Susan's review of "B as in Beauty"

Big is Beautiful: A Review of B as in Beauty
B as in Beauty
Alberto Ferreras
Grand Central Publishing
2009
This week I read B as in Beauty by Alberto Ferreras. Earlier this week I said I was going to try to lighten up. I saw this book reviewed a few places, and I loved the cover so I was happy to give this chick lit a go. Read it in one sitting. Okay, it's chick lit, a genre I don't normally read but I said I was going to lighten up, right? Okay.
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Geoffrey Philp's "sunset at greynolds park"

"weeeee," my son's scream
unhinges an egret from the sea-
grape's gnarled boughs; bitter juice
rises in my throat; his mother's station
wagon enters the parking lot filled
with minivans--young couples still naive
enough to believe in love--yet i wish it was
us, swinging higher into that arc that binds me
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Corruption Even a Poet Can Understand

To the extent other industrialized nations pay attention to the U.S., they must wonder why establishing something as basic as adequate health-care for everyone is so hard for Americans to achieve. Availability to solid health-care for all citizens in a nation is about as basic as a good fire department is for a city. In this instance, "American exceptionalism" is not a compliment. Most reliable ratings of health-care systems worldwide put that of the U.S. around 35th (or so)...
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Pam Mordecai's "To No Music"

That is my quarrel with this country.
You hear them say: "April?
April? Spring’s on its way, come April."
And, poor things, believe it too.
See them outside, toes blue
in some skemps little cotton skirt
well set on making what don’t go so, go so.
And think: this big April morning
it make as if to snow.
Serious!

That is something that must
make a body consider: if you can’t
trust the way the world turn –
winter, spring, summer, autumn –
what you can trust?
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Carolee's stone

LINK: http://www.ahandfulofstones.com/2009/07/i-am-drunk-in-strange-city.html

Joseph McNair's "I know it was the blood"

Foreclosure

The woman was a sucker for a tricked out bathroom, and this one came fully loaded: russet Italian marble, bronze fixtures, a Japanese commode that washed and air dried after each use, plus a Jacuzzi with nozzles calibrated to hit all the right places. One night as she soaked in lavender-scented water she felt the bathroom’s fingers begin to press into her scalp, rubbing circles over the skin until she said, "yes, yes, of course, I’ll sign anything."

Kneeling next to her, he whispered, "I promise never to let us go underwater. The value of our love will always be greater than the payments we make to keep it alive."
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Saw this on Geoffrey's blog today

"Love is Earth's mission
despite the massed dead."

~Chinese Lanterns from the Blue Child~
Anthony McNeill.

[Where I got it from...]

Dancehall music blamed for homophobia in Jamaica

In the inaugural edition of Pulse three panelists – Howard 'Flagga' Duperly (88.9FM WDNA), Geoffrey Philp (Miami Dade College), and Tim Padgett (Time Magazine) discuss the controversy surrounding Jamaica’s attitude towards homosexuals, and whether or not the country’s dancehall brand of music is the primary contributor to the negative treatment of its gay population.

Padgett, who a few years ago wrote a scathing piece for Time Magazine labeling Jamaica as one of the most homophobic nations in the world, cites reggae artists such as Buju Banton as both instigator and oppressor.
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Aftermath of the Arrest: Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

Aftermath of the Arrest: Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

There you go. It's happened again. Another black person carted off to prison for no apparent reason other than the fact his melanocytes are more active. Not a boy with chains around his neck, wearing pants that are too large, listening to loud rap, but an aged man, Dr Henry Louis Gates, Jr.

A learned man coming from a trip abroad. And standing in his own house. Geoffrey asks some vital questions here, like, what to do?

Ruling allows apartheid victims to sue

Khadija Sharife

2009-07-16, Issue 442

http://pambazuka.org/en/category/features/57759

cc T Sly

In one of the most significant legal rulings in the post-apartheid history of South Africa, victims of apartheid have finally received the green light from a US judge to sue multinational corporations that knowingly aided and abetted the regime.

The implications of this ruling are colossal, writes Khadija Sharife, not only for Africa but for the world at large.

American sentence: "To him"

The yew grew on your grave
to symbolise the life
you'll be giving us.

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Sholeh Wolpé's "I am Neda"

I Am Neda

Leave the Basiji bullet in my heart,
fall to prayer in my blood,
and hush, father
--I am not dead.

More light than mass,
I flood through you,
breathe with your eyes,
stand in your shoes, on the rooftops,
in the streets, march with you
in the cities and villages of our country
shouting through you, with you.
I am Neda—thunder on your tongue.
© Sholeh Wolpé

[source...]

Poems in Asili

I'm happy to have poems up in Asili, the Journal of Multicultural Heartspeak, of which I'll share with you. Please check out work by other writers there as well.

Pat Parker's "Where will you be, When they come?"

Boots are being polished…trumpeters clean their horns
Chains and locks forged…the crusade has begun.
Once again flags of Christ…are unfurled in the dawn
and cries of soul saviors…sing apocalyptic on air waves.
Citizens, good citizens all…parade into voting booths
and in self-righteous sanctity…X away our right to life.
I do not believe as some…that the vote is an end,
I fear even more…it is just a beginning.
So I must make assessment…look to you and ask:
Where will you be…when they come? [...]
Where will we _all be_
when they come?
And they will come-
they will come…because...
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Camille T. Dungy's "Ark"

I will enter you as hope enters me,
through blinding liquid, light of rain, and I
will stay inside until you send me out;
I will stay inside until you ground me.
We cannot outrun the rain. So many
summers I have tried. So many summers.
But when the rumble calls after the spark
there can be no escape...
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[read...]

Rhyming

Poetry: Poetry Techniques

Chris Abani's "Hands Washing Water"

Even in the falling
a train breaks for the light.
The tunnel, the darkness – never

sweeter. This body is not
real. Yet living.
This living body.

There is a child. The blessed
coolness of water.
And hands
© Chris Abani

[source 1...] and [source 2...]

Literary Award: Penguin South Africa

PENGUIN BOOKS SOUTH AFRICA ANNOUNCES A NEW LITERARY AWARD

21 April 2009
Penguin Books announced today a new literary award for writers from the African continent. The Penguin Prize for African Writing has two categories: a previously unpublished full-length work of adult fiction and one of non-fiction. The prize in each category will be R50 000 and a publishing contract with Penguin Books South Africa, with worldwide distribution via Penguin Group companies.

Penguin South Africa’s CEO Alison Lowry commented, “Although this prize does not exclude established authors, we believe that there are new writers from Africa for whom Penguin can provide a platform, and in so doing we hope to reflect and showcase the diversity of voices on our continent both at home and abroad.”

Books to be considered for the non-fiction award will be serious narratives that examine and explore African issues and experiences for both local and international audiences in an engaging, thought provoking and enlightening way.

For the fiction prize the judges will be looking for novels of freshness and originality that represent the finest examples of contemporary fiction out of Africa.

Penguin’s Chairman and Chief Executive, John Makinson said, “As we approach the end of our second decade of publishing in South Africa, it is exciting to be able to look ahead to the next phase of the company’s development. The Penguin Prize for African Writing will give us opportunities to reach new readers across Africa and bring talented and important writers to the attention of book lovers around the world.”

Submissions for both categories are now open, and close on the 30^th of January 2010. The shortlist will be announced in April 2010 and the final prizes will be awarded in September 2010.

See below documents for the fiction and non-fiction prize criteria.
[source...]

Kwame Dawes's "She's Gone"

I savor a story that is so rooted in culture that I feel as though I can sink into its reality. For the moments that easily drift into hours of reading, I’m living the characters’ rich lives as if their own mothers had birthed me. Hearing and seeing in a world that is not just familiar to them, but one I readily fall prey to. One that becomes me.

For seven hours, I lived in She’s Gone.

Two lovers torn, Keisha and Kofi’s love was imperfect, yet perfect for them. Dawes crafted a masterful poetic removal of love’s mask, unearthing its harsh reality. Never simply flowers and sweets, but a sinister mix of joy and pain, more often pain that eventually morphs into the illusion of comfort. She’s Gone was simply real. A dance between two worlds, so different but similar. An exploration of two cultures clashing, and the courage it takes to break familial bondage and free the spirit, ready the soul for acceptance—even at the brink of madness.
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O jwang?

Ka tlhaho o sehlekehleke,
Hlekehleke baka se hara metsi,
Hara metsi ha habo mmamolapo le kganyapa,
Shaka le leruarua ba sa sale morao.

Ha mmila o ntse o puta wa fetoha,
Wa fetoha moleko mohlorisi wa Maaforika,
Maaforika a lwanelang toka le nnete,
Nnete e reng tsa bo bona di boye sekwele.

Empa jwale nna o a mmakatsa nneso,
Hantlentle o jwang moleko towe?
Hoba batho ha o aka wa ba tshwara ka ho tshwana,
O bile le dithatohatsi le ba nenwang.

Maoba o tshwere ba tshwanang batho,
O tshwere dikwete,banna ba sebele,
Banna ba neng ba lwanela toka le nnete,
Maaforika sebele ho qeta.

Ho kgutleng ha bona ha ba aka ba tshwana,
Tshobotsi ne di fapane haholo,
Bang eka be ne ba ile paradeising,
Ha ba bang eka ba tswa diheleng.

Hantlentle o jwang moleko towe ?
Hoba bang ba kgutlile e le dikwete,
Ba shahlile bala le hlakile,
Eka hodimo ba le bone ka mahlo.

Mpolelle hle o jwang?
Hoba bang ba kgutlile e le mehoboko,
Ba qhiletsa maoto a feletse ho wena.
Matsoho le menwana ha re sa bua.

Hapehape ke sa o botsa weso,
Hantlentle o jwang motswalle?
Bang ebile mokete mohlang o ba lesang.
Ha ba bang o ba lahletse Qwaqwa ho itshokolela.

Hantlentle o jwang moleko towe?,
Bang esale o ba nka,
Le kajeno re sa ba lebelletse,
Kapa o ba entse dithotsela na re tsebe.

Mpolelle monna o jwang ?
Hoba bang ka sehloho o ba fenethile,
Matsohong a hao ba shwetse sehloho.
Tjhefo a ba file tse tabolang mala.
© Teboho Mahapa

Opal Palmer Adisa's "The Muse"

Quote: Robert Frost

"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader."
~Robert Frost

Maya Angelou's "We Had Him"

Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind.

Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace. Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.

In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time. No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.

Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.

Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us, and we did have him.

He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.

Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love, and survived and did more than that.

He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style. We had him whether we knew who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his.

We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.

His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.

And we laughed and stomped our feet, for him.

We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing. He gave us all he had been given.

Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana’s Black Star Square,

In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England,

We are missing Michael Jackson.

But we do know we had him, and we are the world.

[source...]

Kwame Dawes's "Hope's Hospice"

Kwame Dawes launched his poetry book, Hope's Hospice. Inspired while reporting on #HIV / #AIDS in Jamaica. http://bit.ly/v4EVU
about 3 hours ago from bit.ly

Pulitzercenter
Pulitzer Center

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[Listen]

How to write poetry

How to Compose Poetry

Poetry? Dead? Naaaah...

The paradox of poetry is that so many more people write it than read it. In this, it’s a little different than the other arts: people who play instruments listen to music all the time. Would-be painters spend lots of time in museums and galleries. I’m not sure why this disconnect exists: perhaps it’s a chicken and egg thing, where the less attention is paid to poetry — in magazines, reviews, even bookstores — the less people are aware of what’s going on in the art, which causes the media to neglect poetry even more, because who wants to read about this obscure thing nobody seems to care about? Or perhaps it’s due to the way poetry is taught in high school, as a kind of maddeningly complicated way of saying something simple, like seize the day, or my girlfriend says she loves me, so why won’t she sleep with me?
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