Monday, October 4, 2010

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

Sunday, October 3, 2010

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




Amiri Baraka


Listening Again to Shani Laughing

What loss

In yr life, like losing life

For yr life is touched with all lives

What is closer than the life

You give, what loss greater

Than the life you gave, the life

Inside

What loss is deeper, what pain more horrible

None, none, there is

None…

2

Shani had a perfect idea

Of her self

She knew exactly what her self

Her perfect little self

Shd be

And she beed it

3

I tell you Evil

Is the reverse

Of what is live

Not just death, but

Something that can never

Live.

4

Not the thought

Of dying

But of never having

Been alive

That is the craziness

That haunts

Things that want

Yr life

3/24/07

-Amiri Baraka

photo of AB by Kamau Amen Ra

Friday, October 1, 2010

Preview #2: Journal of Pan African Studies Poetry Issue














PREVIEW

Journal of Pan African Studies Poetry Issue







Guest Editor, Marvin X

Senior Editor, Itibari M. Zulu

Publication Date: December, 2010

Dedicated to the Honorable Dingane (Jose Goncalves)

Publisher, Editor

Journal of Black Poetry

Poetic Mission


A Forum on the Role of the Poet and Poetry

By Rudolph Lewis, Editor, Chickenbones, A Journal

Overview

Recently (24 January 2009), Marvin X, a well known writer and co-founder of the Black Arts Movement (BAM) sent out by email a provocative piece titled "Poetic Mission." On the surface the concern was the controversial investigation of the murder of the Oakland journalist Chauncey Bailey. But "Poetic Mission" goes farther and makes an argument about the role of the poet and poetry.

Here are some excerpts from "Poetic Mission":

The mission of the poet is to express the mind of a people, a culture, a civilization. He extends the myths and rituals, taking them to the outer limits like a Coltrane or Eric Dolphy tune, stretching, transcending all that is, was and will be. His tool is language, from which he cannot be limited by political correction or submission to the culture police on the left or the right.

The poet is a healer in the time of sickness, inspiring wholeness and celebrating the positive. He must point out contradictions and lies. . . .

The poet's mission was well defined in Mao's classic essay Talks on Art and Literature at Yenan Forum. The poet is either part of the problem or part of the solution—is he with the oppressor or the oppressed? Or we can recall the words of ancestor Paul Robeson, "The artist must become a freedom fighter." For whom does he write? Does he write to satisfy Pharaoh and his minions, or is his mission to liberate the suffering masses from ignorance, although he should never consider himself superior, since the teacher always learns from his students. If he listens, the poets will come to know the pain and trauma of his/her people and his/her duty is to relieve the pain and trauma with visions, plans and programs for the collective good.

The poetic challenge is to take people to new vistas of consciousness that reveal the soul, individual and communal, which are one. Language is a communal experience thus not the property of the poet. He can add to it with his imagination, but is there imagination without myth-ritual? What is the source of imagery except the collective myth of a culture or civilization.

In time of struggle and crisis, the poet must become a propagandist who whips defeat into victory, sadness into joy. Truth is paramount—there are lives at stake, hence this is no game, no job for money, no position for public adoration, no ego trip. Call it revolution, change of the most radical form.

Marvin X, "PoeticMission" 24 January 2009

Reading Marvin's "Poetic Mission" provoked a slew of questions, which I emailed to him and others in my address book. Poets Jerry Ward, Jr., Mary Weems, and C. Liegh McInnis (with a poem) responded. Marvin responded to a number of my questions, directly. Below I will I place them in a Q & A format. After which, I will present the other responses.

* * * * *

Rudy: Maybe the subject should be "poetic missions." The heart of the problem for the poet is to discover what is the Mission, isn't it, if there is such a thing?

Marvin: Everyone, whether poet, scientist, lover, street sweeper, dope fiend, must ultimately define his/her life’s mission or purpose. This is why brother Ptah suggested and I included the 13th Step in my How to Recover from the Addiction to White Supremacy.

What is the mission of the poet—words can kill or heal. Sonia Sanchez says, “Will your book free us?” Apparently not since the stores are full of black books and we still ain’t free.

The dope fiend must come to understand recovery is only a step—once clean and sober then what? Only to sit in meetings claiming sobriety while still drunk on recovery—so after recovery, then discovery of one’s mission.

Remember that Nancy Wilson song, “I Never Been to Me”? So we can be poet, mother, wife, husband, yet never discover our true mission in life, and even when we discover our mission, we may be too fearful to execute it.

Rudy: Is the audience "the people" or is it the poet's sense of the people? Or is the poet's audience, his choir? Is the poet really a "truth sayer"?

Marvin: The people are real live people who we should encounter in their/our daily round, thus we hear their cries if we listen, for they will tell us all, if we listen. It is not some echo in our head, life is beyond imagination (the poet’s sense of the people). They will tell you their joy and suffering as they have told me while I was “selling Obama T shirts. The “people” told me again and again the ritual they planned for inauguration day, they told me their joy and happiness, no matter what intellectuals think. So it is my job to express their joy in this world of sadness and dread.

It was the same with the murder of Oscar Grant here in Oakland (the young black man murdered on New Year’s Day by the BART police as he lay on his stomach). The people told me of losing their loved ones to homicide, yet received no attention because it was a black on black crime. They said even the police showed no real concern. Thus we must be guilty of selective suffering. If a white man kills us, we protest. When we kill us, nothing happens. The murderer still walks the streets and everybody knows he’s the killer, but we say nothing out of fear, so families suffer grief and trauma alone, in silence. These people are not some abstraction, some imaginary sense of the people, not the poet’s choir. The poet is either about truth or he is about lies, the choice is his.

Rudy: Does not the poet often obfuscate (or exaggerate) the truth, maybe for good reasons, maybe for awful consequences? I suspect that neither poems nor poets have a special Mission. It is a romantic notion that has outlived its times.

Marvin: All art is exaggeration. What is music but the exaggeration of natural sounds, birds, bees, water, wind, rain, thunder. The poet often takes poetic license with events, especially for dramatic effect. The poet, the musician, the painter must decide to join the revolution, as they did during the 60s and earlier, throughout time. This is not a romantic notion. How can the conscious poet ignore the suffering of his people when he sees they are ignorant, suffering poverty and disease? The poet must decide to aid them or leave them alone and praise the king, pharaoh or whomever he decides to clown for, shuffle and dance. For thousands of years the poetic mission has been to cry for freedom and justice. We know the source of art for art’s sake—simply art of the master class, the rulers and oppressors who pass by the man on the roadside, robbed and half dead.

Rudy: Poems can be sledge hammers (hurtful) or they can be subtle (very subtle), like Elizabeth Alexander's inaugural poem, Praise song for the day? Which ones indeed carry more truth? Which ones are more effective in getting us where we want to go?

Marvin: As is well known, my style is the sledge hammer (Kalamu ya Salaam) or venom (Dr. Julia Hare). The youth on the streets of Oakland who have read my books say, “You’re very blunt.” Indeed, it is a style reflecting my lifestyle (you’re too rough to be a pimp, said a prostitute).

And yet I am in awe of the feminine style. It is so gentle, subtle, smooth like a razor cutting to the heart. I am amazed at the feminine approach or style, especially in writing. But Elizabeth Alexander’s inaugural poem was too soft for me, bored me to tears. Alice Walker’s as well. Now the poetic message from Rev. Lowery was great. It moved the soul, my soul, it had the language of the people, not that academic bullshit language of Alexander’s. See my “A Day We Never Thought” on the inauguration. But all these poems are a matter of style, not truth. Some like it soft, some like it hard. Some like Miller Lite, some like OLE English 800. We can get to the truth many ways, just get there.

Rudy:Is poetry the same as propaganda, which some associate with out right lies and distortions? How do we reconcile the two?

Marvin: All art is propaganda of one class or another, one group or another. Alexander’s poem is bourgeoisie art to me. Would I be allowed to read my poems on such an occasion? The bourgeoisie runs from me on sight, no need to say boo. Although the Oakland Post Newspaper claimed they were going to run “A Day We Never Thought.” I did not try to be the sledge hammer with this poem. I wanted to express the joy of the ancestors, the living and the yet unborn. Oh, Happy Day. Finally, the poet is not limited to one approach. He is able to don the feminine persona when necessary. It is his duty to know the spirit of male and female, and the non-gender of the spirit world?

Rudy: As you know many of the poems of the BAM period are relics and say more about the mindset of the period or the poet, for instance, some of the poems of Nikki Giovanni or poems of Sonia Sanchez. The poets themselves might argue that they are not relevant for today. Or they would denounce or apologize for them as the expression of youth, and not really the Truth.

Marvin: The mission of the Black Arts Movement was truth. There is still truth in the BAM poems, yes, forty years later. There is truth in Baraka’s Toilet, Dutchman, and the poems of Nikki and Sonia. Yes, these poets might say their poems are not relevant but they are not truthful. The Dutchman is real. “If Bessie Smith had killed some white people, she wouldn’t need to sing the blues. She could have talked very straight and plain about the world—no metaphor, no innuendo….”

And Sonia’s lines are still relevant even if she finds them distasteful, such as “What a white woman got cept her white pussy?”

Are the above words youth or truth? Of course time causes a maturation of thought. All the things I thought at twenty, some of them I no longer think, but there is still much truth in my early writings. Khalid Muhammad (RIP) used to tell me to hell with my current writings, he loved my early books such as Fly To Allah and Woman, Man’s Best Friend. These are the books that awakened his consciousness, he told me more than once.

Baraka, the man who taught me how to say motherfucker, now objects to use of the term, except in a moment of passion. As for myself, all words are holy and sacred, none are obscene. What is obscene, saying motherfucker or actually fucking your mother, sister, daughter, son? There are those persons here in the Bay who object to my language, yet they have been indicted for incest and child molestation.

Simply because the BAM poets have reached old age does not negate the truth of our early writings. Of course the rappers took our language to another level that may indeed transcend truth for pussy and dick nonsense.

Rudy: Is poetry not also a personal statement that says more about the person at the time of writing, than it does the Truth? Take for instance your poem in response to the slaughter in Gaza.

Marvin: My poem “Who Are These Jews” is basic truth. And if it’s true for me, it’s true for you. But the essence of the poem was said by Jesus 2000 years ago, John 8:44. Was Jesus lying then, am I lying now? At what point do we come out of denial and admit we got some devils up in here? Why should Hamas recognize the existence of Israel, does Israel recognize the existence of Hamas, the democratic victory of Hamas?

Rudy: How do the "people" really know when the poem or the poet has really failed to speak to the real needs of the people?

Marvin: Are the people deaf, dumb and blind? Have you not read a poem or book that changed your life? The people tell me all the time my writings transform their lives. Truth transforms, lies do not, not for the better. Lies lead to destruction, truth to construction of people and society.

* * * * *

Responses

Jerry Ward

THE TRUTH is not an entity but a conflicted set of conditions, phenomena which our human minds might envision or speculate about but never fully grasp. In that sense, poetry seeks to represent an insight about a truth. What is made of a truth in a poem varies among readers and most certainly between different generations of readers, particularly if the poem is topical.

You are right in suggesting that we ought to talk about the missions of poetry. When I write a poem, I do have a mission in my head, but my readers may or may not perceive what that mission was intended to be or to do. Knowing that poems have both limits and unforeseen consequences, I believe my work is designed to move readers to have fresh thoughts. The act of reading a poem involves change, of course, but whether the reader gets the point is a matter of chance.—Jerry Ward

* * * * *


Poetry is an art and like all art its success/impact/power is up to the interpretation of each audience member who engages it. What constitutes a good poem or a powerful poem or a truth telling poem varies based upon interpretation . . . there is no one meaning, no one way of expressing whatever inspires a poet to write.

Also, poets write for a variety of purposes . . . some, like me (Harlem Renaissance poets, Black Arts Movement Poets, Socially conscious Spoken Word artists), use our poetic voices most often as political acts to speak out against the injustices of the day, to speak truth to power—historically, this is one of the reasons many poets have been considered dangerous to various power regimes resulting in imprisonment, exile, and censorship.

Some poets believe the role of the poet is to make the mundane memorable, to record various degrees of beauty based upon their interpretation of what that is, to describe the world they are living in for future generations, without regard for politics, protest, or social justice.

Some poets believe it's all about performance, giving the audience what they want to hear for popularity purposes, to win Slam poetry competitions.

Some poets are introspective to the point of confessing, zeroing in on their personal trials, tribulations, and successes.

I am not one to publicly dis a poet because a poem that says nothing or little to me, could mean the world to someone else who is able to step inside the poem and make meaning based upon the experiences they bring to what the poet has written. A poem that doesn't make me feel anything, though it may be technically flawless, is not a good poem to me, but—

There is no one way to be a poet, there is no one purpose, there's only folks who have a gift for metaphor, simile, rhyme, rhythm, imagery, trope, allegory, for seeing the world through a particular lens—doing our best to do what we do because we have to . . .

--Mary Weems

* * * * *


“What Good Are Poems?”

By C. Liegh McInnis

Can a poem be as affective as a .357?

Can the images of a poem spray buck shot holes

into the body of a greenback stuffed sheet wearing shoat?

Can a poem be thrown as a brick through the window

of a grocery store so that we may pillage and plunder

its shelves for food for the hungry?

Can a poem be laid on top of a poem,

be laid on top of a poem, be laid on top of a poem

until we have built a shelter for the homeless?

Does a poem need a million dollar war chest

or a foundation grant to be mightier than the sword?

What good does a poem do a spoiled, bloated belly?

Can a poem clothe the naked?

Can a poem improve an ACT score?

Can a poem pay the rent?

Can poems assassinate Negro turncoats

who have sold their souls to racist rags?

Can poems cut short the lives of serpentine superintendents

who slyly suffocate African babies in Euro-excrement

disguised as Caucasian curriculums?

Poems are the sperms of revolution.

We need poets to stop adding extra syrup and saccharine

to their sonnets so as to appease the pale palates of people

who have not the stomach for the truth.

We need poets to stop

masturbating away their talents into literary napkins.

We need poets to start impregnating thoughts of

Black magnolias bursting through white cement

into the minds of Raven virgin souls who without it

toil in the reproductive process of self-aversion.

Poems are the sperms of revolution.

Are you making love to your people,

or are you fornicating away your existence?

Haki R. Madhubuti (Don L. Lee), Chicago IL


The Poetic Mission

Art II: Reviewing a Life, A Calling

Among these senior words, this questioning and quieting narrative, art, and all its imperfections, contributed wonderfully to the defining history of my life. As a doer in this world, as a committed poet, political and cultural activist, educator, publisher, public intellectual, businessman, husband, father, cultural father, word-organizer, editor, institution builder, protector of children and pro-street-fighter, I have swum in an ocean not of my making. After over sixty-seven years of an imperfected backstroke, I realize the many countless times I have been close to drowning, only to emerge stronger in part due to the thousands of special and not so special people I have encountered in this life, in this struggle.

I am here because of poetry. Poetry from all cultures in its multitudes of forms, laced with abundance—word-play, rhymes and unrhymes, metered, unmetered and off-metered, lines and stanzas defined and undefined, packed with knowledge, information, laughter and occasional wisdom. I am here because of a patched-quilt of voices that directed my younger life and searching for all kinds of answers. Although I was surrounded by adults who could not manage their own lives, it was poetry and music that stopped me in my negative and ill directed tracks. Poetry and music slowly demanded that I change paths, contemplate the dangers before me with a limited understanding of the cultural forces that I was born into. These cultural forces were created to trap young people like myself, positioning in us a can’t do philosophy that many carried into adulthood and for too many late eldership.

For me, reading and rereading and eventually studying the works of Wright, Hughes, Toomer, M. Walker, Brooks, Tolson, McKay, S. Brown, Bontemps, Hayden, DuBois, Robeson, A. Locke, F.M. Davis, Cullen, Frazier, Woodson, Garvey, B.T. Washington, Davis and Dee, Dunbar, Douglass, Malcolm, H.W. Fuller, Baraka, Karenga and countless others in and outside of my culture confirmed in me that any people who control and define their own cultural and political imperatives and as a result of such intellectual influences should be about the healthy replication of themselves and the world they walk in. Implanting in me the recognition that without art in abundance there is little abundance.

During the absence of love and grits, during the years of bottomless lies, legal betrayals and enormous deaths, without the maintenance and nurturing of early spirits that art mandates, my life would have continued to evolve around reactions to: the alphabet of hourly timecards, fast walking urban street double-eyed locating identity in wearing labeled clothes, multicolored fingernails and pants below the crack of one’s ass. Without wonder words, involved music, inviting visuals and flying feet children will drink sports, rapper’s realities, mall hopping consumption, twenty-four hour cable surfing, all representing debilitating and limited information or knowledge needed to grow a superior intellect. Art activates the mind, drives the spirit and gives a unique definition to the participant and the receiver.

Yet, what continues to energize these overworked bones are children of all cultures who have—for the most part—not been captured by the many demons, daggers and multiple predators that populate this earth. And the absolute necessity to listen to young people, their laughter, tears and loud silences continues to renew me.

But, quiet as it’s kept, preceding all else, coming back to the stimulating juice that has fueled this life has been liberating language as poetry and ideas. Equal to poetry has been music and visual art all slapping saneness, Black perspective, a hunger for the unknown and a thousand questions into this yellowblack boy, teenager, young man, mature drinker of knowledge, and elder confirming and affirming that art works.

To call oneself a poet or artist like that of the Black preacher, primary family doctor, veterinarian, farmer, or teacher of any branch of knowledge and to function at the highest order honoring one’s choice is truly a calling. We are, indeed defined by our yesterdays, our here and now and tomorrows. To claim this calling finally acknowledges and accepts the little appreciated fact that we—the poets, musicians, fiction writers, visual artists, playwrights, wood and stone carvers, photographers, quilt makers, idea people, artists of all disciplines; the real lovers of civilization and the exceptional children that are formed by it—that we are here to stay. We have come to change the conversation.

Especially and lovingly in this era of the first Black president, which I, as many of my generation clearly thought impossible, it is time to acknowledge that artists and their art and the demand on progressive thinking/acting that all good art requires played a pivotal and decisive role in making possible the moving of the first African American family into the white house. And, representing the best commentary from the choicest and least of us we continue to influence and inspire our country’s wholistic journey towards the inclusive ideas of liberation. And, yes, for most artists there is no retirement.

Haki R. Madhubuti

Haki R. Madhubuti, poet and educator, is the Ida B. Wells-Barnett University Professor at DePaul University. He is the founder and publisher of Third World Press. Madhubuti is the author of over 28 books including his latest publication, Liberation Narratives: New and Collected Poems 1966-2009.

Email: Twpress3@aol.com contact phone: 773-651-0700

Submissions received from the following:

The Poets

Amiri Baraka

Sonia Sanchez

Haki R. Madhubuti
Ed Bullins
Louis Reyes Rivera
Bruce George
Eugene Redman
Tariq Shabazz
Rudolph Lewis
Fritz Pointer
Gwendolyn Mitchell
Felix Sylvanus
Ramal Lamar

Mona Lisa Saloy
Susan Lively
Askia Toure
Al Young
Paradise Jah Love
Ptah Allah El
Ayodele Nzingha
Devorah Major
Kalamu Ya Salaam
Phavia Kujichagulia
Jeannette Drake
Itibari Zulu
Rudolph Lewis
Nandi Comer
Renaldo Manuel Ricketts
Anthony Mays
Dr. Tracey Owens Patton
Dike Okoro
J. Vern Cromartie
Hettie V. Williams
Neal E. Hall, MD
Kola Boof
Ghasem Batamuntu
Marvin X


Monday, September 27, 2010

Palestine


PALESTINE

by Marvin X

(El Muhajir)

I am not an Arab, I am not a Jew

Abraham is not my father, Palestine is not my home

But I would fight any man

Who kicked me out of my house

To dwell in a tent

I would fight

To the ends of the earth

Someone who said to me

I want your house

Because my father lived here

Two thousand years ago

I want your land

Because my father lived here

Two thousand years ago.

Jets would not stop me

From returning to my home

Uncle toms would not stop me

Cluster bombs would not stop me

Bullets I would defy.

No man can take the house of another

And expect to live in peace

There is no peace for thieves

There is no peace for those who murder

For myths and ancient rituals

Wail at the wall

Settle in "Judea" and "Samaria"

But fate awaits you

You will never sleep with peace

You will never walk without listening.

I shall cross the River Jordan

With Justice in my hand

I shall return to Jerusalem

And establish my house of peace,

Thus said the Lord.

This poem first appeared in Black Scholar Magazine, circa 1975.

© 2000 by Marvin X (El Muhajir)

The author, Marvin X, is an Oakland (CA) based African-American poet/playwright/activist, one of the founders of the Black Arts Movemen and the father of Muslim American literature, according to scholar Dr. Mohja Kahf. Bob Holman calls him the USA’s Rumi. Marvin X works as a lecturer, teacher and producer. He has taught at San Francisco State University, University of California -Berkeley and San Diego, and Mills College in Oakland. He has received writing fellowships from Columbia University and the National Endowment forthe Arts and planning grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities. His website link is www.blackbirdpressnews.blogspot.com

We have received permission to send you the following poem by Marvin X. We wondered if you could post this powerful poem to commemorate the 55th anniversary of the Deir Yassin massacre. We think every person interested in justice for the Palestinians should read this.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Obama edges to the dark side - Opinion - Al Jazeera English






Obama edges to the dark side - Opinion - Al Jazeera English







Pull Yo Pants Down fada Black Prez!
Marvin X is considering a sequel to his Pull Yo Pants up fada Black Prez. Tentative title: Pull Yo Pants Down fa da black prez! Subtitle: Kiss my black unruly ass!
The Prez has revealed himself to be an imperialist in the best tradition of American devotees to white supremacy. The mood in the hood is fuck Obama, even though brothers submitted 99% when they saw the title Pull Yo Pants Up fada Black Prez and Yoself. "Without me saying a word, when the brothers saw the title of my book, they immediately pulled up their pants on the spot, without me saying a word." But of late they have expressed their disgust with da Prez, sharing my feelings as well. Da Prez is a hypocritical running dog of Wall Street robber barons and the corporate military complex. In his UN speech he suggested entrepreneurial opportunities for the oppressed abroad, but nothing similar for the boys and girls in the hood. He has also offered jobs, housing and education for terrorists in Iraq, Afghanistan and elsewhere if they lay down their guns, but no similar program for the gun ravaged hoods of America who are a direct threat to the national security of the United States. The boyz and girls in the hood are sharp enough to see through his hypocritical policies and have no desire to support the man they thought was about real change. So Marvin X says to them, "Brother and Sisters, pull yo pants down and show the Prez yo black unruly ass!"

Even veterans who return with PTSD are gaining skills as entrepreneurs since they will not be able to maintain a job, very similar to the boyz and girls in the hood with prison and jail records, low skills, illiteracy and anger management difficulties, thus they suffer P
TSD from war in the hood, thus should be entitled to similar programs as veterans of US imperialist wars--after all, they are victims of
America's domestic war against the poor.
--Marvin X
jmarvinx@yahoo.com

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Comments on Wisdom of Plato Negro

> A man said The Wisdom of Plato Negro is for the forty something up. No persons who haven't lived a few years can appreciate the things Marvin X says in The Wisdom of Plato Negro. You need to be at least forty to understand, and even then, this is not a book to read in one setting, even if it is easy reading. It is a book to read in a relaxed situation, and then only read one or two of the parables at a time. They must be carefully digested, each one.
> Think about them, what was the real meaning? Again, if you haven't lived a few years, there's no way you can appreciate some of the things he says. For example, the Parable of the Real Woman. A young man who hasn't had many experiences with women cannot possible understand this parable. If a woman comes to his house and cleans it out of love, a young man cannot appreciate this. He will tell her thanks, then go get a flashy woman who is never going to clean his house, mainly because she doesn't know how. But the dude will go for her because she is cute, but the real woman he rejects, the one with common sense and dignity, who may not be a beauty queen.
> --Anon
>

Monday, September 20, 2010

Mythology of Pussy and Dick, toward Healthy Psychosocial Sexuality


Mythology

of Pussy and Dick, toward

Healthy Psychosocial

Sexuality

Marvin X




Contents

Comments

Preface

Foreword

Introduction

Acknowledgement

Mythology Defined

Don’t Say Pussy

What is Love

Part One: Mythology of Pussy and Dick

Tiger Woods

Gender Studies at Academy of Da Corner

Insanity of Sex

HIV/AIDS

Part Two: For the Women

Women

Parable of a Real Woman

Parable of Woman in the Box

The Comforter

Parable of Value

Women without Men

The Lonely Hearts Club

Political & Sexual Anorexia and Mama at Twilight:

Dr. Julia Hare and Ayodele Nzingha

Nisa Ra

Parable of the Bitter Bitch

Fahizah on Bitter Bitch

The White Woman

In Search of my Soul Sister

Babylon Brooklyn

Black Woman’s Breast KO’s America

How to Love a Thinking Woman

Poem for Young Mothers

Womanhood Rite of Passage:

Bathroom Graffiti Queen by Opal Palmer Adisa, a review by Marvin X

Parable of Woman at the Well

Wounded in the House of a Friend—Sonia Sanchez, review by Marvin X

Part Three: For the Men

Men

Baby Boy: A Manhood Training Rite

Calling all Black Men

Abstract for the Elders Council

Youth

Abstract for a Youth Council

Memorial Day

Sex

Bitch Led Nigguhs

Toxic Love

How to Find a BMW (Black Man Working) Dr. Julia Hare

Part Four: Family

Parable of Family

Fahizah

Family II

Courtship: You Don’t Know Me

Parable of the Pit Bull

Getting Out

Marriage

Reconciliation

Malcolm and Betty, A Love Song

Malcolm’s Letter to Elijah

I Will Go into the City

Polygamy

The Other Woman

Confession of a Polygamist

Confession of a Wife Beater

I Shot Him

Testimony

Moment in Paradise

Polyandry

When I Think About the Women in my Life

Children

Parable of Children and the Catholic Church

Part Five: Rape and Violence

Partner Violence and Spirituality

Parable of Insecurity

The Dick and Gun

Parable of Rape

Rape and Mythology

VIP Nigguhs and Rape

Confession of a Rapist

Eldridge Cleaver, Confession of a Rapist

Woman Stoned to Death

Parable of a Gangsta

Beyond Gang Violence, toward Political Power

A Pan African Love Story

Parable of Pain

Anger Management During the Holidays

Part Six: Prostitution

Same sex marriage, straight men, prostitution

Dialogue on Prostitution

Pimpin

Fillmore Slim on Pimpin

The Maid, the Ho, the Cook

Negro Psychosocial Sexuality in the Post Crack Era

Pay the Ho to Go

Part Seven: Gay/Lesbian

Poetic Sexuality

The Prince of Peace and James Baldwin

Same Sex Marriage and Black Liberation

Love Letter to Gay and Lesbian Youth

Parable of Women without Men

Fable of Rooster and Hen

Part Eight: Creativity and Sexuality

Never Love a Poet

Poetic Sexuality

Poetics of Love

Parable of the Old Lovers

Part Nine: National Tour

Sacramento CA

Mississippi

Howard University, Washington, DC

Final Notes at Howard University

Comment from Philadelphia Locks Conference

Conclusion

Toward the Language of Love

Parable of the Moment

Letting Go

Joy and Happiness

Addendum

Is Mythology Porno? OPD Swoop Down on Marvin X

For Whites Only

Oakland Man Jacked in Sac by Youth for copy of MOP

Comment on a White Woman, Tim Wise

Fly to Allah, review by Johari Amini

Letter from Shawn Fabio


Black Bird Press

Approximately 400 pages

$49.95

Black Bird Press

1222 Dwight Way

Berkeley CA 94702