Preview #6, Journal of Pan African Studies, Poetry Issue

Preview #6, Journal of Pan African Studies, Poetry Issue

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photo by Alex Lear

IF YOU'RE STILL THE SAME AFTERWARDS

IT WASN'T LOVE

(to nia, thanx for making me better)

to say

"i am touched

by you"

is to be

changed

into

a person neither of us

was before

entering the other

more open, a sun of sensitivity

emotionally nude, erupting joy

& willing to kiss life open mouthed

emoting the vibrancy of glow

endemic to souls in the flow

in fact, it's even unscientific

not to evol

ve/not to love, not to

grow & give back

the only humans who actually evolve

are lovers

all others

just simply fuck and reproduce

the transformation

of touch

that's all

love is

—kalamu ya salaam

Kalamu ya salaam is one of the founders of Black Arts Movement South. A prolific author, poet, essayist, historian, journalist, teacher, he resides in New Orleans, facilitates a list-serve for writers.

Louis Reyes Rivera, Brooklyn, New York

I care about

whichever word

I care about whichever word

is used like grass

or turned to twist

& make a victim look like killer

or heard to sing like daybreak

smelling...

An octorose of warmth

blending

into

nightshed

deep

a dance of waves

the sun weaves in

an intricate of light

of gentle ripples

warmly dancing

weaving waves

of shadelit haze

like the sea ebbing into shore.

Even in the repetition

a word

means just as much to me

as morning's mist to dawn

the ease with which

night

moves

out

for daylight rays

like the quick shot from a gun

or loosely lipping attitude

that can just as easily

grit

or

grin

or smile right back

in hard soft sounds

like a kitten's tender touch

a curious tiny paw wanting

but to be believed.

I like the word, determination,

a Black child learning how to read

the wonder of a family intact,

a puertorrican

grasping & digging

into our own past... becoming Borinqueño

studying Betances

Belvis

Pachin Marin

listening to Malcolm

hard

intent

& full of care

concern

in a loving nudge of words

penetrating

deep inside the heart of thought

with Yes! Of course!

We got no choice

but grow!

& Be!

& Stand Up, Child...

Come & Change this world

with strength & perseverance

Come & Grace this Earth

with your own sense longing

like the octorose of warmth

u

n

f

o

l

d

i

n

g

winglike petals unto dawn

to soar, Yes, flying!

I like to hear Rashidah speak

I like to watch Zizwe's walk

the happenstance of Sekou's song

the lilting lyric in Safiya's sway

(& in case you do not know,

have never heard or watched them work:

Rashidah is an Ismaili,

a misspelled word

from the ink of census takers

conquering her land;

Zizwe, a child returned

from whence once stole,

Ngafua now an African at war;

Sekou but a blue lake

reclaiming lineage to Sundiata

undercoat guerilla born;

Safiya, black pearl caught

in the devil's hand

way back when Hendersons,

cut loose from prison cells,

sailed across atlantic gates

to rape the earth into a world

where poets have no chance.)

Despite it all, they sing & work,

they write & read,

they care,

get drunk

or pray,

while few will publish them their due,

fewer still will plant their books

into your hands,

your own calluses of soil

digging

deep

into

self

gripping all their pages,

holding them as dearly as you would

an octorose of warmth.

& yes

I like the word of action true

the sound of gunfire busting through

the doors

that hold back freedom blue

given

how

our own young Blackfolk

get cornered into hating what to do like Larry Davis

cracking through

the wall of crack

that would diffuse

whatever life a child could cling to/

cornered

in a vacuum of tenements jammed in despair

surrounded by a dozen cops

a dozen watchful dogs

hunting those who break

the must

& misty stink of deprivation

surrounded by a dozen cops

alone

except for rifle

shotgun

millimeter

automatic in his hand

bursting through the door

this five foot four

Davis, Larry

hurls across a rooftop

shooting

wounding

striking out against

this hateful passion

cold city bred

escaping into freedom's scent

like the octorose of warmth

s

p

r

e

a

d

i

n

g

w i d e its span of wings

& soaring, Yes,

soaring high & bleeding from the heart

of nothing

wanting

something

in the anywake

of every word

struggling for the worth of hope that comes at dawn.

--Louis Reyes Rivera

Louis Reyes Rivera

Known as the Janitor of History, poet/essayist Louis Reyes Rivera has been s

tudying his craft since 1960 and teaching it since 1969. The recipient of over 20 awards, he has assisted in the publication of well over 200 books, including John Oliver Killens' Great Black Russian, Adal Maldonado's Portraits of the Puerto Rican Experience, Bum Rush The Page: A Def Poetry Jam, The Bandana Republic, and his own award-winning Scattered Scripture. Considered a necessary bridge between the African and Latino American communities, Rivera has taught Pan-African, African-American, Caribbean and Puerto Rican literature and history in colleges and in community centers. Currently, he conducts a Writers Workshop at Sistas' Place, in Brooklyn, and continues to work with Jazz bands, including Ahmed Abdullah's Diaspora. He can be heard every Thursday on WBAI (99.5 FM; streamed at www.wbai.org), hosting the weekly talk show, Perspective.

Phavia Kujichagulia, Oakland CA

YO YO YO:

AUSTRALOPITHECUS AFRENSIS

yo…yo…yo…in case you didn’t know

I’m a woman, a mother, dred daughta, soul lover

sweet solid chocolate rock of Jah womanhood

money in the bank, soul sistah

knock on wood it’s all good

after the years of tears

the fears…the lies

the cries

somebody better recognize

(somebody better recognize)

duck and dodge, comin’ up like God

sistahs surviving the odds

so drop the sexist hype

stop the stereotypes

cause I’m an ebony Goddess

Queen mother doing it right

you’ve got to fight to survive

the things you see on t.v.

you can believe in the media hype

or you can believe in me

‘cause if you believe

I’m just a physical thing

then you’ll never see

the spiritual power that I bring

believe I’m the Eve to the Garden of Eden

know that I’m the virgin that gave birth to Jesus

Australopithecus Afrensis

since 3.5 million B.C.E.

everybody on the planet had to come through me

from the Olduvia Gorge human life was born

from the thighs of momma Africa’s

Great Rift Valley

so take a tally, take notes

whatever it takes to rock your boat

but just know

that I’m the Eve to the Garden of Eden

know

that I’m the virgin that gave birth to Jesus

I’m the first … I’m the last

I’m the present to your past

Sumerian princess from Kemet’s Nile

Babylonian, Dravidian, Olmec child

ire daughta gave birth to one human race

that’s what you see upon I & I face

though the media tries to disguise my fame

I’m the mother of justice

Ma’at is my name

so no more blame

no more shame

no more pain

no more games

yo…yo…yo…in case you didn’t know

I’m a woman, a mother, dred daughta, soul lover

sweet solid chocolate rock of Jah womanhood

money in the bank, soul sistah

knock on wood it’s all good

after the years of tears

the fears…the lies

the cries

somebody better recognize

(somebody better recognize)

duck and dodge, comin’ up like God

sistahs surviving the odds

so drop the sexist hype

stop the stereotypes

cause I’m an ebony Goddess

Queen mother comin’ up right

you’ve got to fight to survive

the things you see on t.v.

you can believe in the media hype

or you can believe in me

‘cause if you believe I’m just a physical thing

then you’ll never see the spiritual power that I bring

I said… if you believe I’m just a physical thing

then you’ll never see the spiritual power that I bring

yo…yo…yo…

just thought you ought to know

--Phavia Kujichagulia

Phavia is a well loved poet, griot, musician, dancer, historian in the Bay Area.She stole the show at the Kings and Queens of Black Consciousness concert at San Francisco State University, produced by Marvin X, April 1, 2001. As we speak, she is releasing a book on racism and white supremacy.

News from East Boogie

Tue, October 5, 2010 5:14:09 AM
Subject: Re: Preview #5: Journal of Pan African Studies Poetry Issue, deadline
extended to October 15 for submissions

thanx x, for this & all good gifts u send . . . below's what's happening out
here in the "heart of the heart of the country" . . . easy, ebr . . .

TO: All Media; Poets & Writers; Art, Dance, English & Music Departments

“2010” Slated for October 19 in East St. Louis:
EBR Writers Club Presents “Break Word,” a “2010” Celebration
in Poetry, Dance, Jazz & Exhibits in a Conch/us/nest-raising Atmosphere

East Saint Louis, IL—“2010,” a multi-arts expo of “Remembrance & Celebration”
sponsored by the Eugene B. Redmond Writers Club, will be presented Tuesday,
Oct. 19 at 6:00 p.m. in Bldg. B, Room 2083 of the SIUE/East St. Louis Higher
Education Center, 601 J.R. Thompson Drive. The public is invited to this free
event, part of the Club’s annual “Break Word with the World” program.

“2010” will feature the following poets/performers “live” from the “Soular
System”: Roscoe Crenshaw, Jim Klenn, Byron Lee, Susan “Spit-Fire” Lively,
Darlene Roy, Jeffrey Skoblow, Treasure Williams, Jaye Willis and Eugene B.
Redmond. Their aim? To raise “conch/us/nest” through art.

Among other expo offerings:
*“2010 Experience in Dance” (SIUE/ESL Center for the Performing Arts,
directed by Theo Jamison);
*“Jazz 2010” (with Saxophonist Kendrick Smith and keyboardist Brian Harrison;
* “The Festive & the Funereal” (mixed media exhibit);
*“Kwansabas of Remembrance & Celebration” for Ezora Woodard Duncan (1920-2010)
and Dr. Lena J. (Knight) Weathers, Writers Club trustee who turned 80
Sept. 5.

The exhibit will include photos, posters, newspaper clippings, magazines, art
work, book and album (LP) covers and other memorabilia from the Eugene B.
Redmond Collection, which is housed at SIU-Edwardsville. Also, open mic and
book sales will be part of the evening.

The Writers Club, founded in 1986 and named for East St. Louis’ poet laureate,
is enjoying its 24th year. All writers are welcome to meetings, held at the
SIUE/ESL Center on the first and third Tuesday, September through May. Club
Trustees include Maya Angelou, Amiri Baraka, Avery Brooks, Walter Mosley,
Quincy Troupe, Jerry Ward Jr., and Dr. Weathers. Trustees also serve on the
editorial board of “Drumvoices Revue,” a multicultural literary journal co-
published by SIUE and the Club. Darlene Roy is president of the group.

Besides the Club, other sponsors of “2010” include “Drumvoices,” SIUE, Black
River Writers Press, and the East St. Louis Cultural Revival Campaign
Committee. For more information about the Writers Club or area cultural-
literary activities, call 618 650-3991 or write the group at P.O. Box 6165,
East St. Louis, Illinois 62201; eredmon@siue.edu.

--Eugene Redman

--

-------------------------------------------------

Preview #5,
Journal of Pan African Studies
Poetry Issue,
December 2010

Guest Editor, Marvin X

Senior Editor,

Itibari M. Zulu

Fritz Pointer, Oakland CA

Mixed Love

Dedicated to Lovell Mixon

Lovell Mixon smoked 4 pigs in Oakland shootout a short time after they killed Oscar Grant .Dr. Fritz Pointer said the suffering people of Oakland enjoyed an obscene pride in his actions after decades of police abuse, in spite of the

Black Panther Party’s valiant resistance during the 60s.

You had an avtomat Kalashnikova of ’47?

Assembled in minutes by children in the old USSR.

Kalashnikov and Heston are beaming with obscene pride:

In the efficiency of the automatic

In the accuracy of your aim

In hitting the Pig’s Eye

Four in a row!

You could have surrendered like Amadou Diallo

Raised your hands

Taken sixteen

And nothing in your “cold dead hands”

Except a wallet!

Or, heard the bells, like Sean Bell

“Made it to church on time”

Your wedding day now a funeral day

And nothing in your “cold dead hands”

Nothing!

Or, lay face down, a boot on your neck like Oscar Grant

And get it in the back

And be blamed

And nothing in your “cold dead hands”

Cuffed in steel.

You had an AK-47!

Easy to use

Easy to transport

Easy to kill

The AK has caused more deaths

Than Hiroshima

Than Nagasaki

Than HIV

Than the bubonic plague

Than malaria

Than all earthquakes

Than anything organic or synthetic, metal or chemical.

Kalashnikov’s automatic:

Won’t jam when dirty or wet

Has a feather trigger a child can pull

“Can turn a monkey into a combatant”

There’s pride in that…obscene pride

In the accuracy of a killer

The rehearsal on man-sized silhouettes

Dark shadows

The outline of a person

The will to kill.

The vulgar pride in:

The ABM

The drone

The nuke.

Hitting the pig’s eye.

All you needed was the will

The will to kill

The will to be free

Simply…Free

Not ideologically

Not intellectually

Not romantically

Not consciously

Not politically

Like Nat Turner

Like Malcolm X

Like Steve Biko

Like Fred Hampton

Not like that…simply

Not behind bars.

The repulsive, indecent respect some pay:

To the monsters created

To vindicate a people’s historical abuse

Surprised that the monsters

Dutifully designed

Consciously created

Meticulously molded

For the cities of Iraq

For the cities of Afghanistan

For the cities of America

Frankensteinesque

Should act other than

Monsteresque.

Is Fanon correct?

Is such violence redemptive?

Is it cleansing?

Is it a rebirth?

For a microsecond

For this generation

The score was evened.

Four pig’s eyes in a row!

Wow! How sick! This obscene pride.

--Fritz Pointer

17 April 2009

Fritz Pointer, Oakland, California, is a graduate of Creighton University (B.A.-English) UCLA (M.A. - African History) and U. of Wisconsin, Madison (M.A. - African Literature). He has taught African Studies and English at Merritt College (Oakland, CA.) Golden Gate University (San Francisco, CA) Humboldt State University (Arcata, CA.), Luther College (Decorah, Iowa), and is presently Chair of the Department of English at Contra Costa College (San Pablo, CA). He is the author of "A Passion to Liberate: Alex LaGuma's South Africa." His wife, Liziwe Kunene, born in Cape Town, South Africa, is Dean of Students at California College of Arts and Crafts (Oakland, CA). They have four children: Thiyane, Somori, Nandi and Shegun. Two granddaughters: Jadah (14) and Selina (2). His sisters are the internationally known Pointer Sisters. His brother, Aaron, is the last professional baseball player to hit .400 for a season and a retired NFL official.

Sam Hamod, Princeton, New Jersey

All We Ask

(For Our Brothers and Sisters in Somalia, Palestine, Pakistan, Iraq and Afghanistan)

we want very little

a sip of fresh water, a small piece of bread,

perhaps an olive again, if the trees have not been smashed,

just a little peace,

a door my key will fit, so I can go home,

quiet, so there are no more drones, no rockets,

and when you come by, in your heavily laden uniforms,

every now and then

a smile, and from Allah,

a bit of sunshine, even some rain to help our parched trees,

rain as fresh water for our children,

just small things, not much

a bit of fresh air, without the smell of gunfire, rockets or phosphorous,

just a sky clear of jets and rockets, so that we may see

a sun that wanders off late in the afternoon

and a moon that whispers,

we shall sleep now,

praying, tomorrow will be a better day

c: sam hamod,

oct.2, 2010

Sam Hamod founded and edited 3rd World News in Washington, DC in the 80s; has been nominated for Pulitzer Prize in Poetry twice, but, as Ishmael Reed said, "He's one of the best poets in America, but he won't be recognized as that because he's an Arab Muslim." He has published 12 books of poems, and has 3 more in the pipeline; Hamod also is the only American born person to be the Director of The Islamic Center in Wash, DC. He admires the work of Ishmael Reed and Marvin X.

Sam is considered one of the fathers of Muslim American literature, along with Marvin X, Askia Toure, Amiri Baraka, Sonia Sanchez and others in the Black Arts Movement, although Sam in not a North American African. See Dr. Mohja Kahf on Muslim American literature below. Some of these poets have moved beyond religion, toward spirituality and other ideologies, but for a moment in the 60s, they expressed the Islamic ideology, whether Nation of Islam, Sunni, Sufi or a combination thereof, thus, according to Dr. Mohja Kahf, they laid the foundation for Muslim American literature: poetry, plays, novels, essays..

Kola Boof, Southern California

Esther Rolle

(a poem in memory of the pioneering
black actress)


When you die...come back to life
So we can laugh and cry and curse the living!
O! I want to curse anything.

Drab concrete sky leaving me with too many songs.

Sadness leaves, because I forget the words.
The words are so many, I just wrinkle
up and laugh and squeeze my hurting hands.

I remember being young and frisky.
I remember being a creamy hot thing.
I remember the lemony days and hasty dreamy nights
that snuck away with the words.
Stole away.

The one song I remember, the one I loved
went:
"when you die...come back to life."

--Kola Boof

Kola Boof was born in the Sudan, adopted and raised in Washington DC. She is one of our leading and best selling black novelists.

devorah m ajor, San Francisco CA

city scat

we come to this city

of concrete, brick

steel and toil

country people

knowing the earth

sea faring people

reading the tides

gambling people

holding jokers and spades

we come to this city

hard laughin’

weep sob wailin’

prayin’ celebratin’ people

bending and sweating

we come to

this hiss crack

slap snap

siren whirl

holler

electric zip

and burn

city

rounding

bustling corners

banging our heads

against destiny

and crumbling

brick walls of confusion

we come to this city

that can cage us

enrage us

deny us

revile us

turn us

from friends and family

into prey and predator

we come to this city

this hip howl

she bop

da he bop

da we bop

bang clang

swinging city

and we name it ours

--devorah major

devorah major is the first North American African poet laureate of San Francisco. She is a novelist, poet, essayist and professor at the California College of Arts.

Letters to the Editor

From: rudolph lewis
To: Marvin X
Sent: Mon, October 4, 2010 4:14:02 PM
Subject: RE: Preview #4: Journal of Pan African Studies Poetry Issue, deadline extended to October 15 for submissions

Very, very good, Marvin!!! You will have an excellent collection of poetry from some of the best poets in America. I predict that this will be the best selection of poems that any Guest Editor has ever put together.

Long Live the Black Arts Movement! Long live the struggle of Black poets to make a New America, one that Langston would admire and cheer! Hurray! Hurrah! O, Holy Days!

Loving you madly, Rudy

From Amiri Baraka to Editor:

Some very good woik, Boi!!

AB

******

From :Nykhala Coston

Hi,

Thanks for sending the poetic mission for this year. It has opened my eyes to another way of looking at poetry and I am excited to see the finished copy when it comes out.

Sincerely,

Nykhala Coston

Deadline extended to October 15, 2010. Send submissions to jmarvinx@yahoo.com

Format: MS word, include brief bio and pic.

--Marvin X, Guest Editor

Preview #4, Journal of Pan African Studies, Poetry Issue

Preview #4,

Journal of Pan African Studies, Poetry Issue

Opal Palmer Adisa, Oakland CA

Transformation

now that the guns are silent

now that the rains have beaten the blood

into the soil that nurtures our food

now that children are orphaned

now that wives are widowed

now that men whose mind have been destroyed

return with limbs missing

eyes glazed over

thoughts erratic

now that cousins have forgiven cousins

and brothers are shaking hands

now that women are strolling in the market

and stopping to talk and laugh with each other

now that buildings have been destroyed

and whole lives made empty

now that what was is no longer

and what could have been requires a miracle

now that our eyes are no longer blurry

and we cannot remember why we were

fighting in the first place

now that forgetting will take several generations

and memory must be constant as breath

now that we have a chance to change

the future and treat the past as a persistent sore

now that we have to think out of the box

and spell conflict as lack of trust

the ego running on its own course

now that we understand fear and love

in a different light and appreciate the cost

now that a woman can dream again

of having her son in her old age

now that a man can smile at the idea

of reaching to enfold his wife with his arthritics hands

now that we are truly ready hopefully

to sit at the table and listen with our hearts

and the lives of our children

now that

now that

now that

now when we must stare into each other’s eyes

now when we must massage each other’s soul

now when we must learn the abc of forgiveness

now when we must actively practice love

practice love

practice love

until it guides our feet to dancing

until it pumices away our anger

until it lights the lamp of our generosity

until it raises our arms in flight

until it washes us with joy

now that we know love

now that love enfolds us

now that we are love

now finally

finally

now we are human beings again

--Opal Palmer Adisa

Dr. Opal Palmer Adisa is a poet, playwright, essayist, professor at California College of the Arts. Her current play Bathroom Graffiti Queen will be performed at Oakland’s Eastside Arts Center, along with Marvin X’s BAM classic Flowers for the Trashman, produced by the Lower Bottom Playaz.

Ayodele Nzingha, Oakland, California

Reasons

I got reasons
reasons for war
reasons for inner peace
reasons
for my reasoning
it ain't random
you can put it on the margin
call it fringe
it’s a matter of the matter
ya condition is in
or the paradigm ya
lens is in
if its crazy to be sane
then
you know
how a double
consciousness go
walking and wounded
wounded still walking
behind the veil
seeing
I got my reasons
reasons
why I flaunt my nappy hair
still think in Ebonics
fluent in my overstanding of
the lens in ya literacy
and i still be me
got my reasons
why I don't care bout
ya reasons
season after season
it looks the same
it ain't geography that's
easy to see
its beyond the lie of race
it’s not nuanced in class
(I pray ya the last of a dying
breed) cuz I
can't explain the greed
what kind of fear
prompts that kind of need
but I see it
and I reason
I don't matter
so I stay brave
enough to smell rain coming
get my news from the dead
eat well
sleep on clean sheets
and wear oils of lavender and frankincense
while I can
I reason time belongs to God
and you are
not
God
you got ya reasons
I guess to be confused
manipulating thangs
the way you do
what's a lie told
over and over
it’s the truth
broadcast it and
make it divine
but season
after season
I resist the
change necessary
to see through your
eyes
I got my reasons
with this target
on my back
I lack the motivation
to see how you reason
your rationales
decide ya bottom lines
devise ya acceptable collateral
damage tolerance
I got little tolerance
for ignorance
and reasons
not to trust you
done studied you thru Tuskegee
and the subways
don't trust you on the airways
seen you thru the haze
covering the high ways
as you follow the oil pipe ways
seen you
my eyes were open
(heard you plotting death
and everyone's destruction)
my ears were open
(God don't forgive em
they don't care what
dem do)
feel you wining
when I’m quiet
so I got reasons
to scream
I got reasons
to sleep eyes open
I got reasons
not to forget you
jailer keys jangling from the
belt below your fat belly
I remember them dumb
(its true you eat your young)
big ass eco foot prints
yes and ships
planes
bombs
weapons of mass destruction
and doctrine
manifesting ya reasons
to suit ya actions
I got reasons to
fear your secret thoughts
and your out loud lies
got reasons
to hit ya with the stank eye
while keeping my good eye on you
got reasons
to say ju ju when you pass
spit in the road and burn herbs
where are the souls that
should show though the eyes
I fear the reality
behind your disguise
I got reasons
to pray to old Gods
got reasons to
read more than the gospel
(yeah though I live in
in Babylon where idiots do
get they babble on)
got reasons to
teach my young to
beware merry go rounds
and lies about shiny things
that you pay for with ya soul
teaching em’ to remember
no matter how it hurts
to know the truth
instructing them to
ward off evil
by working
hex the devil
by dreaming
saying to them
write poems
don't kill one another
even lyrically
love the old
protect the young
sharpen intellects
to sword points
to make my point
got reasons
to keep reasoning
with the tone deaf choir
(more fire aya)
until its
too late
for reason
reasoning or
reasons

11/2009

Ayodele “WordSlanger” Nzinga

Ayodele Nzingha is a poet, playwright, actress, director, producer. She is a longtime student and associate of Marvin X, but now has her own theatre, the Lower Bottom Playaz in Oakland. She is a Phd candidate and mother of six children. She is mounting a production of August Wilson's Gem of the Ocean and producing Opal Palmer Adisa's Bathroom Graffiti Queen and Marvin X's BAM classic Flowers for the Trashman at Oakland's Eastside Arts Center.

Mona Lisa Saloy,

New Orleans LA

On not being able to write a

post-Katrina poem

about New Orleans

It wasn’t Katrina you see

It was the levees

One levee crumbled under Ponchartrain water surges

One levee broke by barge, the one not supposed to park near ninth-ward streets

One levee overflowed under Ponchartrain water pressure

We paid for a 17-foot levee but

We got 10-foot levees so

Who got all that money-- the hundred of thousands

Earmarked for the people’s protection?

No metaphors capture this battle for New Orleans

Now defeated and scorned by the bitter mistress of big government

New Orleans is broken by the bullet of ignorance

Our streets are baptized by brutal neglect

Our homes, now empty of brown and white faces, segregated by

Our broken promises of help where only hurt remains

Our hearts like our voices hollow now in the aftermath

Our eyes are scattered among tv images of

Our poor who without cars cling to interstate ramps like buoys

Our young mothers starving stealing diapers and bottles of baby food

Our families spread as ashes to the wind after cremation

Our brothers our sisters our aunts our uncles our mothers our fathers lost

Stranded like slaves in the Middle Passages

Pressed like sardines, in the Super Dome, like in slave ships

Where there was no escape from feces or

Some died on sidewalks waiting for help

Some raped in the Dome waiting for water and food

Some kids kidnapped like candy bars on unwatched shelves

Some beaten by shock and anger

Some homeless made helpless and hopeless by it all

Where is Benjamin Franklin when we need him?

Did we not work hard, pay our taxes, vote our leaders into office?

What happened to life, liberty, and the pursuit of the good?

Oh say, can you see us America?

Is our bright burning disappointment visible six months later?

Is all we get the baked-on sludge of putrid water, your empty promises?

Where are you America?

--Mona Lisa Saloy

Dr. Mona Lisa Saloy, Author and Folklorist, is currently Associate Professor of

English, Director, the Samuel DuBois Cook/Daniel C. Thompson Honors Program;

founding Director of the Creative Writing Program, a successful 15-year-old program, at

Dillard University.

Gwendolyn Mitchell, Chicago IL

Childhood Revisited

The collective voices of warnings, hear me right.

Too many grapes, purple stains on my pink shirt

My mother doesn’t scold. She washes my hands in the kitchen sink

Asks me to put cans on the pantry shelf.

This is my job now that I am four-years-old and ready to go to school.

First day of school

I am excited to be in kindergarten

And not have to watch out of the window as my two older sisters leave me behind.

When mother walks me into the room with the yellow and blue walls

I almost want to cry, but I don’t.

I see so many toys and things to do.

It’s just me at first, then other children wonder in.

“Hey, that toy is just for boys.”

I am told to get down and not play with the pretend horse in the corner.

I dismount and as a hay-colored hair boy pushes it across the room, I am thinking

It is a stupid horse anyway, didn’t even move on its own

Not like our red hobbyhorse that I can ride whenever I want.

I look around for something else to do

Girls are gathering in the make-believe kitchen

I want to play, but they seem too busy to see me

Even though I know how to play grown-up and house

And have a “real china” tea set at home

This the second time that I want to be invisible.

I wonder to the reading corner and pull a not-too-new book off the shelf, start flipping pages, a blur of tears well up in my eyes.

A tall brown-haired lady says it’s time to begin our day, put playthings away

sit at the funny shaped tables, fold our hands

She tells us her name, it’s long. She asks us to repeat three times so we will remember.

She sings when she talks and I think I’m going to like kindergarten after all.

For two days, I didn’t mind that no one sits near me at music time

Or chooses me as line partner when

we walk down the corridor to the lavatory.

But on the third day, we play “little sally walker” and the children on both sides of me have to be told to hold my hand

It is then I realize that no one else looks like me

And I want to be invisible once again.

--Gwendolyn Williams

Gwendolyn A. Mitchell, poet and editor, is the author of Veins and Rivers and House of Women and the co-editor of two anthologies of literary work. She received her MFA in English from Pennsylvania State University. Ms. Mitchell resides in Chicago, where she serves as Senior Editor for Third World Press.

Deadline for submissions October 15, 2010. The Journal of Pan African Studies is an online journal with a worldwide audience. Send submission to jmarvinx@yahoo.com, MS word document, including bio and pic. We especially want to hear from hip hop poets, spoken word artists, conscious rappers.

--Marvin X, Guest Editor