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Special Edition of the Friday Night Poetry Corner #98

Good late evening everyone. This is a special edition of the Friday Night Poetry Corner. This is the Weekend Poetry Corner and it is in honor of the last official weekend of Black History Month. Throughout the month I showcased past great poets whose art has stood the length of time. I wanted to showcase poets that people weren’t all to familiar with but I went to the old faithful (Langston Hughes, Lucille Clifton). This last edition is two of my personal favorites: Sonia Sanchez and Saul Williams. Well here we GO!!!!

 

The Brilliant Poet, Sonia Sanchez
The Brilliant Poet, Sonia Sanchez

 

under a soprano sky
1.

once i lived on pillars in a green house
boarded by lilacs that rocked voices into weeds.
i bled an owl’s blood
shredding the grass until i
rocked in a choir of worms.
obscene with hands, i wooed the world
with thumbs
while yo-yos hummed.
was it an unborn lacquer i peeled?
the woods, tall as waves, sang in mixed
tongues that loosened the scalp
and my bones wrapped in white dust
returned to echo in my thighs.

i hear a pulse wandering somewhere
on vague embankments.
O are my hands breathing? I cannot smell the nerves.
i saw the sun
ripening green stones for fields.
O have my eyes run down? i cannot taste my birth.

2.

now as i move, mouth quivering with silks
my skin runs soft with eyes.
descending into my legs, i follow obscure birds
purchasing orthopedic wings.
the air is late this summer.

i peel the spine and flood
the earth with adolescence.
O who will pump these breasts? I cannot waltz my tongue.

under a soprano sky, a woman sings,
lovely as chandeliers.

 

Sonia Sanchez

 

(**Warning poem below has adult language along with dope ass lyrics, you have been warned!!)

 

The Great Saul Williams..
The Great Saul Williams..

 
Amethyst Rocks
I stand on the corner of the block slangin’ Amethyst Rocks
Drinkin’ 40’s of mother earth’s private nectar stock dodging cops
Cause 5-0 be the 666
And I need a fix of that purple rain
The type of shit that drives membranes insane
Oh yeah I’m in the fast lane snorting candy yams
That free my body and soul and send me like shazzam
Never question who I am
God knows
And I know god personally
In fact he let’s me call him me
Yea I’m serious “B”
Doe gone niggas plotted shit lovely
But the feds is also plotting me
They’re trying to imprison my astrology
Put our stars behind bars
Our stars and stripes
Using blood splattered banners as nationalist kites
But I control the wind, that’s why they call it the hawk
I am Horus, son of Isis, son of Osiris
Worshiped as Jesus resurrected
Like Lazarus
But you can call me lazzy, lazy
Yea I’m lazy cause I’d rather sit and build
Than work and plow a field
Worshiping a daily yield of cash green crops

STEALING US WAS THE SMARTEST THING THEY EVER DID!
Too bad they don’t teach the truth to their kids
Our influence on them is the reflection they see
When they look into their minstrel mirror and talk about
“Their” culture
Their existence is that of a schizophrenic vulture
Yea there’s no repentance
They are bound to live an infinite consecutive executive life sentence
So what are you bound to live nigga
So while you’re out there serving the time
I’ll be in sync with the sun while you run from the moon
Life of the womb reflected by guns
Worshiper of moons, I am the the sun
And WE are public enemy’s number 1
1-1-1 ….. 1-1-1
Saul Williams

 

Thanks again everyone for taking this journey with me and for honoring Black History Month of 2016. Return next week for Friday Night Poetry Corner and until BHM 2017—-

 

“YOU MUST LEARN!!!”

-KRS-ONE

 

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Friday Night Poetry Corner #97

Greetings everyone.  I am very sorry for this very late edition of the Friday Night Poetry Corner.  A great friend of mines got on my case today by such a postponement so I will showcase two poems tonight.

Yes I know it’s a Sunday like Miles Davis–“So What.”  lol.

The features poets for tonight in further honoring of Black History Month is Lucille Clifton and June Jordan.  The magnificent poets, their brilliance makes the pen to paper as greater as apple pie to ice cream.  Or donuts to coffee, whiskey to cigars—

Just great combos for ones’ pleasure in wants and mental needs..

Let me stop writing, enjoy and look up more of their works, you won’t be disappointed.  I promise that.

 

 

 

The great Lucille Clifton, photo by Gwen Phillips
The great Lucille Clifton, photo by Gwen Phillips

1994

By Lucille Clifton

i was leaving my fifty-eighth year
when a thumb of ice
stamped itself hard near my heart
you have your own story
you know about the fears the tears
the scar of disbelief
you know that the saddest lies
are the ones we tell ourselves
you know how dangerous it is
to be born with breasts
you know how dangerous it is
to wear dark skin
i was leaving my fifty-eighth year
when i woke into the winter
of a cold and mortal body
thin icicles hanging off
the one mad nipple weeping
have we not been good children
did we not inherit the earth
but you must know all about this
from your own shivering life

 

Lucille Clifton, “1994” from the terrible stories. Copyright © 1996 by Lucille Clifton. Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.

 

The brilliant June Jordan, photo by Gwen Phillips
The brilliant June Jordan, photo by Gwen Phillips

 

A Poem about Intelligence for My Brothers and Sisters

By June Jordan

A few years back and they told me Black
means a hole where other folks
got brain/it was like the cells in the heads
of Black children was out to every hour on the hour naps
Scientists called the phenomenon the Notorious
Jensen Lapse, remember?
Anyway I was thinking
about how to devise
a test for the wise
like a Stanford-Binet
for the C.I.A.
you know?
Take Einstein
being the most the unquestionable the outstanding
the maximal mind of the century
right?
And I’m struggling against this lapse leftover
from my Black childhood to fathom why
anybody should say so:
E=mc squared?
I try that on this old lady live on my block:
She sweeping away Saturday night from the stoop
and mad as can be because some absolute
jackass have left a kingsize mattress where
she have to sweep around it stains and all she
don’t want to know nothing about in the first place
“Mrs. Johnson!” I say, leaning on the gate
between us: “What you think about somebody come up
with an E equals M C 2?
“How you doin,” she answer me, sideways, like she don’t
want to let on she know I ain’
combed my hair yet and here it is
Sunday morning but still I have the nerve
to be bothering serious work with these crazy
questions about
E equals what you say again, dear?”
Then I tell her, “Well
also this same guy? I think
he was undisputed Father of the Atom Bomb!”
“That right.” She mumbles or grumbles, not too politely
“And dint remember to wear socks when he put on
his shoes!” I add on (getting desperate)
at which point Mrs. Johnson take herself and her broom
a very big step down the stoop away from me
“And never did nothing for nobody in particular
lessen it was a committee
and
used to say, ‘What time is it?’
and
you’d say, ‘Six o’clock.’
and
he’d say, ‘Day or night?’
and
and he never made nobody a cup a tea
in his whole brilliant life!
and
[my voice rises slightly]
and
he dint never boogie neither: never!”
“Well,” say Mrs. Johnson, “Well, honey,
I do guess
that’s genius for you.”

June Jordan, “A Poem about Intelligence for My Brothers and Sisters” from Directed By Desire: The Collected Poems of June Jordan (Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 2005). Copyright © 2005 by The June M. Jordan Literary Trust. Used by permission of The June M. Jordan Literary Trust, www.junejordan.com.

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Friday Night Poetry Corner #96

Welcome back my peoples who voices are lethal..

See, I made that rhyme.  :-)..

 

Ok, ok, continuing on with the theme of Black History Month here is an artist, poet, singer, great thinker who I loved his work to the heart.  Gil Scott Heron’s magnificent piece called “Winter in America.”

 

I will not write on this but please read and view the video below.  If this doesn’t move something in your then well, you must be in the other realm of no tomorrow.

 

Seriously.

Off The Books: “Gil Scott-Heron: Pieces of a Man”by Marcus Baram ... www.passionweiss.com
Off The Books: “Gil Scott-Heron: Pieces of a Man”by Marcus Baram …
http://www.passionweiss.com

Winter In America

 
From the Indians who welcomed the pilgrims
And to the buffalo who once ruled the plains
Like the vultures circling beneath the dark clouds
Looking for the rain
Looking for the rain
Just like the cities staggered on the coastline
Living in a nation that just can’t stand much more
Like the forest buried beneath the highway
Never had a chance to grow
Never had a chance to grow
And now it’s winter
Winter in America
Yes and all of the healers have been killed
Or sent away, yeah
But the people know, the people know
It’s winter
Winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
‘Cause nobody knows what to say
Save your soul, Lord knows
From Winter in America
The Constitution
A noble piece of paper
With free society
Struggled but it died in vain
And now Democracy is ragtime on the corner
Hoping for some rain
Looks like it’s hoping
Hoping for some rain
And I see the robins
Perched in barren treetops
Watching last-ditch racists marching across the floor
But just like the peace sign that vanished in our dreams
Never had a chance to grow
Never had a chance to grow
And now it’s winter
It’s winter in America
And all of the healers have been killed
Or been betrayed
Yeah, but the people know, people know
It’s winter, Lord knows
It’s winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
Save your souls
From Winter in America
And now it’s winter
Winter in America
And all of the healers done been killed or sent away
Yeah, and the people know, people know
It’s winter
Winter in America
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows, nobody knows
And ain’t nobody fighting
Cause nobody knows what to save

Written by Gil Scott-Heron