Gone

When
I look
at this
world
with its'
crusaders
and 
masqueraders 
I become
like my
slave 
ancestors,
waiting 
towards
the sky.

Swing
low 
sweet 
chariot.
 

Why?

Why
do you allow them to humiliate you?
Why
do you allow them to paint their rags on you?
Why
do you beg for crumbs from the slave master's table?
Why
do you allow them to define who you are?
Why
are you so enamored with the one who holds a knife to your throat?
Why 
do you allow them to convince you what reality is?
Why 
are you happy to kneel in the golden chains they put on you?
Why
do you allow them to tell you what truth and beauty is?
Why
do you allow a stranger to write your own history for you?
Why
you put on their ill-fitting masks or any mask at all?
Why
do you allow them to define where the location of your kingdom is?
Why
do you allow them to tell you whom to love?
Why
do you allow them to calibrate your self worth?
Why 
won't you be whole, real men and women again reclaiming
your true essence and walk past this plastic existence?

The Most Beautiful Day In the World

The world was heading for a bloodbath on the most beautiful day in the world.
The coffins were being lined up in the stillness and brilliance of the sun.
The birds sang their eternal and usual symphony of song.

My love and I stood in the countryside, he with the sad and beautiful eyes,
and he confessed he loved me.  Worry lines on both sides of his lips,
tiny rivulets beginning to flow through his hair though youth
still resided in him.  The rivulets had flowed forth
when he was a infant.  
Great wisdom 
and sadness there.

I hid behind a tree trunk and laughed, and he peeked around to see me.
And that day, beautiful day, the world was heading for a bloodbath
in a tiny spot on a map which few knew of or could pronounce,
which schools failed to teach about in its' sterile, pale, patriotic doctrine.
 

Observation

Everyday we walk through 
this minefield of optical
illusions. Can an elephant
become a tiny harmless
fish?  Can a piranha become
a kitten?  They tell us one
thing, expect us to to see it,
and it's not really there.  But
the dancers and eternal teens
keep believing because the
visual and emotional pillagers,
the clowns with all kinds of
cheap, vulgar bells and 
whistles dressed in gaudy
clothes pontificate what is
truth. Pontius Pilate 
asked on that distant day
what is truth?  Yes, they keep
believing here despite nothing
being left except the shiny and
pretty coffins with dead men's
and women's bones, as truth 
flees further and further 
down the road. 

When I Met the First African-American Pulitzer Prize Winner

Despite being busy working on a means of getting bread and butter, I decided I would take a brief break and write this post so it will not be too belated.  Today is the birthday of poetess Gwendolyn Brooks.  I like words like "poetess" because despite being perhaps dated by some, I feel just calling her a "poet" sounds neutered and draws away from what she really was, a great female poet.  I'm just not into the kind of neutered nonsense a lot of people gravitate towards in the culture. For me that even applies to language.  Gwendolyn Brooks wasn't a guy or an it, she was a woman poet, and that doesn't negate her greatness in any way.  

Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000) was the first African-American to receive the Pulitzer Prize for her literary work.  She was the Poet Laureate of Illinois.  She was also a politically conscious poet.  

And one day in 1984, I met her.  When I was an undergraduate student at The University of Georgia, she came to speak in a small classroom in the evening in the English department.  I remember a very ordinary looking woman who had a giant presence and intellect.  I talked to her briefly and got her autograph and address. Photos of the flyer and her autograph are below.  

She encouraged me to write to her.  I did write to her once and sent her some poems I wrote, but my heart just was not into poetry writing back then the way it is now. I lacked confidence, not that I'm a mountain of confidence nowadays about my poetry, but I have much more than I did in those days.  I believe I still have the note she sent back to me along with my poetry.  I can't find it right now, but I remember she wrote that I had a good imagination. 

Goodreads.com, which I refer to as a social networking site for book lovers, posts a quote of the day which I receive in my e-mail.  Today was Gwendolyn Brooks' turn.  The quote of the day was by her.

Live not for Battles Won.
Live not for The-End-of-the-Song.
Live in the along. 

I also like this quote of her's. 

Writing is a delicious agony.  

Indeed it is.  

(I will be back with more of my own poetry soon.)

 

Revolutionary Lover

Dedicated to the women of Green Libya who died fighting last year, some alongside their husbands, battling against neo-colonialism and imperialism for Africa and the world.

Willfully old-fashioned.
The lover, the brawler,
the scholar, the mother,
the daughter, the revolutionary.
She is a hellion in her beauty,
but in a quiet way.
At times she caused 
earthquakes, other times
she appeared to float beside
quiet streams. Birds nest in
her beautiful locks
and tie ribbons there.
Men stare in awe and 
ponder the realism
and honor of this woman.
The revolutionary lover,
no one can touch her
enter or ravish her mind.
Her power is her own.
The revolutionary lover
is about to come home. 

The Golden Slave Collar

I adore the youngsters of the beautiful mind,
beautiful souls who can gaze into the expanse
beyond the clutter and banality recognizing the 
glorious deception of the golden slave collar.

There are the other youngsters, confused, self-hating,
rapid to erase their history and heritage, traitors
to their ancestors, aiding and abetting the subtle
enemy who has long mastered the art of infiltration. 

I love the first, the children I would have wanted
to have. Even I learn from them despite the gulf
in age.  To have been so brave and poised at 22 to 
29.  Lift the true banner of humanity out of the ashes.

But to the compromising youngsters, the appeasers
who lust after and sleep with the enemy, my pity
stretches longer than the world's vast rivers. The 
golden slave collar is being prepared for your throats.