Dear Brooklyn,

You're a city on your own.
My neighborhood for all my
fourteen years of life.
I can just imagine what
you hear.
What you see.
What you taste.

Do you hear the shouts
of Spanish slang from
all the countries all in
one place
in the Southside?
The shouts of
“¡Mi amiga!”
by an eager girl
or the groan of
“Aye dios mio,” said
in disbelief.

Or better yet, do you
taste the good
from the gucci frítos,
sweet platanos,
or the hot beans?

Maybe you're too busy
having fun in Coney Island, where
the sound of the Q train is whizzing
by its stop –
the shouts of teenagers
newly released from a poison called
“high school”.
The sounds of crashing waves
mixed in with a dash of reggae
from a nearby boombox,
a pinch of gleeful laughs
from a 4-year-old getting buried
in the sand.

Can you taste the cotton candy?
Or it's probably the funnel
cakes or caramel apples
that's holding your attention.
The sweet sticky stuck
in your mouth as you drowsily
try to finish the day.

Late at night:
the party starts yet you
feel sleepy resorting
to the slower pace of life tonight.

Can you hear the whispers
of a first “I love you”
on a street corner
from a 17-year-old boy
to his 16-year-old girlfriend?

Here in your city streets
we can find anything
we want.

You see, hear, and taste
all,
Brooklyn.

Alexandra Garcia

Dear Brooklyn,

I know what you hear

The trains rumbling on the ground
giving you a major headache,

the police sirens wailing in the air
the dance club music bursting into your ears
the people who drank way too much yelling at
your trash can.

I know what you see

A mugger stealing a woman's blue purse
just to make a few extra bucks,
a man running to catch a bus,
a toddler crying because he scraped his knee
on your rough grounds.

I know what you smell

The cigarettes left ignited on the ground
the smell of burning fumes from every factory,
the pizzerias making a fresh pie,
a man making a cake for his
son's 12-year-old birthday.
You smell the perfume bottles broking in a
woman's purse.

You smell all the smells from around
the world. The cuisines, perfumes from
India – even Rome, Italy – you hear
all the languages of the world.

I hope you can handle it all.

If you can't, I'll take your place any day.

Sincerely,
Amir

Dear Brooklyn,

I know what you hear
gun shots over on Beverly and
Claridon, the pitter-patter shoes or
sandals hitting the concrete from
people running,
girls playing double dutch in the summer
singing
“Mailman mailman, do your duty
here comes the lady with the African booty,”
then boys coming up messing
that up and
squirting us with water
guns.

I know what you see
people crowding Lenny's pizza shop,
fights over on 21st every single day between
gang members. One throws a brick, then
the other one's head bust open. You see
guys and gals flirting on the street
corner, by Adam second store on
29th & Avenue D.

Asiyah Whitehurst

Dear Brooklyn,

I know that you see the truth:
Midwood beating Madison at football,
and cats
eating garbage,
children
goin' to the barber shop, and
people tagging houses with spray paint,
talented musicians leaving Brooklyn College.

I know you hear
Jay Z non-stop
on the radio,
squirrels claws
climbing up trees,
parents arguing.

I know you taste the spit
of Brooklynites on your
concrete,
the acid rain coming down on cool
spring nights,
the bread nice people give the pigeons.

I know you smell the pollution
from all of the buses and cars, and
the pizza on Knapp Street, and
the sweet aroma coming from Michael's Bakery.

You feel the Prada
sneakers on the sidewalk,
the birds catching worms,
the hail coming down,
the love

that us Brooklynites feel

for you.

Chris Elmore

Dear Brooklyn,

I know what you hear
da music blastin' from
a Escalade with spinner rims
goin' down Coney Island Ave

kids in the park playing
football arguing over a play

the Chinese lady saying
“DVD!”

I know what you see
people vomiting after goin' on the Cyclone
the boats in Sheepshead Bay
people playing Shoot the Freak at Coney Island

I know what you smell
the pizza in Bensonhurst
the bums in Canarsie
the perfume at King's Plaza's Macy's

I know what you taste
hot dogs at Nathan's
bread sticks at the Olive Garden
ribs at KFC

I know what you are
YOU ARE BROOKLYN
the best borough
of NY

James Zeno

Dear Brooklyn, 

      I know what you hear

you hear cussing boomeranging

      one person to another

you hear constant bouncing

      of handballs on

the

      court

you hear children

of such innocence

      “ready or not here I come”

you hear screeching

      tires on the avenue  

      I know what you see

you see the children

with a smile thrust upon

      their pure faces as they

reach for a the next monkey bar

      you see the happiness of the

couples as they are hand-in-hand

walking your sidewalks

you see the blur of

the spinny thing as it

spins

      and spins

            and spins

you see the growth

of the young you once knew

to be so innocent

      growing up

creating a life of

      impurity

      and

      regret. 

Dear Brooklyn,

      you see what I see

      you hear what I hear

you walk beside me

      and in my mental state

      you and with me, hand-in-hand. 

Julianna Reynolds

Dear Brooklyn, 

Oh, Brooklyn. 

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.  

After three great years, I left when the opportunity for a one bedroom in Soho for $1,000 seemed to good to pass up. (And, well, it did turn out to be too good to be true and, in fact, very pass-up-able, but that’s another story.) I am in the West Village now and like being able to view the calming blue of the Hudson from my new building’s front door, but you know what, Brooklyn? Manhattan’s just not the same.  

I miss your coziness, your heart, the way that me and all my neighborhood friends had the same “boyfriend” from the deli on the corner. The way I could call Carey or Deema and say, “Let’s walk in 10!” The way everything, right down to the drunk super loitering outside of my building around sundown, felt like home.  

I miss your trees, those gorgeous stately oaks lining South Elliott, the ones whose chipped gray-green bark always reminded me of ceiling paint that had seen better days. I miss my daily bike rides over the Brooklyn Bridge, where the Manhattan skyline, with all its geometric intricacies, was intimate, distant. Me and you, Brooklyn, we’ve shared some secrets. I miss your streets, the long rambling walks through Prospect Park, how easy it used to be to bum smokes (when I still did that) from kindly people at the dog run. I declared the park “Olmstead’s improvement on Central.”  But I have no idea if that’s objectively true. 

Once, I remember walking down Dekalb, meandering home after the writing group I used to run at a full-time residence for women with substance abuse issues. One of the women had written about the full moon, how she viewed the bright, lunar light from the confines of the facility’s concrete, fenced-in “backyard”—and her writing, the feeling, had stayed with me. High from the thrill of sharing with strangers, high from that same moon, still illuminating the sky, framed by the leafy trees of Fort Greene Park, this was the first but not last time that I felt smitten with you, completely smitten. An ice cream truck was idling on the perimeter of Walt Whitman’s park. I stepped up, ordered a soft serve twist with chocolate sprinkles, and then nearly floated all the way home, counting the trees, people walking dogs and babies, and of, course, my blessings.  

With love, 

Suzanne  

Dear Brooklyn,

Moving here many years ago was not a happy experience even though I was a newlywed.  It was huge and a little frightening. There were so many buildings, and besides, Virginia was where I wanted to be.  That’s where I knew everyone in my neighborhood by name and children could freely run in and of out of doors to play.  That’s where the grass was green and soft between my toes. Virginia trees were tall and full and everywhere you looked were flowers of many colors. 

Yes, that was then.  Now, after many years in Brooklyn, I have grown accustomed to my adopted home.  I enjoy your many attributes--the beautiful parks where the green grass sprouts, the tall trees and colorful flowers, too.  The architecture is unbelievably precise—from historic to super modern.

Corned beef, pastrami, salami and cheeses galore really give my palate such unbelievable pleasure.  Italian dishes are my favorite and a slice of pizza tops it all.  Bagels and cream cheese and delicious pastries from various neighborhoods really make Brooklyn so unique. 

Well, Brooklyn, I thought you might want to know that I now see your true personality, character and beauty and I love you very much.  There is no other place like you!

Sincerely,

A transplanted Brooklynite vast 
Nadine V. Clarke

P.S.  I am thinking of moving back to Virginia—one day.

Dear Brooklyn, 

I know what you see

      cars honking on the streets

      kids climbing your monkey bars

      students eating french fries

      people swimming on the warm

      beaches

I know  what you hear

      people singing in the concerts

      children watching action movies

      at the huge movie theaters

      planes flying across the city

      to the JFK airport

I know what you smell

      the fresh-baked pies

      ice creamy cakes and cup cakes

      donuts with sprinkles and

      hot chocolate that people

      by on their way to work

I know what you feel

      the waves rumbling against the soft shore

      the cars riding on the black rough roads

      kids running quick on the playgrounds

      race cars crashing and racing around

This is the place

I would never

leave.  There is

always something

interesting to do. 

-- Matthew Provotorov

Dear Brooklyn, 

I miss you sometimes when a crime tries to make me forget how good you are. Warm, welcoming open twenty-four hours a day. Embracing all differences who stay or just visit for a day. 

You are so beautifully put together. Your trees stretching wide, unselfish on either side of the street, never blocking the light. Your light that says we all have something to learn from each other. Your symphony of Churches even catches those with no rhythm.  

Because it’s the beat of love, it’s the beat of the heart that says, I got up this morning. “Can I get an Amen?” 

It’s your jazzy swagger, so colorful that peacocks don’t strut as well, not boastful but proud. It’s collard greens, peas and rice or rice and peas. Egg Fu Young, cannoli, hummus, chopped liver, to name a few.  

A borough that when a child cries next door, across the street, in DC, New Orleans, Haiti, we answer. What can we do to help? 

Sincerely,  

One of Brooklyn’s Children

Linda Thomas