September 2025 Feature: Cheryl Boyce-Taylor

Cheryl Boyce-Taylor is a Trinidadian poet, teaching artist, and theatre performer who lives in New York. Her latest collection, The Limitless Heart, won the 2024 CLMP Firecracker Award.

Born in Trinidad and raised in Queens, New York, Cheryl Boyce-Taylor is the author of seven collections of poetry. In 2021, her verse memoir, Mama Phife Represents, won The Publishing Triangle’s Audre Lorde award and honors her son, Hip-Hop legend Malik, aka Phife Dawg, of A Tribe Called Quest. Her latest collection, The Limitless Heart, won the 2024 CLMP Firecracker Award. Cheryl is currently working on her eighth collection of poetry.

Last Visit to Arima River

Outside the back bedroom window

Calla lilies lift their heads 

At GG’s house the off-white family room is still here 

It’s where I learned to pray 

Where I learned to sneak sips of wine 

Learned to keep secrets 

It is where everything was already hidden before I was born

If I stay here I will turn to stone

I can already feel the rage building 

Shooting up my spine uninvited

I could write until I burst

Two streets away

I feel the familiar smell and magnitude of river

It is there grandma will cut our hair only in full moon

Twelve years and river still talking loud

Her big screech calls me to the stark awakening of day

It is her laughter that still brings me joy

It is her clear eyes that surround me like mirrors

Her gurgling that brings me poems

Her arms holding me in a clear blue wall of clarity

I wait for poems hungry as a bird unfed for weeks

When they arrive

my poems are full grown

they are already written

Sweeter days are here

her mouth covers mine

In this new calla bloom 

morning rain has swept the sky.

MISTAKEN

They set we world on fire

hope yuh happy now watching we burn

real fear in de air

feels like white sage and Florida water

ain't fixing shit

meh blood pressure meds  albuterol 

quick insulin  extra heart monitor  poetry books

bank card  house keys   in de whole foods trolley by de door

ah go ha to buy water when ah reach weyever ah goin

nowadays ah duz walk wid meh

us passport  non-drivers id   passport card

social security de new real card wid US flag

w/o meh mask  de aint go care I Malik mother

de go mistake meh for

senagalese  haitian  panamanian   bajan

black trinidadian

immigrant

gang member

alien

slave

black mother

black 

democrat 

other other

anti-trump- r

undocumented

slave

self deported--

Dad did you

See my mother

Slight slip of a girl   dad

Fifth grade   did you love her then too

Her hair a black majestic rain

Two proud braids high

Rockets

JUNE PLUMS

My father is forever my child

when I arrive in Trinidad                                                                                                                   he begs for bread and wine

he begs for new crisp American dollars                                                                                        and a white shirt for he sista funeral

at sixteen he begs me to ask my mother to take him back

even though he loves another woman

he loves my mother more                                                                                                                he says

my father shows me a picture of a small freckle faced child

swears me to secrecy

promise that I will not tell my mother about the boy he’s hiding

father takes me to the ocean to meet my little brother

August sea still warm

I make a necklace of

seaweeds for his gleaming neck

my father thanks me for the boy’s gift

throws himself into my arms

rage eating me like June plums.

wonder if he loves this light skin boy

more than me?

After the Gray Pitbull in Fort Greene Park

I hope never to know the sharp edge 

of a pit’s teeth

we are pressed against a tree

listening to his truth 

praying for safety 

evening drew near 

a soft cover around us

we pulled closer 

asking mist to cover and shield 

we were trespassing 

running from our world/ourselves 

from the barking of wild dogs

in this nightmare  

we became stone  we became ghost

jasper  mesh  piss  

became fire  siren  scream

became toddler  gravity  nameless   

dust  santera   sage

THE INTERVIEW

This interview was conducted between Cheryl Boyce-Taylor and Jae Nichelle on August 5th, 2025.

Wow, thank you so much for sharing this breathtaking series of poems. I love the lines “I wait for poems hungry as a bird unfed for weeks/ When they arrive/ my poems are full grown.” Does this reflect your general writing process? When’s the last time a poem arrived “full grown?”

Laughter… 

The last “fully grown” poem arrived in 2022. It is the closing poem in The Limitless Heart, titled “She Led Me.” And no, it does not reflect my writing process. This has happened on several occasions, though, usually when there is someone or something on my mind that I cannot shake or escape.

“Mistaken” leaves me speechless. Especially the moment “de aint go care I Malik mother,” as mother becomes the first instance of self-prescribed identity. Outside of race and gender, what aspects of your identity and personhood do you care to describe yourself with most?

Mother, daughter, Caribbean Woman Poet. The first time I knew I would die for something was when I became a mother. And even though my son is no longer here with us, the most important thing that I am is still a MOTHER.

These poems are so rhythmic, frequently featuring single words pulled out or listed. In what ways, if any, has the rhythm of your poetry changed over the years?

I cannot even say that the rhythm of my poetry has changed very much. I think it is the same, serious, soulful, organic thing it always was. But even then, it really depends on the theme of the poem, the mood of the event.

And I would say as I get older, my poems are becoming a bit heavier, mostly because of the challenging times in which we live. I feel less safe or stable. My poems still come to me in dreams, fantasy, or memory; mostly, they wait for me in the blue cut of skin where desire begins. I feel a rush, a warm glow on my skin, a sense of anticipation and elation when the poem begins. Then, I must be alone to build it. Even the feel of pen to paper is an erotic act for me. I remember when I worked in New York City and took the subway from Brooklyn; I would carry the new poem with me everywhere, peeking at it, smiling at it, reading it over and over, almost like a new lover. It’s a kind of crazy thing. My poems are a sacred part of my soul that I could never give up. I let them shape their own rhythm…they run the show, not me.

In an incredible interview with Glenis Redmond, you talked about how you’ve become more honest and forthright in your writing and how you “don’t give a damn” about what you say in your work. Is there anything at all that still feels hard to say these days?

Actually, I did not mean for it to sound like I don’t care. I do care. What I really meant was that I’m not afraid or ashamed to share anything anymore, or if I’m judged or disliked, or even misunderstood. The poem has a life of its own. In my MFA program at Stonecoast, they used to say a poem is a “made thing.” I’ve learned over the years that I don’t make it, it makes itself, and I have to respect that.

I remember having a conversation with Ronald K. Brown of Evidence Dance Company once when we were on tour. I asked him how he made his decisions on his choreography, the music, movement, and text for a program, and he answered in the most sincere tone, “It’s all about obedience, my friend.” I learned that day it was all about listening, trust, and observing what the poem wanted to do. It takes a lot of trust to do that, but I have developed it over the years. Sometimes I still want to tell the poem what I want. But then the poem says, “That’s not working, I’m not doing that.”

Truthfully, there is a lot that is still hard to say, especially about family and friends. I had difficulties when I was writing about my son‘s death in Mama Phife Represents. I ran some content by his wife, Deisha, and by his dad because I knew he was not just my baby. He belonged to them, too, and in a lot of ways, he also belonged to his whole Universe of music lovers… Wow, that was hard. Weeks before the book came out, I was worried and crying and breaking down, thinking I had given away too much of our lives. I learned later that most of it was grief. Grief is a hell of a demon.

You are currently working on your eighth collection of poetry. What can you share about how that process is going?

I wish I could share that it’s going swell, but it seems like every day I’m putting off the hard work of developing and documenting. This collection is on romance and erotica…one of my favorite topics. But I’m at a strange place in my twenty-eight-year relationship right now. I didn’t realize how hard writing about romance and love would be, so I find myself making a lot of notes but not diving full force into the text. I guess in ways, I’m waiting for the piece to write itself. That sounds strange, but sometimes it happens. I know I will wake up one morning and say to no one in particular, “I’m done fooling around, pass me my pen and paper.”

What was your very first job?

My very first serious job as a poet occurred when I returned to New York City from visiting Ghana, West Africa. It was my first trip to the continent of Africa, and I was blown away.

I felt full, overflowing with poems, with joy, and with unbelievable feelings of loss for what I had witnessed there. I had seen the sadness and abuse that my people endured, and I had to rework that experience in my body somehow and make it palpable to share; thus began my first job. 

I created an Art exhibit that consisted of poems and photos. The exhibit was then shown at CBGB’s rock and jazz club in the East Village of New York City, and at the Goddess Gallery in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, New York.

I saw firsthand Goree Island and Elmina Castle, where free Africans were sold into slavery.

The experience was overwhelming.

The spirit of my ancestors descended upon me, and I knew that this writing gift was not just a hobby, and that I was blessed with real serious work. The universe had picked me, how lucky I was!

What is one of your favorite memories of performing your work or someone else's?

I have so many favorite memories of performing, but I will say one that stands out the most for me is my collaboration with Ronald K. Brown/ EVIDENCE, A Dance Company. The company is based in Brooklyn, New York. Their work is a mixed bag of African dance, modern dance, and Capoeira. We worked together for over 15 years. I wrote the text, and they would dance to it. I would be on stage performing my piece while they danced around me. One of our favorite pieces is entitled WATER, a poem I created to honor my son, Hip-Hop icon, Malik “Phife Dawg” Taylor, an original founding member of the seminal hip-hop group, A Tribe Called Quest. The poem is deeply spiritual and cultural, and lovingly honors the lives of Black men and boys. As the mother of a black man, I held so many fears inside, fear for his safety and survival. Yet at the same time, I had so much hope for my son and for black men everywhere.  

I am most proud of that poem. Even now, so many years later, it gives me hope and joy. It will be relevant for years to come. 

What do you love to do most when you visit Trinidad?

When I am in Trinidad, I love to visit family more than anything else… to feel their hugs, to hear their stories in Trini dialect, to watch my favorite Tanty cook our national dishes. I also love to go to the river to listen to its language and relive childhood memories. Most important is to wrap myself in the joy of my family, which is always expanding.

I also love to walk around the Green market listening to people’s conversation and salving myself with down-home stories in Trini Creole. Oh, how I love my people!

How can people support you right now?

You can pray for me, because even though I’ve come a long way, there are days when the loss of my beloved son Malik just overwhelms me and I need your light.

I will also share what former New York State Poet Laureate Willie Perdomo said: Spend time with our youth, whatever gifts you have, share it with them, be it knitting, writing, poetry, playing chess, soccer, or riding a bike…find them wherever they are and give generously. 

We have got to leave them some joy. Our world is very challenging now, and we have to lighten their way.

Name another Black woman writer people should know.   

Keisha-Gaye Anderson and Allia Abdullah-Matta.

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