What exactly is art; who defines it; who makes it, and where in Atlanta do poets, thespians, and artists congregate and create? We’ll use this space to catch up with a few for a few…some you may know; others we hope you’ll be pleased to mak their acquaintance.
In sixth grade, I met my first performance poet, Claude Tate, a student from the local high school who visited Terrace Manor Elementary. He concluded his performance with this stanza: “and this is my house, and you make me / happy / so this is your poem.” Through his voice and the words of Nikki Giovanni, poetry ignited my spirit—becoming one of my most enduring relationships besides my Mom. I fed this love in graduate school, eventually learning from some of the finest Black poets in the world through fellowships like VONA, The Watering Hole, and Cave Canem.
So, I’m always excited to meet artists like Grammy-nominated Queen Sheba. She’s made history as the first Atlanta poet and woman to receive back-to-back Grammy nominations. When she says, “Poetry is on the map; it’s not just niche or underground—it’s art that deserves to be on the world stage.” I completely agree with her.
When Queen Sheba, who lives in Sylvan Hills (better known as “The West End”) is not pen-to-paper or voice-to-mic, she can be found anywhere biking and running happens like the West Side Beltline or on the Silver Comet with her German Shepherd, Charlie-I’m-A-Girl.
To celebrate her Grammy nomination, join Queen Sheba on Sunday, Dec. 8 at City Winery starting at 7:30 p.m.
Queen Sheba, when possible, I give flowers to my teachers, Mrs. Hettie Copeland, and to the memory of Mrs. Lula Francis because they first introduced me to poetry. How about you? How were you introduced to poetry, spoken word, or performance?
Ah, poetry and I go way back! I was first introduced to it in the 2nd grade through the Kawala Scholastic Scholarship Poetry contest. The prize was $200, and I lost—but not without a fight. My poem included “black” in the rainbow, and when the judges told me that wasn’t right, I argued that if all primary colors were in the rainbow, then black had to be there too. Not just because I thought black should be a primary color, but because all the colors blended together make black! I still lost, but my parents assured me I had a good point—and let’s be honest, I did.
By 4th grade, I was on stage memorizing and reciting a poem from A Raisin in the Sun, and my father told me I had the best speaking voice he’d ever heard. That’s when I realized my words could do more than just sit on paper—they could move people.
But the real game-changer? My first year at Old Dominion University, I found Urban SAFARI. It was this intimate open mic in an art gallery in downtown Norfolk, VA, with maybe 30 people max every other Friday night. It was gritty, raw, and transformative. That little room of poets, storytellers, and dreamers was where I found my voice—and let me tell you, I haven’t shut up since. They made the mistake and clapped…
Best. Mistake. Ever. So, one of my favorite tracks on Civil Writes: The South Got Something To Say is “Church & Abortions” and, of course, “First Date” because it reminds me of Giovanni’s poem “Ego Tripping” in the way it captures the essence of poetry. If you believe that “the personal is political,” what was your creative process in crafting the album, and what message do you hope your listeners will take away from it?
“Church & Abortions”—that track is a heavy one for me. It’s a collision of faith, choice, and identity, and honestly, it wrote itself in the moments I was grappling with some deeply personal and societal contradictions. And “First Date”? I love that you caught the “Ego Tripping” vibes! Like Nikki Giovanni, I wanted it to feel bold, introspective, and unapologetically human, a celebration of how poetry reflects life in all its chaos and beauty.
When crafting Civil Writes: The South Got Something To Say, my creative process was like walking through my own life as a museum exhibit—revisiting rooms I thought I’d closed forever. Every track came from a place of reflection, asking myself tough questions about my past, my choices, and the world around me. The personal is political because, at its core, our lives are shaped by systems, and those systems are shaped by the lives we live.
I want listeners to feel seen, whether they’re fighting their own battles, wrestling with identity, or reclaiming their power. This album is about not being reactionary to life’s injustices but finding strength in telling your truth. If I had to sum it up, I’d say *Civil Writes* is my way of saying, “Your story matters. Your voice matters. Now, what are you going to do with it?” #YOLO
I absolutely love the sentiment of observing your own life as a museum exhibit—revisiting rooms you thought were long gone. I will sit with myself one day soon and act like I’m hanging on a wall at the High Museum next to the Alicia Keys display. As a two-time NAACP Image Award nominee and former Atlanta Public School Board candidate, how do you leverage your platform to influence and inspire others—and what are your thoughts on challenged or banned books, such as Brown Girl Dreaming, The Bluest Eye, or And Still I Rise?
I’ve spent my entire career using my platform to amplify voices that are often silenced or ignored. Whether it’s running for the Atlanta Public School Board or performing poetry on stages worldwide, my goal has always been to push for equity, representation, and real conversations. But let me be clear: the banning of books like Brown Girl Dreaming, The Bluest Eye, or And Still I Rise is not about “protecting” anyone. It’s about erasure—erasing stories, erasing truths, and erasing the cultural and historical context that makes us who we are.
The system is terrified of empowerment. Books like these challenge power structures, and that’s exactly why they’re being pulled off shelves. It’s infuriating because we know what happens when you strip people of their stories: you strip them of their humanity. These works are not just literature—they are lifelines for young people, especially Black and marginalized students, to see themselves and feel validated in a world that constantly tells them they don’t matter.
Here’s the thing: we’re not going to stop. I’ll keep amplifying the voices of the marginalized, I’ll keep showing up in spaces where they don’t want us, and I’ll keep writing and performing art that challenges their comfort zones. If I can inspire even one person to pick up a banned book, question the system, or write their own story, then I’ve done my job. Our stories are weapons—and they can’t silence us all.
Amen. Banned books are the truth personified. Speaking of amplifying marginalized voices, Atlanta is a crucible of the civil rights movement—the birthplace of many megaphones for justice from Dr. King, John Lewis, Hosea Williams, Coretta Scott King, Lugenia Burns Hope, Latosha Brown, etc. How has Atlanta and/or the South served as a character, backdrop, and community in your work?
Atlanta and the South aren’t just settings in my work—they’re living, breathing humans and experiences. The South is complex, and Atlanta is its beating heart. It’s the place where progress and tradition collide, where history seeps from every corner, and where you feel the weight of everything that’s come before you while standing firmly in what’s possible for the future.
The South shows up in my work as both a backdrop and a co-star. It’s the dirt roads of my childhood, the sound of cicadas at dusk, and the legacy of resilience passed down through generations. But it’s also the contradictions—the beauty and the pain, the fight for equity while standing in the shadows of systemic oppression. Atlanta, in particular, is the community that shaped me as an artist and a person. It’s the city that taught me to hustle unapologetically, to amplify my voice, and to create space for others to do the same.
My album Civil Writes: The South Got Something to Say* reflects that duality. It’s a love letter to the South, but it’s also a call-out, a reckoning. The South isn’t perfect, but it’s real—and it’s where I learned that you don’t just survive here; you thrive and can excel despite everything. That’s the essence I carry into every poem, every performance, and every story I tell. The South is Black Excellence, amplified.
That’s lovely. You know, the resurrection of the cicadas this past year was legendary and deserves an epic poem dedicated to them. Whew, they came back with a vengeance, buzzing, “We may not be here long, but when we come back, you better move out of the way.” Speaking of legendary, Queen Sheba, what would you like your artistic legacy to be—an artifact or relic you’d place in a time capsule to share with future generations?
If I were to leave a relic in a time capsule for future generations, it would be Poetry vs. Hip-Hop. This brand, this movement, is more than a series of shows—it’s a cultural bridge that’s been standing strong since 2015. It’s proof that poetry isn’t confined to the page and that Hip-Hop isn’t just beats and rhymes. Poetry vs. Hip-Hop is where these two worlds meet, battle, and ultimately celebrate the power of words.
Just today, a poet texted me, “Did you see one of the HH artists who did Poetry vs. Hip-Hop last year is on Netflix Rhythm & Flow??, there’s another Hip-Hop artist that is on P-Valley, another that just won two World Poetry Slams. And by no means do I think PvHH had anything directly to do with their success—but it fills me with pride that artists associate their wins with us.
My artistic legacy isn’t just about my own work; it’s about creating spaces where others can shine, where voices that often go unheard are amplified and respected. I want people to look back at what we’ve built and say, “That’s where artists came alive. That’s where the magic happened.”
My ex used to tease me and call me a “we” person—said I cared “too much about what other people think.” But it was never about that. It’s always been about helping poets who want to turn this crazy-ass art into a real career in a world where it’s still wildly off the radar. Guess I’m not as much of a “we” person as she thought though… considering she’s now my “ex.” LOL.
When they dig up that time capsule, I hope they hear the echoes of every mic drop, every bar, every stanza—and realize that words will always have the power to move mountains. This is the culmination of years of work, collaboration, and a community that’s uplifted me every step of the way. But let me tell you, it’s also a nod to my own stubborn belief that poetry deserves a seat at every table, including the Grammys.
This milestone isn’t the finish line; it’s the starting point for more poets to follow. And if I have anything to say about it, we’re just getting started because – The South, and everyone brave enough to be heard, ‘got something to say!
To connect with Queen Sheba on socials: @thequeensheba @poetryvshiphop. You can listen to Civil Writes below.