30 August 2010

"Frederick Douglass," by Robert Hayden



When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.
© Robert Hayden

Listen to the poem: http://poefrika.blogspot.com/2008/10/shawntay-henry-reads-haydens-frederick.html

Read about Frederick Douglass


Link to this poem:


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29 August 2010

We had him (Happy birthday, Michael Jackson)

28 August 2010

"First Love," by Geoffrey Philp.

Mark watched Patrick as he entered the showers and wondered how it would feel to have Patrick's arm around his waist and the ripple of his thighs against his buttocks.
For two weeks now that was all he could think about every time they took the long walk from Manning Cup football practice (at the bottom field of Jamaica College, JC) and past the newly built chemistry and physics lab while the grounds men mowed the grass on "Holy Ground."
The shadow of Long Mountain fell across the trunks of the Australian pines gathering the amber light dying on the corrugated roofs of Standpipe. They trampled over the grass soaked by an afternoon squall that had drenched the field, but had not stopped their game.
"They were sufferin', rude boys gave them Bufferin!"
Their raucous hoots seemed to mock the Latin inscription Fervet Opus In Campis over Scott Hall and the austere names of the houses: Cowper, Musgrave, Hardy and Murray-the school's homage to English boarding school tradition.
Mark had been in top form that afternoon-making impossible saves seem ordinary, orchestrating the attacks from the goal line by lobbing the ball to Patrick, his midfielder, or organizing the defense behind Charles, his sweeper. Although they played for different houses during the school year, they came together for their practice match as if they hadn't missed a beat.
"Blood claat game," said Charles. He banged his cleats against the benches with the same ferocity that he showed whenever he was sulking over a lost game. Yet they had won, so Mark was confused.
"Are you going to mash up everything?"
"No, no, something else is on my mind. You made some great saves today, man!"
The rest of the team joined in. For if they had not yet respected Mark's ability before, his performance that afternoon made them realize why the boys in the lower school had nicknamed him the "football ginigog," and also proved that he was almost assured of a place on Jamaica's national football team-something that had been anticipated by all of Mark's family.
Mark lived and breathed football, and had showed signs from primary school of surpassing his older brother and cousin, both of whom had played for Jamaica during the early sixties. But unlike his brother and cousin (who were both as tall as he was, six feet two inches) he knew how to use his size to intimidate the opposing players.
When Mark let out his blood curdling scream, "My ball!" and left his goal line, there weren't many strikers who challenged him. He had done that twice this afternoon and he remembered how the striker just curled up "like a pussy" (according to Charles) and allowed Mark to get the ball.
But for now, there were other things on Mark's mind. He kept going over and over how Patrick's hands had met his in the dark when they had gone with Patrick's cousins, Jennifer and Althea, to see Lethal Weapon 2.
Patrick had leaned over, whispered, "Where there's a will, there's a weapon", and touched his hand. It had happened so fast that Mark wasn't sure if it was the attraction or the danger that excited him.
And it was dangerous. It didn't matter that he was the best goalie in Kingston. For even though he was the captain of the football team, he still went to JC, and the school, since its founding in 1789 had always had a reputation for harboring gay teachers and students. Two hundred years later, after the government of Michael Manley (himself a JC alumnus) dismantled the entrance rules that had only allowed the sons of the white landed class and the sons of the brown middle class to enter JC's hallowed halls (which led to Patrick's father saying that Manley had betrayed his race and class), every JC boy was still suspect.
In fact, a week after JC had beaten the team from Kingston College, KC, while Mark and his teammates were waiting in the bleachers of the National Stadium, for a game against Calabar, the KC boys, who were up in the highest section of the bleachers, were throwing peanuts at them and singing:

Don't let batty boys invite you to dinner
Or you will become a sinner
Don't let batty boy give you bread and jelly
It will give you pain in you belly
Batty boy jelly O. Don't want no batty boy jelly O
Batty boy jelly will give pain in you belly O

And, despite Charles's advice not to respond to the taunts, Mark jumped out of his seat and screamed. "We beat you six-love! How does it feel to be beaten by batty boys?"
He thought that would have quieted them. And it did for a while, until one the KC boys shouted, "So, you're admitting that you're batty boys!"
The stands exploded in laughter and the KC boys began hurling paper cups and peanut shells at them-anything they could get their hands on. Mark and his teammates had to run for cover and waited in the changing rooms for the game to begin.
When the JC team came out to play, Patrick was so angry that he fought for every ball that was near him-something he never did in any other game-and scored three goals against Calabar.
"Not bad for a group of batty boys," the coach joked.
But it was no joking matter. In third form, they had all heard the story of how some of the prefects had caught and beaten "a Chinee batty boy." The boy had been injured so badly he had to be rushed to the emergency room. He never came back to the school.
Now as they passed the prefects' hall, a shudder went through Mark's body as they entered the changing rooms under the shade of a Bombay mango tree in full bloom. Yet he could only think about Patrick's muscular thighs as the doors closed behind him
Mark bent over and began loosening the laces of his boots and cleaning the mud from his cleats. Already the smell of sweat and the mildew had spread through the newly built locker and stalls--the quid pro quo arrangement that, along with the chemistry and physics labs, were part of the deal that the government and the Old Boys Association had negotiated for changing the entrance standards.
Glancing over at the stalls, he noticed that Patrick had left the latch open. He was always the first in and the last out. Charles had told him that unlike the rest of the boys, Patrick was circumcised and that he didn't want to be seen naked and add to the list of the things, like his blond hair and gray eyes that already made him different from the other boys.
How did Charles know this?
As he pulled the top laces on his boots, a bed of sweat fell on the wooden bench where Vivian "Dog head" Samuels had carved his initials into the wood and had embellished them with the shape of a woman's vulva. Mark traced his finger along the edges of the carving, admiring the handiwork, and wondered if Vivian had used one of the chisels that had been stolen from the art room.

Whap!

He felt he sting of a wet towel against his buttocks. It had to be Charles.
"Shit, man, how many times I have to tell you don't do that. It hurts."
"Had to get you out of your slumber, man. Were you thinking about the girl that "Dog head" used as a model or about Patrick?"
"What do you mean?"
"The way you looked over at the stalls, you look like you wanted to kill Patrick. You must have heard what he's been saying about you."
"What's he been saying?"
"All kind of fuckry. But you know me, I won't let anybody talk badly about you. Me and you go way back."
And they had. He and Charles had been friends since primary school, but they had grown apart since they entered JC and Charles was placed in Hardy House and Mark had been placed in Murray. He became the football captain of Murray House and Charles the captain of Hardy House. The friendly rivalry over the years created a slight rift in their relationship made even worse by the separation in lower sixth into arts and sciences.
Mark had realized since fourth form that he had a natural gift for mathematics and breezed through his chemistry and physics classes. Charles, on the other hand, was taking literature, history, and geography.
"Man, I don't see you anymore. The only time we see each other is at training and then you run off with your little friend, Patrick."
Charles ran his fingers through his hair and the curled wisps around his ears. Mark wondered if Charles was going to grow dreadlocks as he had said he was going to do once he got to sixth form.
"C'mon man. " A" levels are coming up. You and I are going to study Hamlet together?"
"I just know I wouldn't be studying with that white boy. That boy thinks he can say and do anything just because his father is the president of the Old Boys Association."
"C'mon Charles, stop with the white boy business? He didn't go to primary school with us, but we've all known each other since first form."
"You wouldn't know Mark. You're brown and they don't say the same things around you."
"Like what?"
"Like when I showed up late for biology class, Patrick's batty boy uncle, Mr. Silveira, said, 'Since when do they let the ground man's son into JC?' Fuckry, like that."
"Charles, that was four years ago. I thought you had forgotten about that."
"You don't forget about these things. They stay with you. It takes a long time to get over them."
Mark could never understand how Charles could hold on to grudges like that. Charles always found a way to get even with anyone who slighted him. And if Charles didn't like someone, or if he felt that they got something that he should have gotten, he would find out something bad about them and when he couldn't, he would make up something and spread rumors about them. Mark was just glad that Charles didn't hold it against him that he was named as captain of the Manning Cup team and was now headed for the All Stars team.
"Patrick is not like that."
"Don't tell me you're taking up for him. Not after what he's been saying"
Charles eyes tightened and he almost looked almost like mother, Miss Chin Loy, whom Charles's father never married because "it didn't look right." Charles had never told anyone, except Mark.
"What's he been saying about me?"
Mark laughed and shook his head.
"You don't want to know. He is a little batty boy."
"If they're saying he is a batty boy, what are they saying about me?"
"Nobody is saying you are a batty boy. We all know you are a baller-although you do like the white girls."
"How?"
"I know about you and his cousins. But we've been watching him and how he's been looking at you."
So Patrick had been watching him.
"And the way I just saw you looking at him, I know you feel like murdering him yourself."
Murder was not the word
"Tell me, what did he say?"
"That you let him score on you last week."
It was true. In the last minutes of the inter-house championship, Patrick got the ball away from one of Mark's defenders. Their eyes met. Mark purposely dove to his right when he knew that Patrick was going to kick the ball to the left. No one had ever done that before.
"What!"
"Yeah, man. Yeah."
He had allowed Patrick to score as sign of his trust, but the way Patrick's teammates cheered Patrick, it was as if they had won the championship.
"He said that you had given up the goal for him. You are the best goalie this school has seen in a long time."
"That little…"
"Batty boy."
Mark could count on one had all the players who had scored on him for the six years he had been at JC and he prided himself with the consolation that all of them had gone on to play for the national team. Patrick was good, but he wasn't that good.
"Everybody, but you, knows he is batty boy. We can't prove it, but we know it. We are going trap him.
"Fuck off, Charles. I'm not involved in any batty boy business."
"You don't have to do anything man. His own batty boy self will give him away. We're just going leave the room."
"No, I don't want to be involved."
"It's already set, Patrick. It's happening today. I'm telling you this because I am your friend. That white batty boy is going to get a beating tonight."
"No."
"It's too late. We all know that you are a baller. He is the one who is suspect," and Charles left the room.
Patrick was still in the showers. The leaves of the Bombay mango tree scraped across the roof of the changing room sending dried pollen through the window.
Mark coughed.
The showers stopped.
"Mark?"
Mark wanted to tell Patrick to stop, not to come out of the showers, but he could only cough.
"Mark, are you all right?"
Patrick came out of the showers with his towel wrapped around his waist. Mark looked at him and turned his back.
"Is anyone here?"
Mark was trembling now. He couldn't speak and the urge to cough overcame him. He wanted to cough, but didn't or couldn't. He wanted to scream, but didn't.
"Are you okay?"
Patrick was behind him. Mark could hear his own heartbeat. It was louder than the sound of lawnmower that had edged closer to the changing rooms,
Patrick touched him on the shoulder and he shuddered. Yes, it was real despite the danger. He couldn't turn around. Patrick massaged his shoulders and pulled at the towel, but Mark held the edge.
"No!"
Mark's scream echoed through the changing rooms and Charles and the rest of his teammates came running inside.
"No!"
Patrick tried to escape by climbing out the widow, but Charles and his teammates grabbed Patrick by the arms and dragged him to the ground and began beating him with their fists and kicking him with their boots. Charles grabbed Patrick's head and began beating it against the concrete floor.
"Mark you don't want a piece of this?"
Patrick looked up at Mark and their eyes met like the moment when Patrick had the chance to score and Mark allowed him to score. Patrick looked at him for some kind of acknowledgement, as if he would bear this if Mark would give him some sign as he had given him before.
Mark would not. Patrick had caused this and Mark could not give that sign, not now, not ever.
Patrick was his first love, but he would not be his last. Mark kicked Patrick in the groin.
Patrick doubled over and the rest of the boys joined in a frenzy and rained their blows all over Patrick's body. They beat him until he was unconscious. He lay on the floor, naked and bloody.
One of the boys asked, "Should we cover him or something?"
Charles said, "No, leave him for the grounds men to find him. He got what he deserved. Nasty batty boy."
"Yeah," said Mark. "Nasty batty boy."


Links: Blog, Wikipedia, Amazon page, Poéfrika, Canopic Jar
© Geoffrey Philp

27 August 2010

"Redemption Rain," by Jennifer Rahim

I have been praying for rain –
relentless down-pouring
like Mary's weeping,
that Resurrection morning
when all that was love to her
was lost. O, that morning
was her hurricane of asking,
Who take him? Where they put him?
Not even a body left to touch.
Yes, I have been praying for rain
like that first Easter morning
when so much eye-water fall
it drown her world like Noah's.
[continue there...]

"The Child and the Parent," by Ted Kooser

The child has torn off the front of the parent.
Was it the father, the mother? No one can tell.
What's left stands bleeding, its dear face gone,
its breast and belly gone, its sex. Its throat
gapes open, the vocal chords like strands of phlegm
that tremble, trying to come up with advice,
just a friendly word or two of wise counsel.
It opens its bloody arms, wanting a hug,
but with its eyes gone, the parent can't see
that the child has already left with its booty,
with part of a parent, rolled up like a carpet.
It won't be worth much in such awful condition,
but the child thinks some fool may take it
in trade for a few gallons of gas, or a burger
with fries and a Coke, or a pair of old sneakers
with a little bounce left in the soles.




Copyright © 2009 Ted Kooser All rights reserved
from Iron Horse Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

26 August 2010

Interview with poet, activist and scholar Nikki Giovanni

Women's Magazine - August 16, 2010 at 1:00pm

Click to listen (or download)

25 August 2010

Call for poems

Fellow peacemakers,

Kindly note that in commemoration of International Peace Day, 21 September 2010, the LESOTHO WOMEN'S NETWORK FOR PEACE is calling for original poetry from all over Africa on the theme of Hope and Peace. The best entries will be published online and in book form.

Submissions: We seek well-crafted submissions of poetry, prose, and artwork. Submissions for the PEACE OF A DREAM edition will open on 1 August 2010, and close on 30 September 2010.

Poetry: Please submit 3-5 poems as a Microsoft word document attached to the email message to lesothopeacenet@yahoo.com

Any style or length will be considered, as our primary interest is to feature original and compelling writing.

When submitting, please include your Contact details and name as you would like it to appear, the title of the poem and a brief bio should also be submitted.

Submitting means that you will allow your work to be published in print and online. In other words, if accepted, you also guarantee that your poem is and original work, written, revised by you.

24 August 2010

"Roses and Revolutions," by Dudley Randall

Musing on roses and revolutions,
I saw night close down on the earth like a great dark wing,
and the lighted cities were like tapers in the night,
and I heard the lamentations of a million hearts
regretting life and crying for the grave,
and I saw the Negro lying in the swamp with his face blown off,
and in the northern cities with his manhood maligned and felt the writhing
of his viscera like that of the hare hunted down or the bear at bay,
and I saw men working and taking no joy in their work
and embracing the hard-eyed whore with joyless excitement
and lying with wives and virgins in impotence.

And as I groped in darkness
and felt the pain of millions,
gradually, like day driving night across the continent,
I saw dawn upon them like the sun a vision
of a time when all men walk proudly through the earth
and the bombs and missiles lie at the bottom of the ocean
like the bones of dinosaurs buried under the shale of eras,
and men strive with each other not for power or the accumulation of paper
but in joy create for others the house, the poem, the game of athletic beauty.

Then washed in the brightness of this vision,
I saw how in its radiance would grow and be nourished and suddenly
burst into terrible and splendid bloom
the blood-red flower of revolution.
© Dudley Randall

23 August 2010

"I’m Really Very Fond," by Alice Walker

I’m really very fond of you,
he said.

I don’t like fond.
It sounds like something
you would tell a dog.

Give me love,
or nothing.

Throw your fond in a pond,
I said.

But what I felt for him
was also warm, frisky,
moist-mouthed,
eager,
and could swim away

if forced to do so.
© Alice Walker
[Source...]

22 August 2010

"Preliminary Report from the Committee on Appropriate Postures for the Suffering," by Jon Davis

We who wear clean socks and shoes are tired
of your barefoot complaining, your dusty footprints
on our just-cleaned rugs. Tired, too of your endless ploys—
the feigned amputations, the imaginary children
you huddle with outside the malls, your rags and bottles,
the inconvenient positions you assume. Though we remain
impressed by your emaciation and your hunger and,
frankly, find you photogenic and think your images
both alarming and aesthetically pleasing, to do anything
more than sigh will require a complex process
of application and review, a process that is currently
in the development stage. Meanwhile, may we suggest
you moderate your public suffering at least
until the Committee on Appropriate Postures for the Suffering
is able to produce guidelines. Do not be alarmed.
The committee has asked me to assure you
that they are sensitive both to the aesthetic qualities
of your suffering—the blank stares, the neotonous beauty
as the flesh recedes and the eyes seem to grow larger,
the haloes of flies—and to the physical limitations
of human endurance and the positioning of limbs.
They will, I am certain, ask that you not lift
your naked children like offerings to the gods.
On this topic, discussion has centered around the unfair
advantage such ploys give the parents of such children.
The childless, whether by choice or fate, are left
to wither silently in the doorways while those with children
proffer and gesticulate in the avenues unabated.
This offends our cherished sense of fairness,
the democratic impulse that informs and energizes
our discussions. Therefore, we ask for restraint,
and where restraint is lacking, we will legislate.
Please be forewarned. In addition, the committee
will recommend that the shouting of slogans,
whether directed at governments or deities, be kept
to a minimum. Not only is such shouting displeasing
aesthetically, but it suggests there is something
to be done. Believe me, no one is more acutely aware
of your condition than we who must ignore it everyday
on our way to the capitol. In this matter, we ask only
that you become more aware of your fellow citizens,
who must juggle iPods, blackberries, briefcases
and cell phones, lattes. Who must march steadily
or be trampled by the similarly burdened citizens
immediately behind them. Your shouting and pointing
does not serve you well. Those of us employed
by the agency are sworn to oversee you. If we seem,
as you suggest, to have overlooked you instead,
that is an oversight and will be addressed, I am certain,
in our annual review. Please be aware: To eliminate
your poverty, your hunger, your aesthetically
pleasing, yet disturbing, presence in our doorways,
above our heating grates, in our subway tunnels
and under our freeways would mean the elimination
of the agency itself and quite possibly a decline
in tourism. Those of us employed by the agency
have neither the stamina, persistence, nor the luminous
skin tones that you present to the viewing public.
Finally, to those who would recommend programs,
who would call for funding and action,
I must remind you that we have been charged not
with eliminating your suffering but with managing it.
© Jon Davis
[source...]

20 August 2010

"Adolescence II," by Rita Dove



Although it is night, I sit in the bathroom, waiting.
Sweat prickles behind my knees, the baby-breasts are alert.
Venetian blinds slice up the moon; the tiles quiver in pale strips.

Then they come, the three seal men with eyes as round
As dinner plates and eyelashes like sharpened tines.
They bring the scent of licorice. One sits in the wash bowl,

One on the bathtub edge; one leans against the door.
"Can you feel it yet?" they whisper.
I don't know what to say, again. They chuckle,

Patting their sleek bodies with their hands.
"Well, maybe next time." And they rise,
Glittering like pools of ink under moonlight,

And vanish. I clutch at the ragged holes
They leave behind, here at the edge of darkness.
Night rests like a ball of fur on my tongue.
© Rita Dove

19 August 2010

"Intensities of Emphasis and Wonder," by Farrah Field

The sleeping one is erect and mumbles.
The room went Arctic overnight

and his foot peeks outside the covers.
You leave his warm slumber

five minutes before the new hour,
stomach growling, and possible

moon somewhere. There's slight moisture
still. He'll later say he saw you leave.

The day will happen soon enough—
peanut butter sandwich, dropped knife,

tote bag of graded papers.
Flossing in a colder room,

planning Jefferson myth-debunking,
washing hair—the man's sleep stretches

without boundaries, rolled to middle,
as if it were his bed, thick lashes,

even beard, and no concern for pillow.
He doesn't know it's October and you are happy.
© Farrah Field
[source...]

"Two Clocks", by Ngwatilo Mawiyoo

18 August 2010

"Home to Roost", by Kay Ryan

The chickens
are circling and
blotting out the
day. The sun is
bright, but the
chickens are in
the way. Yes,
the sky is dark
with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and
then they turn
again. These
are the chickens
you let loose
one at a time
and small —
various breeds.
Now they have
come home
to roost — all
the same kind
at the same speed.
© Kay Ryan, from "The Niagara River"
[source...]

15 August 2010

"Yarn Spinner" by Pamela Mordecai

Inside she sits and spins, decanting gold
and silver from her wrists. Her fingers bleed.
Day and then night. Myriad windows perch
above her head brilliant birds. Through them
she cannot see the river pirouette
from a valley hung high, tumble, kneel deep
into a basin blue as chiming bells
set in obsidian rocks. Night and then day
but she cannot observe the stars, the sun.
She scoffs air, laps sweat off her chin. Straining
to listen finds she cannot hear even
the wind. The walls leach marrow from her bones.
The room adjusts around her shrinking frame
of mind. She teases out a winking thread...
[continue there...]

11 August 2010

Chinua Achebe interview



Chinua Achebe interview 2
Chinua Achebe interview 3

9 August 2010

"Choices," by Nikki Giovanni

Choices, by Nikki Giovanni.

7 August 2010

"Dawn Revisited" by Rita Dove

Imagine you wake up
with a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak still stands, spreading
glorious shade. If you don't look back,

the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits -
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours

to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You'll never know
who's down there, frying those eggs,
if you don't get up and see.
© Rita Dove
[source...]

5 August 2010

"Telephone Conversation," by Wole Soyinka



The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. "Madame," I warned,
"I hate a wasted journey—I am African."
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.
"HOW DARK?"... I had not misheard... "ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis —
"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came.
"You mean — like plain or milk chocolate?"
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. "West African Sepia" — and as afterthought,
"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT’S THAT?" conceding
"DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."
"THAT’S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused —
Foolishly madam — by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black — One moment madam!" — sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears — "Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn’t you rather
See for yourself?"
© Wole Soyinka

More about this author:

4 August 2010

"Remedial Weeding" by Julie Hanson

You don't need to know its name
to know it is a weed; if it
has taken hold between two
paving bricks, if its thin root
or complex undermop is wedged
where the concrete riser joins the concrete step,
then assuredly it is.
It is redundant, stubborn work,
to which you squat or kneel or bend,
moving lowly in one manner
or another over the entire area
to be covered so that, naturally,
afterwards, you'll ache.
[continue there...]