dark fiction, dark poems, dark poetry, dark writing, Fiction, literature, poems, poetry, poetry readings, poetry slams, Uncategorized, writer, writing

Existence–Friday Night Poetry Corner #11 (Part B)

This poet; Nitinlalit is the definition of surreal and flow. Dig the poem and drop by his spot from time to time. you won’t be disappointed at all..

www.hierophantes.net
http://www.hierophantes.net
Fiction, literature, poems, poetry, poetry readings, poetry slams, romance, Uncategorized, writer, writing

late at night- for my sweet friend vishal (Friday Night Poetry Corner #11 (part A)

Alright ladies and gentlemen….
FRIDAY NIGHT POETRY CORNER #11 (part A)
Welcome again a great surreal poet Sharmishtha Sasu seductive joint:

late at night for my sweet friend vishal..

enjoy and visit her page if you can. you will enjoy it like i do..

UrbanScape

activism, Africa, african american fathers, civil rights, education, Fiction, literature, neo-soul, poems, poetry, poetry readings, poetry slams, Uncategorized, urban, urban fiction, writer, writing

Amiri Baraka—-on another journey

Amiri Baraka, former N.J. poet laureate and prolific author, dead at 79
(www.nytimes.com)

amiribw

Is the headlines from the NY Times newspaper today. He may not spoke popular views at all times but one can’t disregard the civil right struggles and education reform he was apart of for over 30yrs. This is a show of respect to Mr. Baraka, peaceful travels…

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

AB2

–Written by Amiri Baraka

In Memory of Radio

Who has ever stopped to think of the divinity of Lamont Cranston?
(Only jack Kerouac, that I know of: & me.
The rest of you probably had on WCBS and Kate Smith,
Or something equally unattractive.)

What can I say?
It is better to haved loved and lost
Than to put linoleum in your living rooms?

Am I a sage or something?
Mandrake’s hypnotic gesture of the week?
(Remember, I do not have the healing powers of Oral Roberts…
I cannot, like F. J. Sheen, tell you how to get saved & rich!
I cannot even order you to the gaschamber satori like Hitler or Goddy Knight)

& love is an evil word.
Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean?
An evol word. & besides
who understands it?
I certainly wouldn’t like to go out on that kind of limb.

Saturday mornings we listened to the Red Lantern & his undersea folk.
At 11, Let’s Pretend
& we did
& I, the poet, still do. Thank God!

What was it he used to say (after the transformation when he was safe
& invisible & the unbelievers couldn’t throw stones?) “Heh, heh, heh.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.”

O, yes he does
O, yes he does
An evil word it is,
This Love.


–Written by Amiri Baraka

Amiri-Baraka-Quotes-4