Preview #9, Journal of Pan African Studies, Poetry Issue
Askia Toure, Boston, Ma
AFRICAN DIVA: AN ELEGY AMONG THE RUINS
(for Kamaria and our sisters)
I hadn’t wanted to venture down certain
avenues, exploring startling aspects of
inhumanity and ruin. I hadn’t desired
to confront infamy face to face.
I longed for gentler things: your delicate
face illumined by love’s tranquility, or
spiritual ecstasy; your sepia arms enfolding
a child. Yet, Mosetta, this century,
of primal savagery, this era of death’s
bizarre mockery sickens the soul.
I am awed by your perpetual strength
and certitude. You seem to blossom like
a lotus in mire. Your mellow calmness
inspires miraculous hope—my empress
of a thousand battles, mistress of celestial
vistas, imagination’s jasmine diva.
In a grander age, when mystics reigned,
sages would astound the World with tales
of women like you: Sheba, Nefertari, Tiye,
and thousands more. Alas, today, as barbarism
stalks ruined capitals, and life violates
the breath with endless rot, your supreme
virtues are mocked by surly thugs, high on
misogyny’s vicious cocaine. And yet,
to aspire towards the ultimate, sublime
Unity of Being, to exalt beauty
and excellence remains a beacon of any
time and place. And, because that striving
heart belongs to a woman of the African race,
the clouded day is suffused with glorious
rays, as we move together, striving always
to resurrect the visionary heart.
--Askia Toure
Askia M. Toure', poet, activist, Africana Studies pioneer, is an award-winning poet,
and the author of eight books, including "DawnSong!, winner of the 2003 Stephen Henderson Award in Poetry. He is also an American Book Award Winner, 1989,
he lives in Boston, and is a member of the African-American Master Artists-in-
Residency Program (AAMARP) in African-American Studies @ Northeastern Univ.,Boston. He can be contacted at: askia38@yahoo.com.
Neal E. Hall, MD, Philadelphia PA
for black Americans,
9-11 is 24-7,
a labyrinth of terror buried beneath shallow
words on revised pages of America’s iniquities
dating back four hundred years,
when blacks were snatched and kidnapped,
ship jacked and hijacked to America’s labor and
concentration camps to be bought and sold
into unspeakable servitude on land we would
come to lose ground to some
lesser place and foreign cause.
For black Americans,
9-11 is 24-7,
… an endless cycle of America’s weapons of black
destruction crashing and imploding, 24-7, into
towering black hopes and aspirations…
… a viciousness finding continuous
momentum in prescribed brutality,
administered 24-7, to infuse in us
enough terror to keep us in a lesser
place for economic gain.
For black Americans,
9-11 is 24-7,
Four hundred years and more of
democratic sleight of hands,
jiving and conniving, slipping and sliding across
smoke and mirrors…
… Jeffersonian poker face democracy
bluffing its hand of freedom,
always with the ace of tyranny
concealed up its white sleeve
to place race-based road blocks
strategically on unpaved roads to
nowhere to ensure that blacks get there…
… discriminating mercenary legislative, judicial
homicide beheading black men from the souls
of black homes and families; cutting short the
lives of one out of twenty black men
imprisoned ten times the rate of white men’s
crimes as a means of genteel 1 genocide to keep
us from finding from among us a deliverer to
lead us from this lesser place…
… a good old boy network of
murder, rape and intimidation,
torture, beatings and mutilation,
social isolation and economic decimation to
keep us enslaved children of slave children
ripped from the breasts of slave mothers sold
into tortuous misery by those first families
hooded in democracy.
For black Americans,
9-11 is four hundred years and more
of America crashing and imploding,
24-7, into our towering black
hopes and aspirations.
Four hundred years and more of
no reprieves, no parity, no sign of mercy,
no justice, no relief in sight for us…
… no world coalitions proffering UN resolutions
for economic restitution…
… no international peace keepers
amassing at these plantation shores to destroy
America’s weapons of mass black destruction…
… no search and rescue teams to search and
rescue us from the ruins of America’s racial
injustice and exploitation…
… no gathering dignitaries to raise our tattered
black flag half-mast, found buried deep
beneath the shallow hypocrisy on revising
white pages of America’s history.
… no 9-11 commission to investigate the
disposition of 36 million 2 holocaust victims
swept quietly and anonymously under white
stars and stripes forever.
… no day and time set aside to memorialize
four hundred 9-11s, each with nine thousand
black men, women and children stacked black
side up, black high to make easy America’s
economic climb…
… no marked graves black with names
to fare - thee - well to distant sounds of tolling
bells…
… no heaven or hell to turn back or put back
black hopes and aspirations snatched and
kidnaped, ship jacked and hijacked.
For black Americans,
9-11 is 24-7.
______________
Human Rights Watch - United States, Punishment and 1
Prejudice: Racial disparities in the War on Drugs;
www.hrw.org/campaigns/drugs/war/key-facts.htm
African American History, Melba J. Duncan, Ch. 3, p. 31 2
Copyright © 2009 by Neal Hall, M.D.
Neal E. Hall is a physician-poet. His current book is Nigger For Life. According to Dr. Cornel West, “Dr. Hall is a warrior of the spirit, a warrior of the mind…an activist, a poet.”
Jeannette Drake, Virginia
SLAVE SONG
Leh us carry on da sa
da sa da sa
da sa of who do
not so few who do
da wind snake comes
send him away
all dey songs de buried
heah, heah, heah
in sacred ground who do
who do
death awaken
death awaken
Paul and Silas
Paul and Silas
Paul and Silas
come through heah
who do who do
not so few
I wants none of dis nonsense
gon on befo’
don’ been in de house far too long
no use to holler now
whuppin time don’ past
for me, who do
who do not so few
de massa rose
de massa rose
de massa rose
and come through heah
wind snake come back
dis time who do who do
who do come through heah
da sa da sa da sa
of sunshine
sunshine
sunshine ovah who do
not so few
who do stand ovah de pot
de cast of iron pot
stirrin’ stirrin stirrrin’
de stain away
de blood de mud de sweat
away away away
stir de massa stain away
upon ma lips
upon ma brow
the scent of dead chullens
flowers now
who do not so few
come by heah
to run and cry
and rot away
beneath de cracklin’ flame
de singin’ of de mulberry tree
de branches was once free
da sa da sa da sa
of sunshine blowin in ma hair
da sa da sa da sa
of darkest night
dere ain’t no place to hide
Lawd Sweet Jesus
where is you at
come stem dis bruisin’ tide
de massa rose
de massa rose
de massa rose
wind snake blowin’
round de cabin door
Lawd Sweet Jesus
where is you at
help me find de other shore
da sa da sa da sa.
Jeannette Drake, writer of poems, short stories, and essays is an artist and Licensed Clinical Social Worker (retired) who holds an MFA in creative writing from Virginia Commonwealth University. Occasionally, she conducts dream work and expressive art workshops. The author of Journey Within: A Healing Playbook, her writings appear in Callaloo, Obsidian, The Southern Review, Xavier Review, Honey Hush! African American Women’s Humor, Go, Tell Michelle: African American Women Write to the New First Lady, www.disabilityworld.org, Tough Times Companion III, Richmond Free Press, The Book of Hope and The World Healing Book, The Sun Magazine, Coloring Book: An Eclectic Anthology of Fiction and Poetry by Multicultural Writers and ChickenBones: A Journal, at www.nathanielturner.com among others. She has received awards and fellowships from the Virginia Commission for the Arts, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Hurston/Wright Foundation and a scholarship award from the Leonard E.B. Andrews Foundation for visual art. She is currently working on a novel.
Al Young, Berkeley CA
The Emmett Till Blues
What they use to just do and just done it to me,
they doing it directly to all yall now, doing it
and doing it and doing it to the world.
Shoot and cut and smash my head in,
take me to the river, sink me down –
you call that religion? Yeah, yeah!
It hadn’t of been for my mother bring
my busted body back up to Chicago and let
Jet get pictures for the world to look at,
nobody would of known. I’m long time gone.
Nowadays wouldn’t be no way I’d get to say
this on television, no way yall would even see
a picture of me. Do yall even know who this is
talking to you? This is Emmett Till. I died
and died and died. Soon as yall figured
America was saved, here come Guantánamo
and Abu Ghraib. Here come greed and
here come grief. The Thief of Baghdad
make they own commandments. Geronimo,
wouldn’t of paid them no mind. What you think
they might pull next? Talk to me. I been done died.
--Al Young
--Al Young
Widely translated and acclaimed, Al Young’s 22 books include poetry (Something About the Blues: An Unlikely Collection of Poetry, Coastal Night and Inland Afternoons: Poems 2001-2006, The Sound of Dreams Remembered: Poems 1990-2000, Heaven: Poems Collected 1956-1990), fiction (Seduction By Light, Sitting Pretty, Who Is Angelina?), and musical memoirs (Mingus Mingus: Two Memoirs, Drowning in the Sea of Love, Kinds of Blue, Things Ain’t What They Used to Be, Bodies & Soul). From 2005 through 2008 he served as poet laureate of California. Other honors include NEA, Fulbright, and Guggenheim Fellowships. The Sea, The Sky, And You, And I, a poetry & jazz CD (featuring bassist Dan Robbins), came out last year from Bardo Digital. He currently teaches at California College of the Arts, San Francisco. Exhaustive information about this Berkeley-based author may be found at www.AlYoung.org
Susan Lively, East St. Louis IL
King
His eyes reflected:
dignity, respect, love, hope,
sadness, despair and loss.
Somehow he is still alive,
he lives on in my head.
Somehow he is still alive,
he is not truly dead.
He speaks to me from pages,
he speaks to me with more than words.
He speaks to me from pages,
and love is all I’ve ever heard.
His posture was studious:
a study in perseverance, in patience,
in steely, stubborn, self-determination,
in peaceful disobedience, a rebel is born.
He is alive in me,
I feel his fire, his spirit,
he is not truly gone.
He speaks to me from TV screens,
he speaks to me with more than words.
He speaks to me from reel to reel,
and love is all I’ve ever heard.
His smile
was a rare gift:
wise and beautiful and never resigned,
to the pain his heart knew,
to the fear within his mind.
His hands, so unassuming,
held us all,
held the fate of the world.
He speaks to me from history,
and love is all I’ve ever heard.
Do we ever know
how truly powerful we are?
Our words and deeds live on,
long after we are gone
--Susan Lively
SUSAN MARIE LIVELY
Born in Belleville, IL, Susan Lively is a poet, spoken word artist, host, and author. She performs in the bi-state area under the name “Spit-Fire” and has performed at and hosted literary events at local colleges and universities. She created and hosts the show “Open Mic Night @ The Inn” at The Cigar Inn and is a member of The Eugene B. Redmond Writer’s Club of East St. Louis, IL. Susan’s spoken word performances have been featured on internet, radio, and television and her poetry has appeared in Head To Hand, The East St. Louis Monitor, and The PEN.
No comments:
Post a Comment