Preview #12, Journal of Pan African Studies, Poetry Issue
Preview #12, Journal of Pan African Studies, Poetry Issue
Deadline for submissions extended to November 12, 2010
We especially want to hear from hip hop poets, spoken word artists, conscious rappers
Send your submission to Guest Editor, Marvin X, jmarvinx@yahoo.com, include brief bio, pic, MS Word attachment
Submissions received from the following:
Askia Toure
Amiri Baraka
Rudolph Lewis
Al Young
Ishmael Reed
Mona Lisa Saloy
Gwendolyn Mitchell
Haki Madhubuti
Louis Reyes Rivera
Bruce George
Jeannette Drake
Lamont Steptoe
Devorah major
Phavia Khujichagulia
Ayodele Nzingha
Tureeda Mikell
Eugene Redman
Fritz Pointer
J. Vern Cromartie
Greg Carr
Kalamu ya Salaam
Jerry Ward
Mary Weems
C. Liegh McInnis
Ramal Lamar
Tariq Shabazz
Felix sylvannus
Susan Lively
Paradise Jah Love
Ptah Allah El
Itibari M. Zulu
Nandi Comer
Renaldo Manuel Ricketts
Anthony Mays
Dr. Tracey Ownes Patton
Dike Okoro
Hettie V. Williams
Kola Boof
Neal E. Hall, MD
Ghasem Batamuntu
Sam Hamod
Opal Palmer Adisa
Ed Bullins
Kamaria Muntu
L. E. Scott
Chinwe Enemchukwu
Mabel Mnensa
Kwan Booth
Rodney D. Coates
Ras Griot
EverettHoagland
Charles Curtis Blackwell
JACQUELINE KIBACHA
John Reynolds III
Gabriel Sharpiro
Darlene Scott
Jimmy Smith, Jr.
Amy ”Aimstar” Andrieux
Marvin X
Lamont b. Steptoe, Philadelphia PA
Chase The Wind!
The only way to live is to leave
Never stop leaving
Wherever you find yourself
Chase the wind!
Pretend it is a beautiful woman or a beautiful man
Glimpsed in an exotic city
That you must find again
Make your life depend on leaving
Wandering the world to find a place
Beautiful enough to die!
Chase the wind!
--lamont b. steptoe
Lamont B. Steptoe was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and is agraduate of Temple University's School of Communications and Theater. Heis the author of twelve collections of poetry which include Uncle's South China SeaBlue Nightmare, A Long Movie of Shadows, Crowns and Halos and OracularRumblings & Stiltwalking. Steptoe has also edited two collections ofpoetry by the late South African Poet, Dennis Brutus. Steptoe is a Vietnam veteran, a father, publisher, photographer and globetrotter. In 2005 he was awarded an American Book award for his collection A Long Movie of Shadows. In 2006,he was awarded a Pew Fellowship in the Arts and inducted into the International Hall of Fame for Writers of African Descent by the Gwendolyn Brooks Center at Chicago State University. Steptoe has been featured in poetry readingsin Managua, Nicaragua, Paris, France, Den Hague, Netherlands andMumbai, India. His work is included in over one hundred poetryanthologies and he has read at schools, colleges and universitiesthroughout the United States.
John Reynolds III, Detroit
Black Lights
I remember Detroit,
and a DJ named Tiger Dan,
who kept Detroit’s soul on the radio
in the daytime,
and in the Blue Chateau lounge
at night.
when a bad neighborhood meant
you might get your bicycle stolen
but not lose your life because of it.
I remember
a destination of desire,
where the blackness
of transplanted southerners
glowed like the gems they were.
where older boys taught younger boys
*Lorenzo Wright’s stride
during relays at after-school recreation.
I wonder if Detroit
will again be our promised land,
where lumps of African coal
reveal their true character as gems.
Precious, coveted
one-of-a-kind gems.
--John Reynolds III
*Lorenzo Wright, from Detroit, was a 1948 Olympic Gold Medalist.
John Reynolds III’s poems are from my manuscript entitled Freedom Blues. I have a Master's degree in English from Marygrove College in Detroit, MI, and am currently pursuing a Ph.D. at Howard University in Washington,D.C., also in English. I am a longtime supporter of the Broadside PoetsTheatre in Detroit, which is affiliated with Broadside Press, an earlyblack-owned publisher that, as you doubtless know, was at the forefrontof the Black Arts Movement.
JACQUELINE KIBACHA, Tanzania, East Africa
From one border to the next
From one border to the next
My feet graze, eating the soil.
Red, sticky mud
Sandy grains
Stone pebbles
My toes curl, digging deep
My eyes to the horizon
As the equator draws her line
A taunt.
Trying to force me to make a decision,
To make a claim.
Though my heart is free
To wander from border to border with my feet
Its heaviness keeps me rooted.
My roots from the grassroots
Kilimanjaro cries, with arched back
Calling me back.
And I hear her, even through the heavy dialect
The voice of my mother
Sing song speaking.
Not every word is clear to me
But somehow I know she’s directing me,
And I sing song back.
Though not my mother
Her tongue extends through me.
I carry her voice across each border
Over each horizon
Across each shore
Until I know that I am home.
--Jacqueline Kibacha (2010)
Born in the ‘haven of peace’ Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania, this Poet enjoyed andexcelled in creative writing from a young age, choosing it as hercourse of study. Gaining star grades in literature was just part of it,Jacqueline discovered a talent for performing the written word and sostudied to gain awards in speech and poetry presentation as well asgracing the stage in plays and musicals.
A Fine Art graduate who spent much of her university life involved withmusic, she began to experiment with sounds and words in the form ofpoetry. Drawing on her experiences and observations of growing up in 3continents, Africa, Asia and Europe ,and exploring the dynamics ofrelationships, with self and others she began to put together acollection of works - both poetry and prose. She was recently featuredon BBC World Service and is currently working on an album of poetry withFrench producer Dominique Lepine.
Everett Hoagland, New Bedford MA
from A BIG B.A.M. THEORY OF CREATION
We have broken free
of imposed forms, from
the outrages of being bound
in formal and informal cages. “Sympathy's”*
caged broken-winged song
birds now fly more freely than even
Bird's bop. They broke bad
with break-
dancing and hip/hop all over
spoken word's poetry perches
and beyond the lovely, dark, and deep
paper woods and pulp trees some think
they shall never see as lovely
as freed people's
poetry. Free
to be whatever
it wants to be,
what it is or is be-
coming. And what we have been
through entitles us to
tell it like it
tiz of thee
and say “it be's
that way” if that is what we want.
What makes a poem
Black with a capital B
among those of us in the U.S.
descended from ancestors who
used to be the capital in capitalism’s
centuries of “free market” slavery
and share-
cropping? History!
What makes a poem Black?
it ain’t no mystery: ancestry, legacy,
politics, class, culture,
style. Confluence
of the mass mixed
things that come to mind out
of a “consciousness of kind.”
Mixed-in out of mouth things
like ring shouts, refrains, signifying, jive,
blues, jazz songs, scat, the dozens, r&b, break-
beats, rap. All that
black mouth evolved
north, east, west,
first hybrid down
south of what
we used to say is
where it’s at. Free
poetry, free
of the slave ship’s choke hold,
free of the slave-breakers' silencing
iron bit. Freed
from verse cages of poesy.
Free to be what comes out
of its own history.
Be it penned declaration
or improvised oration
as affirmation of its own
nation within
a nation. Recite it,
or write it, or hear it,
or read it like holy writ
because it
is. So
be it.
*Paul Dunbar's poem, "Sympathy"
--Everett Hoagland
Everett Hoagland's poetry has been regularly published in prominent periodicalsand anthologies since the late 1960's. He has given poetry readings allover the USA and in Africa, Latin America, Asia, and his most recentbooks are ... HERE ... New & Selected Poems, and JUST WORDS?.Hoagland lives in New Bedford, MA, and was recently inducted into TheInternational Literary Hall of Fame For Writers of African Descent.
Tureeda Mikell, Oakland CA
ANCESTRAL SPEAK
Chile, you do what you s’pose too
Pay dem no nebah mine, you hearah
Deys ribbon ain’t yo’s to have ebah
Yo’ tongus goes back befoe’ deys do
Just you study yo passion, you light
Shine baby, come time it’ll be alright
You listen careful now, we ain’t dead.
Fly baby, go on, you know how
Stop fretin’ you mine wid dey trouble
We watchin’ ova you whilst you sleep
Tell yo stories to ones that need
Leave dem no accounts to they failins
We see whey you got to walk
Carry some soda for that acid stomach
Tureeda Mikell (C)
Tureeda Mikell – Djeli Musa, Story Medicine Woman
With 35 years combined experience in nursing, language science, songwritingand the paranormal synchronistic occurrence, she weaves blood memory tomend our story. Tureedas’ stories reveal then seal to heal. An activistfor holism, her works have been found in South Africa, Japan, andSweden. Recent publications, ‘Temba Tupu’, AfricaWorld Press, and ‘Sparrows Eye’, Bay Area Writing Project, DigitalPaper, U.C. Berkeley.
Kwan Booth, Oakland CA
Modern Medicine
See blood posted up over there
In the shadow of that black block.
Up way past the hour of reason?
Mouth full of cracked, small stars?
That’s the doctor.
See sis braced ‘tween streetlight
And hydrant, fingers chapped round that burnt butt,
Hawking fifteen minutes of her burnt butt?
For anyone with a few dollars,
And nowhere to spend it-
She heals.
See, it comes down to that at this hour in this
Dark slice of city, this apothecary
Of street salve and mood medicine.
This is for the lifers,
The sho nuff sick.
Prescriptions ‘round these parts don’t come
Prescribed
But they efficient.
Guaranteed to make the pain go.
See, these two got fine brewed elixers
For every ache from your head to your ass.
Bring your sick and your wallet
And get to know the place.
Sit a spell.
See those little bags rocked up under his tongue?
Cook’em up:
The result of hours of alchemy.
Dreams, baking powder, and nightly news churned in a scum pot.
Kept in the mouth for quick release.
Just like what that girl got up
under that dress. When she opens up
What she been tryin' to keep closed,
The whole day melts
Into those Washingtons and Jacksons
There in your pocket.
So that you can’t wait till it’s away from you.
She takes your money,
Because you ask.
See, her job is taking what you don’t want
In exchange for what most people ain’t willing to give.
She’s generous with her healing.
Gives it out as long as there are people
Who possess the talent
To turn their hurt green.
--Kwan Booth
Kwan Booth is a slam champion and journalist in Oakland.
Rudolph Lewis, Maryland
Far Away from Bliss
The full moon is soft
around the edges:
this white indefiniteness stretches
out across the purple heavens:
there’s no clarity of starlight:
no confidence which turn is right.
The peoples of these swamps
are sad with backwater misery.
A cat listens to the silence:
a train blows at the crossroads
rushing to port; an old man
with ax splinters boards
on a chopping block
for the morning chill to come:
a bird awakes with a shrill cry
swoops down: a cat pounces
ready for crisis and opportunity:
silence returns: an aging black woman
with family sleeps in a parked car,
pleads for a kitchen
and a bathroom: a young Hispanic
college student who works
at MacDonald’s, his fourth year,
is touched by the magic hand of fate.
Thank God and the president:
all are not dead like 39 in cemeteries.
In this warm mist three young deer
in the garden munch moonlight and silence.
Our pains are softened by prayers,
hope, and grace mounted up: from the ruins
many will reach Obama heights, riding
on the uplifting coattails of vultures.
--Rudolph Lewis
Rudolph Lewis is an educator who has taught at several universities includingthe University of New Orleans (UNO) and Coppin State in Baltimore. Hehas also been a librarian at Enoch Pratt in Baltimore, St. Mary’sSeminary and University, and at City College High School in Baltimore.He is also the founding editor of the popular ChickenBones: A Journal, which has been online since 2001 with both a national and an international audience.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Senator Barbara Boxer--In Search of My Soul Sister
In Search of My Soul Sister
After a lifetime of fears, doubts, ambivalence and general paranoia (myessential mental state) about the feminine gender, I recently concluded,based on six decades of interaction, that the black woman was, afterall is said and done, my friend, and that she has never wanted to beanything other than my friend, helper, lover and mate, really, foreternity, if I could have ever been shackled to her that long. Yes,after thinking about my most wonderful Mother, an even more gracious andloving Grandmother (Oh, Grandma’s hands!), and after reflecting on mysix sisters who probably more than anyone else helped form myambivalence and maybe paranoia too, since I was so traumatized by theirconstant chatter and feminine intrigues that I would find it a simplematter upon adolescence and adulthood to ignore any words from thefeminine gender, especially simple advice or wisdom, which cost megreatly on the road to success, including several failed marriages and akind of psychic distance from my three lovable daughters.
If truth be told and certainly it is time to tell the truth at this stagein my life, I must admit that all the women in my life have beenabsolutely wonderful, not one ever treated me wrongly or withouttenderness and unconditional love, yet my response was to dog them to noend, or rather until the end when they departed broken hearted anddisgusted.
This new recognition on my part was made even plainer when my actor/singer J.B. Saunders presented mewith a wonderful song “Don’t Bite The Hands That Feed You.”
J.B., also a dogger of women, perhaps even worse than myself since he had acareer of pimping, had also had a revelation that it was time toreconcile with the feminine gender, or least stop the abuse, whetherphysical, mental or emotional. Perhaps old dogs actually do learn newtricks! J.B.’s lyrics said that our woman was indeed our friend andsupporter, not someone to be dogged at every turn, for in the end webecome the victim, or as another song told us “the hunter gets capturedby the game.”
Of course, one truth about love is that love is a game of victims, for by its nature, love makesthe beloved victim of the lover, for love is that state wherein wewillingly accept to be victimized for we submit and declare to all whoneed to know and to some who don’t need to know that we are helplesslyunder the power of the beloved.
Moving from the personal to the political, we now clearly recognize that love forthe Black woman had to move from the romantic to the critical indeciding who or what she represented on this stage of life. How is sheconnected to us and we to her—a question we had to answer about men aswell, with the same if not more degree of political acumen because fewmen allow another man to do to us what we allow women to do, after all,women have the unique skill to get anything from us with a smile, aglance of the eye, a stride. During my brief academic career, my femalestudents knew they could get almost any grade from me, especially ifthey came at me right, or simply talked right, it wasn’t always aboutsexual favors. And two of my students convinced me to marry them, somuch for the wisdom of the professor.
But in the politics of love, we matured to the point of understanding ablack face, even of the feminine gender, was not sufficient to gain ourallegiance and respect. We came to recognize that politics was not aboutcolor, contrary to what we “believed” during the 60s, especially withthe call for black power. Forty years later, however belatedly anddetrimentally, we came to see blackness was about consciousness notcolor and had much to do about class as well, since class very oftendetermines consciousness, although not always, after all, we know ofseveral instances in our history when “house Negroes” plotted slaverevolts, but generally speaking, the house Negro is not to be trusted,since he/she is more determined to preserve the house than the master.
We are reminded of that scene in the film Amistad where the Africans arebeing marched into town for mutiny. One African sees a Negro carriagedriver and remarks, “He is our brother.” An African replies, “No, he is awhite man.”
And so it is the class nature of things that must be examined with respect to loving or not loving Dr.Condi Rice—to be or not to be our sister—that is the question! Havingtranscended our gender fears, having made every determination to reachout in sincerity to embrace our sister in struggle, who endured with usall the horror and terror of the centuries, we must sadly reject her andeverything for which she stands, for we find her politicalconsciousness an abomination, a betrayal of our racial heritage ofresistance in the face of suffering, in short genocide. Clearly, shecame from us, but is no longer us, she has graduated from victim tovictimizer—while some, perhaps her “classmates” on the right will callthis progress and a point of pride for the “race.” Well, I rememberElijah Muhammad describing UN Undersecretary Ralph Bunche as “A Negro wedon’t need,” and this most surely applies to Condi, who graduated fromoppressed to oppressor. She stands at the pinnacle of imperialism, themost powerful woman in the world, yes, even more powerful than the Queenof England, for Condi literally has the world in her hands. In assumingto Secretary of State, we are humbled at her meteoric rise from theslave pit of Alabama to steering the ship of state.
Her brother Colin Powell whom she replaces for the simple reason that he was found disagreeable to the imperial throne, perhaps even in his conservatism too uppitywith thoughts slightly to the left of Pharaoh, had to be replaced byCondi who shares a more amicable relationship with boss man sah, to thetragic extent that Senator Barbara Boxer voted against confirmation,saying “…Your loyalty to the mission you were given…overwhelmed yourrespect for the truth.”
In the darkest days of my gender fears, I never forgot the teachings of my mother’sChristian Science religion with it’s emphasis on the centrality of truthin all matters.Indeed what has gotten me in trouble with women evenmore than physical and mental abuse is being truthful, especially inregard to my sexual improprieties.
Condi Rice stands condemned before the world for being a liar and murderer, aperson completely and utterly devoid of truth, thus her elevation toSecretary of State must be a great embarrassment to our ancestors, andher reply to Senator Boxer that her credibility and integrity was beingimpugned is without merit. Boxer pointed out how she contradicted thepresident and herself with respect to weapons of mass destruction as thecause for war against Iraq. Contrary to Dr. Rice, Saddam was not athreat to his neighbors in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Iran, Jordanand Syria. He was contained and therefore not a threat to the “Americanpeople,” who, as Nelson Mandela pointed out, are the greatest threat toworld peace. There was nothing to fear from Saddam but fear itself,quite similar to my gender fears I harbored for decades when I imaginedfemale friends, mates, lovers were somehow my enemies, and were, in mytortured mind, out to get me, when in reality, I was out to get them.
Condi’s advice to President Bush has, at this point, caused the death of 1,366Americans,10,372 wounded, also over 100,000 Iraqi dead. As Boxer noted,this is no light matter but a deception of the most despicable kind thathas brought America’s credibility in the world to a new low, yet, likethe President, Dr. Rice is totally unapologetic and stoic in maintainingher stance that contravenes reality.
I cannot in the name of our shared Africanity go there with her, for shelong ago crossed the line of propriety. She cannot have my respect andsympathy in her dutiful defense of Pharaoh and his meanderingsthroughout the world in the name of global capitalism. Imagine, in themidst of the Iraqi quagmire, they are now contemplating an invasion ofIran. This American arrogance has no end except The End.
As between Senator Barbara Boxer and Condi Rice, if I had to choose my soul sister, I would rise above color in favor of consciousness, thus claim Senator Boxer as my sister.
This is no time in history to be starry-eyed idealists and continue withromantic notions about blackness. Sadly, we live in a world where whatappears to be black is white and what appears white is black. Get overit and march forward into the new millennium. I shall never forget howwe banned interracial couples from attending our black nationalistparties in the 60s. Amina Baraka loves to tell the story of when she andher husband were at the Black House cultural/political center in SanFrancisco in 1967. Amina observed my lady friend Ethna Wyatt (HurriyahAsar) tell a white woman she couldn’t come in. The lady replied she waspart Indian. Hurriyah replied, “Well, the Indian can come in but thewhite got to go.”
At another party with revolutionary black nationalists, a brother tried repeatedly to convinceus his white woman was in fact black in consciousness, therefore shouldbe admitted. We rejected his pronouncement, but in consciousness hiswoman was black and should have been admitted, especially since therewere sisters at the party who harbored thoughts, if only subconsciously,similar to Condi Rice’s. As a matter of fact, I was recently told ofone sister who was at this particular party who is now such a right wingfanatic that her in-laws banned her from their house, even changedtheir telephone number to avoid her right wing ranting.
I am not promoting interracial relationships, rather, in the tradition ofmy Mother, I am promoting truth and honesty which is the least weshould expect from human beings with consciousness, no matter theircolor. But we understand that class has a way of stretching truth beyondreality, where it becomes an exercise in arrogance and sick pride, thestuff of classic tragedy. I am not into hating human beings, especiallymy distant sister Condi Rice, whom we must allow history and God tojudge—may they have mercy on her soul.
At least Colin Powell was man enough to apologize to the world for hisUnited Nations pseudo lecture justifying the war. Shall we await the daywhen Condi will admit her sins? Let us hope she is not made to do sobefore the World Court for crimes against humanity.
White ain’t white
Beware the day
Beware the night.
--From Wish I Could Tell You the Truth, Marvin X, BBP, 2005. Reprinted in Mythology of Pussy and Dick, toward Healthy Psychosocial Sexuality, Marvin X,BBP, 2010, $49.95.
Black Bird Press
1222 Dwight Way, Berkeley Ca 94702
jmarvinx@yahoo.com
Monday, October 11, 2010
Hussein al-Shahristani, Iraq's Minister of Oil, Marvin X's Teacher
Iraq's oil windfall
"Iraq Proven Oil Reserves Rise Significantly " declares the Wall Street Journal, echoing a number of other news sources.
But are they "proven"?
So far, we have only assurances from the Iraq's oil minister Hussein al-Shahristani*:
These aren't random figures, rather they were the results of deep surveyscarried out by the ministry's oil reservoir company and internationalcompanies which signed contracts with Iraq.
But a few people are voicing scepticism, probably because we have seen this kind of sudden good news before.
Higher proven reserves should eventually mean a higher productionquota from Opec (Organisation of the Petroleum Exporting Countries), andtheoretically more revenue.__________
* Dr. Husseinal-Shahristani was a student at the University of Toronto, Canada,in1967. While a draft resister exiled in Toronto, Marvin X met Husseinat Juma prayers at the University. Hussein and Marvin X became friends.He invited the poet to his apartment for Arabic and Islamic lessons.Hussein was president of the Muslim Students Association of the US andCanada. He explained Shia Islam to Marvin X, declaring his ideas weresimilar to the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. He appreciated ElijahMuhammad's Nation of Islam because that is what he wanted. He laterbecame a nuclear scientist who was persecuted under Saddam Husseinbecause he refused to work on Saddam's nuclear weapons program.
Hedeclined the position of Iraq's prime minister but accepted theMinister of Oil's portfolio. Hussein is a close associate of the GrandAyatollah Sistani who refuses to meet with the American infidels.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Wish I Could Fly Like a Hawk
Wish I Could Fly Like a Hawk
Wish I could fly like a hawk
just soar above earth
silent
gliding smooth
no noise
silent
observing all
madness below
rats scurrying
snakes in the grass
wish I could fly like a hawk
sometimes in motion still
wings frozen in flight
yet moving
wish I could be hawk
above the madness of it all
the meaningless chatter
cell phone psychosis
talking loud saying nothing
why are you breathing
jogging
without meaning purpose
no mission beyond nothingness
absorbing air from the meaningful
who subscribe to justice
let me fly above the living dead
let me soar
let me dream
imagine
another time and place
another space
this cannot be the end game
the hail marry
let me soar above it all
wings spread wide
let me glide
ah, the air is fresh up here
did I make it to heaven
did I escape hell
come with me
do not be afraid
the night is young
let us fly into the moon
see the crescent
so beautiful
let us fly into the friendly sky
wings spread wide
we are strong and mighty
the hawk.
--Marvin X
10/10/10
Obama Drama
Obama Drama
You lied, nigguh
no change
no hope
no dreams satisfied
more lies
more greed for wall street
no relief for the poor
middle class
workers
North America Africans
no mention their name
except at the black carcass (caucus) dance into oblivion
no peace
more war in Iraq Afghanistan Pakistan Yemen Somalia
war in da hood
more prison doors locked on the brothers
and sisters
no job program at all
a sham
jobs for terrorists
education for terrorists
housing for terrorists
not terrorists in the hood
who can believe such duplicity
innuendo
circumlocution
are you black are you white
to be or not to be
problem or solution
you decide
your sycophant negroes
the other white people
in black face
let them decide with you.
--Marvin X
10/10/10
https://theblacklist.net/
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