Another Reason I Wish I Lived in NYC

My 9-5 sometimes finds me in the "city that never sleeps." Sadly, it's never when I need to be there! And Page Meets Stage is a need. NEED, I tell you!! I've posted a few poems from the monthly event here, but didn't grasp the full concept until now. Check out this totally kick A description of the event below that I lifted from the site.

Page Meets Stage is a monthly poetry series that pairs more page-oriented, academic poets with poets who come from a more spoken-word or performative background. Both poets are on stage at the same time and read back and forth, poem for poem, sometimes answering each other and other times taking the conversation in a different direction.- Excerpt from the website

Loves it!!

They have one tonight, but I won't be back in the city until June. Booo! I'll have to be more strategic about future trips. If you're in the NYC area, please check it out. I love/ hate living vicariously through others, but I will, if I must:-)

The Blackest White Man in Poetry

While perusing the Google-space today, I stumbled upon The Root's List of "The Blackest White Folks We Know." Most of the list was hilarity and rediculosity, but I couldn't argue with this one -

Brooklyn born poet/playwright/actor Danny Hoch deserves inclusion here for his entire body of urban, urbane and fiery work. But all of his credentials can be boiled down to just one line from his poem, "PSA": "This is a public service announcement: This is Whitey, and I'm tellin' you, 'Yes, it's a conspiracy, motherfucker!'"

The Root knows whats up:-) Check out Hoch's dope poem below. Beware...there are some naughty words.

When Gil Scott-Heron Speaks, We Listen!

Ok...I know I'm so freaking late on this, but it's worth a mention anyway. Gil Scott-Heron, who gained poetic immortality with his poem “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” released his first studio album in 15 years this February. While Scott-Heron’s work is most often linked to black militancy, this new album shows his broader range.

According to the Guardian:

"The result is an album that touches on many genres, from hip-hop and gospel to dubstep and blues. Above all, though, is the unmistakable sound of Gil Scott-Heron. His is a voice that suits age, be that on the feral blues of New York Is Killing Me or the redemptive, folk-flavored title track (a cover of a Smog song, indie fans)."

Click on the player below for a listen and be sure to get the CD. It's great stuff!!

No One Ever Told Me about Elmina

15 years of public school education and Eboni Hogan's poem is the first I have ever heard of Elmina. This fierce, beautiful, and frightful fortress was the literal and figurative "point of no return" where over 30,000 west African slaves passed through each year, on their way to Brazil and other Portuguese colonies.

"Elmina, like other West African slave fortresses, housed luxury suites for the Europeans in the upper levels. The slave dungeons below were cramped and filthy, each cell often housing as many as 200 people at a time, without enough space to even lie down. The floor of the dungeon, as result of centuries of impacted filth and human excrement, is now several inches higher than it was when it was built. Outbreaks of malaria and yellow fever were common. Staircases led directly from the governor 's chambers to the women's dungeons below, making it easy for him to select personal concubines from amongst the women.

At the seaboard side of the castle was the Door of No Return, the infamous portal through which slaves boarded the ships that would take them on the treacherous journey across the Atlantic known as the Middle Passage." -PBS

::le sigh:: I won't lie. I broke down when I heard this poem. And, because I'm a sucker for punishment, I just had to do my own research on Elmina. I'm just so sad that I didn't know sooner and heartbroken over that fact that this ever happened at all...

Creation often needs two hearts

Feeling hella nostalgic today, friends. I can't over-share quite yet, but this poem captures my sentiments exactly.

Motheroot
BY Marilou Awiakta

Creation often
needs two hearts
one to root
and one to flower
One to sustain
in time of drouth
and hold fast
against winds of pain
the fragile bloom
that in the glory
of its hour
affirms a heart
unsung, unseen.

Reprinted from Selu: Seeking the Corn-Mother's Wisdom, by Marilou Awiakta, Golden, Colorado: Fulcrum Publishing, 1993

Kicking Down Color Lines, Busting through Glass Ceilings

It wasn't until I read Anthony Walton's article "Double-Bind: Three Women of the Harlem Renaissance" that I realized how truly absent the female voice has been from our contemporary understanding of the poetic Harlem Renaissance. And, it is not that it didn't exist. Quite the contrary. Many women lit up both page and stage with beautiful words of struggle, progress, and the human condition. It is only that their status as women, black women, at that (what Walton refers to as the "double bind") made it difficult for them to get the respect and acclaim they deserved.

Well, I will do my part to keep their legacy alive!!

Thanks to Walton for getting me hip to these three feminine voices of the Harlem Renaissance. Hope you enjoy these short but powerful piece! And remember, the best way to keep this train moving is to share the love. Pass these poems along.



Dead Fires
BY Jessie Redmon Fauset

If this is peace, this dead and leaden thing,
Then better far the hateful fret, the sting.
Better the wound forever seeking balm
Than this gray calm!

Is this pain's surcease? Better far the ache,
The long-drawn dreary day, the night's white wake,
Better the choking sigh, the sobbing breath
Than passion's death!

Black Woman
BY Georgia Douglas Johnson

Don’t knock at the door, little child,
I cannot let you in,
You know not what a world this is
Of cruelty and sin.
Wait in the still eternity
Until I come to you,
The world is cruel, cruel, child,
I cannot let you in!

Don’t knock at my heart, little one,
I cannot bear the pain
Of turning deaf-ear to your call
Time and time again!
You do not know the monster men
Inhabiting the earth,
Be still, be still, my precious child,
I must not give you birth!

Quatrains
BY Gwendolyn Bennett

1
Brushes and paints are all I have
To speak the music in my soul—
While silently there laughs at me
A copper jar beside a pale green bowl.

2
How strange that grass should sing—
Grass is so still a thing ...
And strange the swift surprise of snow
So soft it falls and slow.

My First Lucille Clifton

I knew I was in love when my out-of-town-boo sent me this poem in email. It was the first I had read of Lucille Clifton, but now I'm hooked. What can I say...I'm a sucker for a guy with appreciates the beauty of words. At least he's not a poet. I think I'm done with those for a while:-) Enjoy this very sassy piece and remember that you are some.damn.BODY!

luv!

What the Mirror Said
BY Lucille Clifton,

listen,
you a wonder.
you a city
of a woman.
you got a geography
of your own.
listen,
somebody need a map
to understand you.
somebody need directions
to move around you.
listen,
woman,
you not a no place
anonymous
girl;
mister with his hands on you
he got his hands on
some
damn
body!

Love a Good Scandal!

Nothing like a steamy, secret love affair to get your week started off right:-)

The Cook and the Lady
BY David Bruzina

The cook and the lady must be more than friends.
Notice he keeps glancing through the swinging double doors?
Notice how his Chicken Curry Special makes her grin?

Later, at her house, he’ll slip off her dress, whispering
something in her ear about her complicated breath—
for which she’ll credit (in part) him and his spices.

Already, she’s anticipating the sixteen paradises.
And how she’ll fall asleep at last, beneath the wet silk covers,
her body indistinguishable from her lover’s.

If I could, I’d release the cook from his kitchen.
I’d let the lady take him home. I’d cook our chicken.
But my chicken always lacks precisely that necessary something.

hungry for more?

Let’s open our fists and drop them.

Found this great poem after stumbling upon the Poem of the Day blog. It's a beautiful piece that tells us to throw off all that hinders and dare to become our better selves. There are just too many great lines here!!

Enjoy:-)

A Kol Nidrei
BY Mark Belletini

Let’s set it all down, you and me.
The disappointments.
Little and large.
The frustrations.
Let’s open our fists and drop them.

The useless waiting.
The obsession with what we cannot have.
The focus on foolish things.
The pin-wheeling worry which wears us out.
The fretting.
Let’s throw them down.

The comparisons of ourselves with others.
The competition, as if Domination
was the best name we could give to God.
The cynical assumptions.
The unspoken, shelved anger.
Let’s toss them.

The inarticulate suspicions.
The self-doubt.
The pre-emptive self-dumping.
The numbing bouts of self-pity.
Let’s sink them all like stones.

Like stones in the pool of this gift of silence.
Let’s drop them like hot rocks
into the cool silence.

And when they’re gone,
let’s lay back gently, and float,
float on the calm surface of the silence.

Let’s be supported in this still cradle
of the world, new-born, ready for anything.

Ni$$a Moments are Unpredictable...

We all have to confront and accept our inner forces...but sometimes, like in Daniel Beatty's Duality Duel, those inner forces confront us. Yup. His inner angry black man is straight up ready to kick his butt. Think Boondocks "Ni$$a moment." lol

This is a funny piece, but has a deep message nestled under all of that hilarity. Listen UP!

I ::HEART:: Africa AND #Work/Life Crossover

I'm very corporate. As much as I deny it, my 9-5 seeps into my normal life on the daily. So, in proper corporate drone fashion, I have decided to write a "recap" of our African Poets Week:-)

Its been a bit of a challenge to find new and interesting poems to share with you all, but it's been a fantastic adventure. I've learned so much about the diversity of African poetry and have fallen even more in love with my beloved Motherland. It's been real, but like all good things, this must come to an end. Maybe this can become an annual project?? We'll see. Anyway...thanks so much for humoring me on this trip through the famous and obscure poetry of Momma Africa:-) I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have!

In case you missed these awesome works, here are the highlights. If you read something you like, be sure to pass it on. Poetry is meant to be shared.

Day 1
Nigerian Poet Bassey Ikpi
Sometimes silence is the loudest kind of noise

Like sometimes it was best when
Girls were girls and boys were boys.
Like back when freeze tag was a mating dance.
Like back when "Do Over" meant you got another chance.
Like back when anxiety was worrying if Wonder Woman would make it out alive.
Like back when freedom was sliding backwards on a slide.

Day 2
Cameroonean and Senegalese Poet David Diop
Africa

Africa, tell me Africa
Is this your back that is bent
This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying no to the whip under the midday sun.

Day 3
Nigerian Poet Chinua Achebe
knowing robs us

knowing robs us of wonder.
Had it not ripped apart
the fearful robes of primordial Night
to steal the force that crafted horns
on doghead and sowed insurrection
overnight in the homely beak
of a hen; had reason not given us
assurance that day will daily break
and the sun's array return to disarm
night's fantastic figurations--

Day 4
South African Poet Ewok
That's Joberg

a call to all colors like spiritual acrylics
paints a picture of possibility
for all the world watchers to see
to see how forgiveness arouses a peoples pride

Day 5
From a Movie about Africa:-)
Invictus by William Ernest Henley

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

Day 6
Sudanese Poet Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi
Dream

Poetry - may you be a green body.
May you be a language
in which I wander
with my wings and my self.

Day 7
Ghanaian Poet Kofi Anyidoho
My Song

Some had some splendid things
What was mine?
I sing. They laugh.
Still I sell My Song
for those with ears to buy
My cloth is torn, I know
But I shall learn to wear it well

New to Me: Oscar Wilde Poem

By now, you should know of my all around love for all things scandalous in the poetry world. So, it should come as no surprise that Oscar Wilde is one of my favorite authors of all time. Disciplined artist/ socialite/ political scapegoat. Sentenced to 2 years of hard labor after being accused of "homosexual acts" by his lovers father. Tragic death. ::sigh::

Mr. Wilde's life itself was a work of art.

My favorite line in this poem is "and ruin draws the curtains of my bed." Even in such sadness and despair, he took a moment to capture it with beautiful language. I probably would have just said, "Man, this sucks." :-)

If you want to read more of his stuff and learn about his life, read De Profundis. It's an absolutely gorgeous and delicate glimpse into heartache...if there is such a thing.

Enjoy!

My Voice
BY Oscar Wilde

Within this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts' full pleasure - You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow has paled my young mouth's vermilion,
And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

But all this crowded life has been to thee
No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.

Unfriend Beats out Sexting...and the Demise of the English Language

Before I start, I must say, I am not a language snob. Yes, I love fine language and thoughtful poetry, but I can throw out the slang as well as anyone else. There is a place for causal conversation and there are words that are useful in casual settings.

But to elevate those words to rock star status by naming them the top words of 2009? Shameful. That's exactly what the Oxford American Dictionary did this year with their list of top words. These included the words un-friend, sexting, hashtag, and intexticated. What the heck is intexticated? I have never heard anyone say that stupid, made up word...in life! And, last year's list wasn't any better. The top word of 2008 was....wait for it...“Hypermiling.” It's when you try to maximize your gas mileage. I mean, it's a useful word, but the top word of the year?

I
think
not.

What is HAPPENING to the English language?

All I know is that if I start to see these words cropping up on standardized tests and junk, I'm going to scream...for real!

::sigh::

Check out the Reuters piece below on the demise of the English language...I mean the top words of 2009.

Enjoy!

"Unfriend" named word of 2009
BY Belinda Goldsmith, Editing by Miral Fahmy

NEW YORK (Reuters Life!) – "Unfriend" has been named the word of the year by the New Oxford American Dictionary, chosen from a list of finalists with a tech-savvy bent.

Unfriend was defined as a verb that means to remove someone as a "friend" on a social networking site such as Facebook.

"It has both currency and potential longevity," said Christine Lindberg, senior lexicographer for Oxford's U.S. dictionary program, in a statement.

"In the online social networking context, its meaning is understood, so its adoption as a modern verb form makes this an interesting choice for Word of the Year."

Other words deemed finalists for 2009 by the dictionary's publisher, Britain's Oxford University Press, came from other technological trends, the economy, and political and current affairs.

In technology, there was "hashtag," which is the hash sign added to a word or phrase that lets Twitter users search for tweets similarly tagged; "intexticated" for when people are distracted by texting while driving, and "sexting," which is the sending of sexually explicit SMSes and pictures by cellphone.

More

Dandelions

Although I have never grown up in the ghetto, I know what its like to watch your parents get by on almost nothing and still have the power to see the beauty of it all. In this poem, Perre Shelton tells the story of his mother - a woman who taught him that even dandelions can be beautiful...if you look at them from just the right perspective. It's a lovely portrait of hope, even in the most dire cirumstances. Good stuff!



Dandelion
BY Perre Shelton

Fresh Pickins at Poetry Daily

When I'm stumped for new poems, nothing beats the simple google search. Poem+Classic+Awesome+(whatever other generic search term I can come up with) and BAM!! Poem magic:-) On today's random search, I discovered Poetry Daily. This great site is pretty much an anthology of great works that's easy to browse and fun to explore. They also have a paperback anthology that was released in 2003, so even if you're not much of a fan of the Internet, there's no excuse for not checking them out.

More details below.

Enjoy!

Poetry Daily is an anthology of contemporary poetry. Each day, we bring you a new poem from new books, magazines, and journals.

Poems are chosen from the work of a wide variety of poets published or translated in the English language. Our most eminent poets are represented in the selections, but also poets who are less well known. The daily poem is selected for its literary quality and to provide you with a window on a very broad range of poetry offered annually by publishers large and small. Included with each poem is information about the poet and the poem's source.

Hands By Sarah Kay

Whoa!! Another gem discovered by googling poem, YouTube. Lovely! Who ever thought you could slam for two minutes straight about hands, but Sarah Kay does it perfectly. I couldn't find much info about her online, but suffice it to say that she's amazing and needs to get a site up pronto! This mos def brought a smile to my face:-)

Enjoy!

Hands learn
More than minds do
Hands learn how to hold other hands
How to grips pencils and mold poetry
How to tickle pianos and dribble a basketball
And grip the handles of a bicycle
How to hold old people
And touch babies
I love hands like I love people
They are the maps and compasses with which we navigate our way through life

The Piano Speaks

If you're a fan of great metaphor, check out this poem by Sandra Beasley, Poetry Magazine's Featured Poet. Talk about words literally dancing on the page. Lovely!

The Piano Speaks
By Sandra Beasley

For an hour I forgot my fat self,
my neurotic innards, my addiction to alignment.

For an hour I forgot my fear of rain.

For an hour I was a salamander
shimmying through the kelp in search of shore,
and under his fingers the notes slid loose
from my belly in a long jellyrope of eggs
that took root in the mud. And what

would hatch, I did not know—
a lie. A waltz. An apostle of glass.

For an hour I stood on two legs
and ran. For an hour I panted and galloped.

For an hour I was a maple tree,
and under the summer of his fingers
the notes seeded and winged away

in the clutch of small, elegant helicopters.

Info about Sandra Beasley

Words Without Borders

This "great link" leads to an organization that works to the translate, publish, and promote contemporary literature from all over the world. They feature writing from even the most obscure regions of the globe and give an international voice to the silenced. According to their site, their mission is to -

"opens doors to international exchange through translation, publication, and promotion of the world’s best writing. WWB publishes selected prose and poetry on the web and in print anthologies (the next one to focus on the Islamic world), stages special events that connect foreign writers to the general public and media, develops materials for high school teachers to use foreign literature in classrooms, and continues to build an unparalleled online resource center for contemporary global writing.

Our ultimate aim is to introduce exciting international writing to the general public — travelers, teachers, students, publishers, and a new generation of eclectic readers — by presenting international literature not as a static, elite phenomenon, but a portal through which to explore the world. In the richness of cultural information we present, we hope to help foster a “globalization” of cultural engagement and exchange, one that allows many voices in many languages to prosper."

They're pretty much the "Tower of Babel" of the new millennium! Unifying nations through a common love of the written word! So...pretty much - hottness personified:-) For the month of June, they have been featuring Pakistani writers. I've included a clip of one of their most popular essays below.

Enjoy:-)

Intizaar Hussain The First Morning
Translated from the Urdu by Basharat Peer

I have no definite answer to questions about why I migrated from India to Pakistan after the partition in 1947. I look back and see a crowded train rushing past lively and desolate towns and villages, under a bright sun, and in the dark of night. The train is running through the most frightening night and the passengers are quiet like statues. I strain to hear them breathe. Where will the train stop? And will it move again, if it stops?

More

First Week of a Breakup

"The first week of a break up is like the first time guys have sex
it's awkward
and boring
and we keep telling ourselves that we're doing it right."

LMAO!! never heard of this cat before, but this is so good and so interesting. Starts off almost too funny to be deep, but ends very tenderly and true. Enjoy!

The Result of Googling...

I recently found this poem, while googling "African Poetry." Most of it was...ok...but this one especially caught my attention. It kind of has the tone of the poem I recently posted, so of course I had to snag it. I have a soft spot in my heart for children and the craziness that they endure at the hands of irresponsible adults. This poem speaks of the sad violation of a young child...without being too explicit.

no author, but still very good. what do you thing?

MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER

I watched you roll
Roll from one side of the bed
To the other, and still
The clock chimes once.

I watch you sit and hum
Hum unintelligible tones
As mountains of tobacco
Disappear into your nostrils.

I watch your eyes
Fill with jerking tears
And your ears positioned
Intermittently to earth's pillars
Trying to place distant voices.

I try to cage my curiosity
But your crawling hands tap my chest
Papa, must I play this midnight encounter
To see the god's piercing eyes
And partake in this ancestral dialogue.