm,

Searching for softness

For orchid petals under Compton streetlights,

For blue moonlight reflecting off drain puddles,

For something other than a father’s drunk backhand.

I watch in admiration the majestic waltz they do with their demons,

The dance of longing gazelles and lions devouring innocence

Gazelles taking pleasure in the submission.

Broken souls, dipped in neon-colored horror,

Created an ornament of stained glass so sublime

Light waits and wishes it could peek through their cracks.

Yes, I’ve been introduced to morning.

The sun and I are well-acquainted.

She embraces my skin warmly when she sees me.

We dance like clouds, and she kisses me tenderly,

Her affection so fervent it leaves me deeper in color,

Richly seeded with pigment,

Brown-skinned, jubilant, flattered by daylight.

I may bloom in the day,

But my soul,

My soul belongs to the night.

Nocturnal

I float through the day

Riding the morning air

in Long skirts

Cozy in Sweaters that hide

Hips wide enough to drown in

Yes, i thrive in the day

But My heart

My heart belongs to the night

I am tethered to the grimy freaks

The face-piercing Covered in tattoo

Recking of weed and regret

Awakened for darkness

finding solitude amongst flashing manic lights

I belongs to the gloomy after dusk.

The whores with skirts too short

and heels too high for the peaking twilight morning

The tiptoeing wino yelling

“hey there pretty lady, let me hold a few dollars” And

I always smile

trembling hands go to the bottom or my purse

I look him in the eye

pass him 3 crumbled up dollar bills

Not as intimidation

but as acknowledgement

A reckoning with humanity

A nod to the people

Slithering like earthworms

Never seen or heard

only known to exist

In places the light doesn't reach

When you get on your knees

Dig until your fingernails are thick

black with soil

Rummaging through societies forgotten

Then you find my people

My night owls

My artist

Phantoms haunting sunset blvd

Vast eyes and hollow cheeks

Convulsing, wild and wanting

Drag queens

wearing handmade custom dresses

put on a better face than me

they hold a hard punch

Will beat your ass in a high pitched voice

The singer with needle markings on her arm

Humming through the withdraw

Life is her best performance

With thick eyeliner to cover her sleepless nights

To cover her boyfriends display of hate disguised as love

The poet that walks around with all she owns in her bag

poverty made her afraid to throw anything away

She only releases words

trauma flowing out or her lips like smoke

Attempting to contain the fire inside

damaged vocal chords

belching out a screech of pain

The world calls it poetry

The lost child that wonders

aimlessly through the empty realm

In search for softness,

for orchid petals under streetlights

for blue moonlight reflecting off drain puddles

For something other then father's drunk back hand

Yes, I love the morning, the

I love the way the sun warmly embraces my skin,

kisses me tenderly,

Affection so fervent it leaves me deeper in color.

Yes, I thrive in the day

But My soul

My soul belongs to the night

Nocturnal

I move through the day.

I shuffle in long skirts,

cozy in sweaters that hide

hips wide enough to drown in.

Yes, I thrive in the day,

but my heart

my heart belongs to the night.

I am tethered to the grimy freaks,

the face-pierced,

the tattooed,

the ones who reek of weed and regret.

Awakened for darkness,

finding solitude among flashing, manic lights.

My heart belongs to the night.

To the whores in skirts too short,

heels too high for the peeking twilight.

To the tiptoeing wino calling out,

"Hey there, pretty lady, let me hold a few dollars."

And I always smile.

Trembling hands dive to the bottom of my purse.

I look him in the eye,

press three crumpled-up bills into his palm.

Not as intimidation

but as acknowledgment.

A reckoning with humanity.

A nod to the ones who slither like earthworms,

never seen, never heard,

only known to exist in places the light doesn’t reach.

When you get on your knees,

dig until your fingernails blacken with soil,

rummage through society’s forgotten.

That’s where you’ll find my people.

My night owls.

My artists.

Phantoms haunting Sunset Blvd,

vast eyes and hollow cheeks,

convulsing, wild and wanting.

Drag queens in handmade dresses,

putting on a better face than me.

They throw a hard punch,

will beat your ass in a high-pitched voice.

The singer with needle markings on her arm,

humming through withdrawal.

Life is her best performance.

Thick eyeliner hides sleepless nights,

hides her boyfriend’s display

Poverty of hate

disguised as love.

The poet who carries all she owns in her bag.

Poverty made her afraid to throw anything away,

so she only releases words.

Trauma flows from her lips like smoke,

attempting to contain the fire inside.

Damaged vocal cords,

belching out a screech of pain.

The world calls it poetry.

The lost child who wanders aimlessly,

searching for softness,

for orchid petals under streetlights,

for blue moonlight reflecting off drain puddles,

for something other than his father’s drunk backhand.

Yes, I know morning.

The sun and I are well acquainted.

She embraces my skin warmly when she sees me,

kisses me tenderly,

Her affection is so fervent it leaves me deeper in color.

Yes, I’ve been introduced to daylight.

But my soul

my soul belongs to the night.

Nocturnal

I float through the day,

Riding the morning air

In long, flowy skirts,

Cozy in sweaters that hide

Hips wide enough to drown in.

I may thrive in the light of day,

But my heart belongs to the night.

Tethered to the grimy freaks,

The face-pierced,

Covered in tattoos,

Reeking of weed and regret.

Awakened for darkness,

Finding solitude among flashing, manic lights.

My heart belongs to the night.

I belong

To the whores in skirts too short,

Heels too high for the peeking twilight.

I belong

To the tiptoeing wino calling out,

"Hey there, pretty lady, let me hold a few dollars."

I always offer a smile or hope.

Trembling hands dive to the bottom of my purse.

I look him in the eye,

Press three crumpled bills into his palm—

Not as intimidation,

But as acknowledgment.

A reckoning with humanity.

A nod to the ones who slither like earthworms,

Never seen, never heard,

Only known to exist in places the light doesn’t reach.

When you get on your knees,

Dig until your fingernails blacken with soil.

Rummage through society’s forgotten—

That’s where you’ll find my people.

My night owls.

My artists.

Phantoms haunting Sunset Blvd,

Vast eyes and hollow cheeks,

Convulsing, wild, and wanting.

I belong to

Drag queens in handmade custom dresses,

Putting on a better face than me.

They throw a hard punch,

Will beat your ass in a high-pitched voice.

I belong to

The singer with needle markings on her arm,

Humming through the withdrawal.

Life has become her best performance.

Thick eyeliner hides sleepless nights,

Hides her boyfriend’s display

Of hate

Disguised as love.

I belong to

The poet who carries all she owns in her bag.

Poverty made her afraid to throw anything away,

So she only releases words.

Trauma flows from her lips like smoke,

Attempting to contain the fire inside.

Damaged vocal cords

Belching out a screech of pain—

The world calls it poetry.

I belong to

The lost child who wanders

Aimlessly through the empty realm,

Searching for softness—

For orchid petals under streetlights,

For blue moonlight reflecting off drain puddles,

For something other than a father’s drunk backhand.

Yes, I’ve been introduced to morning.

The sun and I are well acquainted.

She embraces my skin warmly when she sees me.

We dance, and she kisses me tenderly,

Her affection so fervent it leaves me deeper in color,

Richly seeded with pigment,

Brown-skinned, jubilant, flattered by daylight.

I bloom in the day—

But my soul,

My soul belongs to the night.

Nocturnal

I move through the day.

I shuffle in long skirts,

cozy in sweaters that hide

hips wide enough to drown in.

Yes, I thrive in the day,

but my heart

my heart belongs to the night.

I am tethered to the grimy freaks,

the face-pierced,

covered in tattoos,

reeking of weed and regret.

Awakened for darkness,

finding solitude amongst flashing, manic lights.

My heart belongs to the night.

The whores with skirts too short

and heels too high for the peaking twilight morning.

The tiptoeing wino yelling,

"Hey there, pretty lady, let me hold a few dollars."

And I always smile.

Trembling hands go to the bottom of my purse.

I look him in the eye,

pass him three crumbled-up dollar bills,

not as intimidation

but as acknowledgment—

a reckoning with humanity,

a nod to the people

slithering like earthworms,

never seen or heard,

only known to exist

in places the light doesn't reach.

When you get on your knees,

dig until your fingernails are black with soil,

rummaging through society’s forgotten.

Then you find my people.

My night owls.

My artists.

Phantoms haunting Sunset Blvd,

vast eyes and hollow cheeks,

convulsing, wild and wanting.

Drag queens

wearing handmade custom dresses

put on a better face than me.

They hold a hard punch

will beat your ass in a high-pitched voice.

The singer with needle markings on her arm,

humming through the withdrawal.

Life is her best performance.

With thick eyeliner to cover her sleepless nights,

to cover her boyfriend’s display of hate

disguised as love.

The poet that walks around

with all she owns in her bag.

Poverty made her afraid to throw anything away.

She only releases words,

trauma flowing out of her lips like smoke,

attempting to contain the fire inside.

Damaged vocal cords

belching out a screech of pain.

The world calls it poetry.

The lost child that wanders

aimlessly through the empty realm,

in search of softness,

for orchid petals under streetlights,

for blue moonlight reflecting off drain puddles,

for something other than father’s drunk backhand.

Yes, I know morning.

I have been introduced to the sun

She always warmly embraces my skin when she see me

kissing me tenderly,

affection so fervent it leaves me deeper in color.

Yes, I thrive in the day.

But my soul

my soul belongs to the night.