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Work Samples

Baker Artist Portfolio

poems from my first collection, just let the dead in 

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Excerpt from my chapbook, STUNT, a collection of poems reimagining the life of Nellie Jackson, a Black woman who ran a brothel for sixty years in Natchez, Mississippi, while also spying on the KKK for the FBI and funding the civil rights movement


Guyanese Mythology Poems

Series of poems reimagining Guyanese myths

PDF icon Guyanese Mythology Poems


About Saida

Baltimore County

Saida Agostini's picture
Saida Agostini is a queer afro-guyanese poet and activist. Her work is featured in Barrelhouse, Origins, the Black Ladies Brunch Collective's anthology, Not Without Our Laughter, the Baltimore Sun, pluck!, The Little Patuxent Review, Barrelhouse, Hobart Pulp and other publications. . Her first collection of poems, just let the dead in, was a finalist for the Center of African American Poetry & Poetics’ 2020 Book Prize, as well as the New Issues Poetry Prize . Her first chapbook,... more

STUNT: a mythical reimaging of Nellie Jackson, madam of Natchez

What does it mean to know the interior lives of Black women? STUNT imagines scenes from the life of Nellie Jackson. Born in 1902, Miss Nellie ran a brothel in Natchez, Mississippi for sixty years until her death in 1990. A freedom fighter and entrepreneur who spied on the KKK and supported civil rights activists, Nellie Jackson is a legend that troubles our notions of Black narratives and histories. By turns jubilant, sensual and violent, STUNT imagines Nellie as a woman who revels in her Blackness, power and creation.

“Agostini’s understanding of the complex algebra that was southern Mississippi social mores plus the spoken and unspoken laws of commerce minus the opportunity cost of picking cotton vs peeling off linen ‘n lace times power in all its manifestations leave the reader like Nellie Jackson left her customers—satiated, but already hungry for more!”

—Frank X Walker, author of Turn Me Loose: The Unghosting of Medgar Evers

just let the dead in, Waller Gallery

just let the dead in is a meditation on traditions of resistance, violence, and blackness. An interactive installation, Agostini uses photographs, projections, poetry, and audio to explore the mythology of black and brown bodies in Guyana. The installation explores how Black folks reclaim the fantastic to build new languages of survival, and hosted a series of events to invite participant engagement and meditation, including poetry readings, panels and healing ceremonies for Black LGBTQ survivors of gender based violence.  The installation centered an altar to Agostini's great great grandmother, an unnamed Black women from the 19th century .Viewers were encouraged to write blessings to their own their ancestors and other survivors within their lineage. 

Artist Statement 

My maternal grandmother was born in the middle of the Pomeroon River, ushered into life by her grandmother, a midwife, soothsayer and farmer. Granny has told me stories of how Great Great Granny continued to usher her into life even after the work of birthing was done. The times Great Great Granny would come to her home, sack of provisions in hand for a hungry family of thirteen, all in a three room house by the river, ruled by an angry man. 

It would seem we keep saving each other. 

My paternal grandmother taught me to read, sew, read my plays, and convinced me beyond a doubt that I, a chubby little black girl with fat braids, was a genius. At the time, I thought she meant I was a genius at writing and art, but now I have come to recognize that this is a genius that has been refined and passed down  as an act of resistance through generations of enslavement, violence and servitude. 

We have a genius for loving. We have a genius for violence.

Before my great granny passed at 102, she shared a picture of her mother with us. Slight, pale, she was a tiny woman in a corseted dress, and bonnet, lips barely parted. Everytime we asked Great Granny to tell us about her, she would weep-and say nothing. The legend was that she was killed by her husband, my great-great-grandfather. I don’t know her name, and most likely never will. Just the inheritance of violence I know intimately. 

Many of us in our family have been ruled by men: indifferent, loving, drunk, wise. Men who could cheat on their wives for years, humiliate them to their faces, and then rock a child to sleep with a lullaby that can still my heart in its tenderness. 

I want to be able to tell you that these men are monsters, because it would make my life easier. I can’t. History is a round, funny thing. I can’t talk about my father as a prolific philanderer, without also talking about the man who wept in front of me because he was scared he wasn’t a good enough father. Or the man who held me in his arms every night as I fell asleep, protecting me from the monsters I was sure would come.

None of this is absolution. But I am writing to understand why my mother stays, why my grandmother stayed, and a whole world of black women who have suffered because they were in fear without these men, their children would not eat. I’ve spent years talking with my aunties, grannys and mother - all strong, proud women about this - and have met a whole surprising world of myths, fables and legends. Men cheat because they have the evil eye, and women go mad because they displeased a jumbee.

We don’t talk about the fact that Guyana has the highest rate of domestic violence in the Caribbean or its roots in a brutal system of enslavement, indentured servitude and indigenous genocide. How can we? What does it mean to try to hold discourse on a historical bondage that is strangling us even now. 

I know this work is unforgivable. Unspeakable. I want to love us as we are, not what we have been trained to remember for survival. I think there is room for that. There must be. 

I love every artery of Guyana: the Pomeroon River, the way it flows, how it is as pitch black as my great great granny farming among the graves in Kabakaburi. I love what the water holds, I love what we say it is: a universe of water babies, ole higues, moongazers and uprisings. We birthed this: a group of slaves, indentured servants and Arawaks, all meant to die. We made all of this meaning: lessons that taught young girls and boys to hold off on their pleasure so that their children can live. I want my pleasure now. I want to hold it with both hands and not be shamed of what my body can do unforced. I want to love myself as I am. 

I think the dead can teach us that. just let the dead in is a call for Black and Brown folks to come together and connect with our dead in public spaces. It is a collective place meant to celebrate and honor the ways our ancestors not only survived but found freedom, however fleeting, and build a roadmap for lasting liberation. I think we need this, I think we desire it, I think it is our right. 

  • great great granny

    Archival photograph of my great great grandmother from Guyana
  • just let the dead in

    Video from just let the dead in installation, featuring interviews with Michael Khan, also known as ole man pappie, and professor at University of Guyana, whose work focuses on Guyanese mythology and fables. Other interviewees include, Joan Cambridge, Guyanese writer and activist, and footage from my journey back to my grandmother's ancestral home, Kabakaburi, Guyana.

Black Ladies Brunch Collective

The Black Ladies Brunch Collective (BLBC) was founded in 2014.  A group of black women poets,  it is our aim lift up, promote and inspire the voices of black women – who have been, as a population historically marginalized and silenced. We honor the artistic work of black women, and encourage and foster collaboration between us.

We released our first anthology, Not Without Our Laughter: Poems of Humor, Sexuality and Joy in April 2016, by Mason Jar Press.  The Baltimore City Paper hailed the anthology as the best poetry collection of the year.  Our work has been featured at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival, Split This Rock and the Baltimore Book Festival.  The BLBC has taken our words across the pond - and gone on tour in Ireland.  In the midst of the pandemic, we continue to curate digital spaces for BIPOC poets to gather, celebrate and organize. 

Black Voices in Verse, Poetry Reading Presented by Takoma Arts

This timely poetry reading features three Black poets whose powerful work challenges the status quo and pervasive racism in the United States. The poets include Saida Agostini, Kyle Dargan, and Emily Kombe from the Washington, D.C. area. This reading is presented by the Takoma Park Arts cultural series from the City of Takoma Park, Md. You can find more online arts events and sign up for our weekly e-newsletter at 

Love Poems to Black Survivors

An ongoing project first initiated at FORCE: Upsetting Rape Culture, an artist collective dedicated to ending rape culture. This work was inspired by my own experiences as a Black survivor of gender based violence, and the reality that Black women and girls, particularly Black trans women are more likely to be incarcerated when attempting to seek help or safety from their abusers. This project is now housed by the Rooted Collective, a Black LGBTQ collective in Baltimore, working to affirm, support and promote Black LGBTQ/SGL liberation. This includes writing poems for Black women, girls and nonbinary survivors impacted by criminal justice system, as well as, organizing events across the country to promote awareness and action for survivors currently incarcerated for self defense. 

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Saida's Curated Collection

This artist has not yet created a curated collection.