Thursday, April 27, 2017
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Oakland's Lakeshore District Discovers Marvin X, "the USA's Rumi," (Bob Holman), "Plato teaching on the streets of Oakland"(Ishmael Reed)
Academy of da Corner Lakeshore District
Academy of da Corner, Berkeley (ASHBY BART STATION)
Marvin X, "the USA's Rumi" (Bob Holman), "Plato teaching on the streets of Oakland" (Ishmael Reed), was discovered today by the Lakeshore District's crowd. In truth, the peripatetic, indefatigable poet, playwright, essayist, philosopher, activist and co-founder of the Black Arts Movement and Oakland's recently declared Black Arts Movement Business District, often sets up his Academy of da Corner on Lakeshore, especially as an adjunct space to his "official" space in the BAMBD at 14th and Broadway, downtown Oakland, and at the Berkeley Flea Market.
Today he was discovered by a Peet's Coffee bar tender, Haley, after she overheard his three hour interview with Mills College graduate student, Jasmeen doing her thesis on the Black Arts Movement, the most radical literary and artistic movement in American history. At the end of his interview, he told the grad student he knew people were "ear hustling" their conversation, but he didn't know the bar tender was observing his every move and those he interacted with, including Black Panther member Erica Huggins and later in the afternoon, novelist Cecil Brown, with whom Marvin X invited outside to his stand. Filled with curiosity, on her break, the bar tender came up to the poet's "Academy of da Corner, Lakeshore" and told him, "You must be a very important person, I observed your interview with the Mills College graduate student. I saw Erika Huggins come over to you and I watched you interact with Cecil Brown. I want to know who you are because I know you are somebody important, " said the curious, young white woman. The poet let her check out his book of parables and fables. He directed her to his parable Woman in the Box, then Parable of the Heart. Haley was impressed and excited to obtain her autographed book by the living legend, whose comrades have included, Danny Glover, Ed Bullins, Hurriyah Asar, Amiri Baraka, Eldridge Cleaver, Angela Davis, Sonia Sanchez, Nikki Giovanni, Sun Ra, Askia Toure, Huey Newton Bobby Seale, et al.
Cecil Brown informed the poet that he will assign his Stanford University students to interview the poet ASAP.
Marvin X at Oscar Grant Plaza, across from his Academy of da Corner, 14th and Broadway
photo Pendarvis Harshaw
Marvin X at his Academy of da Corner, BAMBD, 14th and Broadway, downtown Oakland
photo Adam Turner
Aesthetic Ascension series by Malik Seneferu , www.maliksart.com
cosmic earthlings asleep
at this epoch of our collective being
awakened only when our chakras
banging at the lowest infinitesimal monotone metronome frequency
Boom. Boom. Ka-bang.
are disrupted by the wicked doings and the impositions
of our souls by them evil ones.
Then, sleeping giants tremble terrible awakened,
marching with the authority of elephant herds
in the long rhythmic strides of gazelles across the plain lands
roaring in the chorus of the lion’s prides
with the organization and immediacy of the flock heading
for its true north, after our longest winter.
A lost tribe -
Intergalactic, our reach is from the earth to the heavens,
the majestic wing expanse of eagles,
the grace, precision and beauty of humming birds,
the electricity and power of the mighty ocean,
and the magic of mystery,
the majesty of gods.
Patrick A. Howell photographed at UC Santa Barbara Black Student Union
Photo and Artwork by Malik Seneferu
And then, well, the vibe is alive
and we have the love of God, a Spirit Force
where there is nothing that we cannot affect
for we have done it all before
as Olmec, Pharaohs, Moors
Kush, Mesopotamian, Stars
Black lives have always mattered most in
the cosmos, Electric church, blue notes
and the most high heavenly frequencies.
Psychosomatic cosmic dust -
the dreams of ancient eternals and ancestors
whose towering visions
are matched only by our grind
hustle and grit. We channel the earth,
our bodies with our bodies.
Yes, yes. Yes, to thyselves let us be truly
FREDRICK DOUGLASS by Jules Arthur, www.julesarthur.com
Magnificent energies fleshed,
low baritone is humming-
resonating truths, meting out justices…
just by simple being.
Soiled mahogany dripping.
Magnificent like empires,
come from the eternal fires
of original creation
outside the space that created time.
These griots – they be taking thrones
Wherever they sit. As they be.
Wisdom of ages, their minds are tomes
where there was once marvel,
re-imagining worlds from with-
in - magical beings.
See them, amongst us
manifesting. Call ‘em old
their soul eternal, priceless treasures
platinum, silvers, gold.
Dark matter of consciousness
Transformed into epochs, new ages,
new ways of being
from the darkened nebuli
of the inner mind, rooted in cosmic
re-imagines herself and her relationship
the sun burns a little rosier upon the
the griots crown – time having tinged
the widows peak silver.
Be careful !
These Griots- they wit sharp like acid
gone is they id,
call you stupid, make you it.
Yes – I said it – Griots stand/sit
and the cosmos alter.
It’s not so hard to explain with these Griots-
They are made of the immortal
and their imaginations soiled fertile with living
realities. These Griots manifest by but….
Painting by Jules Arthur, www.julesarthur.com
King Toure’ Art Man
- Art Man. Hear history. Art Askia Touré. Hear now? You listen to Askia Muhammad Touré and you will hear history. You will hear the tears, brimming. You will hear the joy swimming. Hoarse laughter circling. You will hear the pride, unmasked. Yes, a distinct color timbre of glee that is in that voice that is history as it keeps time with staccatoed alliteration and a vibrato that hums. A sweet soul. Magnificent soul of the Kora humming is his S’s. See history is made of men and women who did the work, made the time. Their time is history whose hearts sing as they walked the streets. To Harlem in the 1960s from Songhai in the 1400s, history is paved with blood sweat and tears. Hear? Bone crushing rhythms? Yes - it is loud, undeniable. And definite percussion. Authority. Animal skin on Djembe drum rapping. It is our voices emerge from the dark into the light of day. It is the sound of elections. It is the sounds of revolutions. Resistance. Soulutions. The earth’s heart beating is earthquakes and them- they voices. It is the beat of a man’s heart covered over in voice. And these hearts in unison, a great spirit force immortal. Risen. Now, history sits at a room in Boston and composes lines to not only record the record but carry the spirit forward. The voice carries on from the mouth of a svelte sage into the ears of youngs. Hear it now? Yes. It’s the voice of Askia Muhammad Touré. Black. Arts. Movement. It’s poetic dialect. Didactic. Red heart, earth center. Talk slowly beat. We are born again again and again. This fire rages. Calmed only by breezes. Spread like wild fire by breezes.
- But let’s ground these words to earth and bring the high talk to the earth’s granular vibrations. I’ve said it before - What a blessing it is to converse with the elders; to glean their wisdom with simple truths, simple talk. Their words are like a benediction. They are sonar bridges throughout the ages. Are we listening to our elders? What Askia Muhammad Touré embodies is the beauty of our elders. What Malaika Adero built is the libraries. What Chestor Higgins, eye of Horus, sees is creation as the sun. What Marvin X. Jackmon embodies is the power of our spirits. What Abiodun Oyewole is the keeps the rap rooted. Who Marie Dutton Brown listens to is the orders of ancestors. And we are a wealthy people. Billions is a meager number when compared to the riches of our soul, of our legacy. Our elders are rich with time, cosmic beings who know no limits. These are the shoulders upon which we stand upon. And this is the measure by which our children will look to us, their forebearers, a new power generation.
- See now? Askia Muhammad Toure’ is the spirit unrivalled in living and the spirit fleshed from ancient ruler to ruling griot, the times were not lost on him but made by him, enhanced by him, made whole by metaphysical knowings. How are we born? How will we die? Askia Toure is not concerned with that. The charlatans flee his presence. He knows the secrets and it is within how we live, enhanced by an eternal fire with no end, lighting days and ending nights. Black Pride! Fire that crushes the narcissism, barbarism and nihilism of capitalism. From the Niles to the Kilimanjaro, he carries within a barrel chest broad, the beat for generations- from Black Power Movement to Millennials carrying forth the fight for black liberation, from the pride of ancients, his is the voice carrying instruction. Black Panthers strut tall and long. From the tall grass of the Sahara to the Oakland, Chicago, Detroit and NYC urbans. From the Pyramids to the Streets of Harlem, his is instruction that will born Hip Hop, make the world spin like on boogie. Instruction that will born the new era hereto un-named. Instruction that will cleanse itself and renew the contract for our beautiful women, through whom travel the unborn, the unknown, the new heroes. King griot Askia Muhammad Toure’ - He is ours, a smile as broad as the heavens, dimples deep as waterfalls cascading. Our living, breathing liberation. No cheap commercial, this the real thang, a cosmic heart beating. His is the divine masculine, percolating territories from ancient kingdoms to afro- futuristic landscapes. In his palms, the palm lines are oceans and mountains, hereto un-named. Futures unfurling with great African names.
A mystic preacher, metaphysical in form, his is the wisdom of the ages, the metaphysics of the sages, raging fierce for the divine feminine, every syllable uttered, a sly tryst increasing the entwinement betwix his masculine and her feminine. Oh, how Askia Muhammad Toure’ loves his woman. He loves his women as only black man with a black soul could. He would kill for his women but so much more powerful is his towering vulnerability and gentle soul, he will live for his black woman, and passage of time will not still this beautiful will. His is the terrible fire sweeping through towering myriad conscience, keeping us straight woke! His is the spirits and souls and tribal edicts of technologies that are coals waiting to be be lit by new soul, new knows, new millennials. Askia Muhammad Toure’s is the immortal soul of our beloved ancestor resurrected. A mythic figure beyond time.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
"Up you mighty people, you can accomplish what you will! Africa for the Africans, those at home and those abroad!"
Saturday, April 22, 2017
Thursday, April 13, 2017
Two Poems for the People of Syria
how much water can run from rivers to sea
how much blood can soak the earth
the guns of tyrants know no end
a people awakened are bigger than bullets
there is no sleep in their eyes
no more stunted backs
fear of broken limbs
men, women children humble with sacrifice
old/young play their roles
with smiles endure torture chambers
with laughs submit to rape mutilations
no victory oppressors
as the sun rises
let the people continue til victory
they smell it on their hands
taste on lips
believe in hearts
know it in minds
no backwardness no fear
resistance til victory.
—Marvin X/El Muhajir
Oh Marvin, how much blood can soak the earth?
The angels asked, “will you create a species who will shed blood
and overrun the earth with evil?”
And it turns out “rivers of blood” is no metaphor:
see the stones of narrow alleys in Duma
shiny with blood hissing from humans? Dark
and dazzling, it keeps pouring and pumping
from the inexhaustible soft flesh of Syrians,
and neither regime cluster bombs from the air,
nor rebel car bombs on the ground,
ask them their names before they die.
They are mowed down like wheat harvested by machine,
and every stalk has seven ears, and every ear a hundred grains.
They bleed like irrigation canals into the earth.
Even one little girl in Idlib with a carotid artery cut
becomes a river of blood. Who knew she could be a river
running all the way over the ocean, to you,
draining me of my heart? And God said to the angels,
“I know what you know not.” But right now,
the angels seem right. Cut the coyness, God;
learn the names of all the Syrians.
See what your species has done.