Urban Commentary Lounge
"Listen Carefully"
A Night in Richmond
Friday, September 20th • 5:00 PM
Where whispered
Share a Glass and the Word.
Taste of Whiskey
Saturday, August 2nd • 6:30 PM
Somewhere in Cypress, not Cyprus
Where living rooms become sanctuaries. Where kitchen tables transform into podiums of expression.
Love 3rd Ward
Friday, July 25th • 7:00 PM
The Tré
An evening of unpublished verses and published favorites. Live—just verse in its purest form.
A Son of Texas, Weaving Words into a Tapestry
Detrick Hughes weaves words into a tapestry of poetry and prose. With degrees from the University of Houston and Ashland University, he has crafted several collections that resonate with readers and spoken word CDs that ignite the soul.
Hughes' commitment to community extends beyond his literary pursuits—he serves on the board of Public Poetry, the Board of the Eta Mu Alumni, mentors youth through Big Brothers Big Sisters Houston, and has shared his knowledge as an adjunct professor.
His latest book, "Spread: Through the Fractured Lens of Quarantine," debuted on October 15, 2024. Hughes is already turning his attention to his next project, a work centered around the California Zephyr.
Publications
Spread
The latest collection by Detrick Hughes explores isolation, reflection, and the resilience of the human spirit through the fractured lens of a world in quarantine. Released October 15, 2024.
$10.00
I Am Poet
Out of Print
Chocolate Covered Raisins
Out of Print
Paper Walls
Out of Print
Compact Disc (Promotional Only)
Cottonwood Park
The Sound of One Voice Marching
Poetry Samples
from Spread
as if to wail, again
to their God
while barn fires wait
for "black bodies swinging in the southern breeze."[1]
I hate the "read"
of bones & flesh testing a lyncher's rope,
but I'd rather not be
—erased.
[1]…excerpt from the song "Strange Fruit" by Billie Holliday.
though I am not running to some distant end
while night touches the edge of things.
Today an old young man passes
in a boy's dilated pupil
falling between thick memories.
Yesterday, he summoned his son
before turning into a stranger
disappearing into those unfamiliar spaces
that remain familiar to the son
who stands quiet in dew-fresh grass
chasing the sound of crickets.
breaking silence like air no longer resting
with soda caps twisted from old coke bottles
the ratchet motion of crimped tin freed
amber flakes spit to floor to join last words
she left them with used footsteps
—i pretended
it was gold and one could pine
or pan memories
when needed —she said she wanted truths
i assumed brushed with 'wanna be' like butter
to over-baked biscuits snatched from ovens
—but
it was carefully crafted lies desired —warmed
deception placed on paper doilies
with cut out french lace
—pretended to sip from toy tea cups
forefinger and thumb pinched plastic handles
—at her affair
—we held laughter hostage
just beneath our breath
from Spread
for a moment
refusing to stand
with "at least six feet of distance"
by taking a cruel inch forward
and stealing half of it back
—my mask
clutching the smirk.
in the corner of my phone
camouflaged next to another Hughes.
It had been quiet for months
collecting binary cobwebs.
Carl Hughes 409
I never greeted him with father,
dad. But—wanted
to taste those syllables
when moments provided too much time.
Maybe a good son
renames the reference to "Dad"
and stores it in the cloud.
Wondered of his body
and the prosthetic leg
the VA added below the knee.
Did the undertaker rest it
in his dress blues?
Maybe it became an artifact
heaped on trash
or refurbished metal & foam.
But—did they make him whole,
and can I remove his number?
It begs my thumb
so I called my mother
just to hear the way she says
"Hello, Son"
and I visited Crow's plot
and cried on the way home.
That year, I got a new phone.
[1] Crow was my father's nickname.
are dreams broken
—sweet the pieces
reimagined
Verse of the Day
The Poet's Kindling
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