mother wisdom speaks

a former coworker gifted me and some others with this poem almost two years ago...it was beautiful then, but it has really special meaning for me now.

Mother Wisdom Speaks
by Christine Lore Webber
from All Will Be Well

Some of you I will hollow out.
I will make you a cave.
I will carve you so deep the stars will shine in your darkness.
You will be a bowl.
You will be the cup in the rock collecting rain.

I will hollow you with knives.
I will not do this to make you clean.
I will not do this to make you pure.
You are clean already.
You are pure already.

I will do this because the world needs the hollowness of you.
I will do this for the space that you will be.
I will do this because you must be large.
A passage.
People will find their way through you.
A bowl.
People will eat from you
and their hunger will not weaken them unto death.
A cup to catch the sacred rain.

My daughter, do not cry. Do not be afraid.
Nothing you need will be lost.
I am shaping you.
I am making you ready.

Light will flow in your hollowing.
You will be filled with light.
Your bones will shine.
The round, open center of you will be radiant.
I will call you Brilliant One.
I will call you Daughter Who Is Wide.
I will call you Transformed.

it's that time of year again...

april is national poetry writing month, and i've decided to do napowrimo via posts on the writing blog.

that said, i'll probably be pretty scarce here this month--not that i've had a lot of time to blog regularly anyway.  obviously. more on that a little later...  

in any case, you can follow the poem postings on the blog, thru its rss feed, or on twitter.  enjoy!

new quote @ blog bottom

(so slick i had to take a second to mention it...)

"and, brothas, y'all need to know/ if too much sugar makes you sick / spoils your appetite for even the smell of dinner / there are certain flavors of women you should not consume..." ~christa bell

encounter

hello again...

i saw you today,
but you didn't see me.

it's just as well...

knowing this is an affair of the aura
doesn't ease the ache in my chest
or kill the inclination to bury my face in your neck
and go wherever you're going.

to some part of me,
you are walking honey,
a living offering;

i want you
for my altar
to keep the spirits close.

...your smile can do that, you know.

but that wouldn't be fair,
would it?

fridge poetry

i don't play with these nearly enough...

writing.

bag lady

this one woke me up this morning...

there are far too many homeless people in this country, period. but the numbers in the nation's capital are simply ridiculous.

and many of them look like me.

two for one

been busy this morning...

retrograde blues

dreaming of isis

ok. i'm going back to bed. i wanna have some energy for the
tattoo convention! i'll be on the hunt for some cool t-shirts and such.

i keep telling myself i will NOT leave there with any new ink...

...in remembrance of me

i'm over here today.

note from a formerly fractured woman

(inspired by this entry over at incredible juju)

i understand why i make you uncomfortable.

the women you are used to seeing are not fully themselves.

they have forgotten how to read the face of the moon, let alone howl at it.

their magic is locked up tight in their ignored wombs,
in soccer practice,
in music lessons,
and heat-and-serve meals.

the women you are used to only feel vague stirrings of their wild witchiness.

(the goddess can be hard to hear over cnn and oprah's guru of the moment)

the power of their dreams has been eclipsed by reason.

but i am one of the old ones returned.
born knowing better,
seeing more,
holding the keys.

i, too, had to live in this world
and suffered some amnesia.

but you cannot fool me any longer,
nor harm me.

i will love you from afar if necessary,
but i will not suffer a fool.

you are more than the world has offered you.
warrior, protector, provider...yes.
but also
the action of our inspiration.
support system.
strategist.

go and do your work.

then join me.

(c) l.a.m. 2008

steppin to the mic

thinking about this entry again...

i went to an open mic last night at the urging of a couple of talented brothas, and i had a nice time. lots of very talented folks came through and performed.

i also realized that i have no desire to go back to that scene--at least not as a participant.

i'm not saying i'll never write a poem again--i just wrote one the other day--and i'd most certainly go to poetry/spoken word events ("i need to get out more" is a vast understatement). but i don't have any need to share my own musings beyond these online spaces.

the selective stage fright has dissipated. the idea of reading doesn't fill me with dread, but there's also no burning need to speak my peace.

time and space, apparently, have neutralized me.

i'm always going to write because, well, it's what i do. but perform? probably not.

for now, i'll keep (most of) my notebooks, but there will be a massive digital purge. it's all just dead creative weight at this point; fragments that have been lying around for so many years, there's no way to know how to reassemble them.

some things i've "thought" of, i've seen written since. it was my personal proof of the theory that ideas are literally floating through the air, and you and 500 other folks might discover a concept at the same time, but only one or two will actually flesh it out in a way that exposes it to the wider world. the other 498-499 will simply think you a genius when you do.

i've probably lost more half novels and semi second drafted stories than i've ever written--either to outdated technology, the death of my laptop, lost disks, torn up notebooks, etc. and so on--hence the paragraph under this blog's title.

and i'm not sad about it.

i don't know if it's because i'm still finding my voice, or that i'm just not meant to write the next great (american?) novel.

but i'm coming to think of writing as not my calling, but simply a vessel of expression i excel at.

perhaps i will write a book or a blog about my calling that will pull it all together...

but, i'm not a slam poet.
or a mc.
i'm probably not even a novelist or story writer, despite my bits of training.

just a girl who plays with words now and then.

black & blue

i recall the sensation
of your fingertips grazing my hips...

they wanted to get to know you
you seemed to want the same.

there's been lots of silence since.
the hands transposed with daggers
memories laced with dolor.

convivial conversations in sweetened sunshine
ended in bitter tears
falling into sunday morning tea.

no consolation
fearing confrontation
immobilized by the past
uncertain of the future.

the spirits said...
then you did...
left reeling, confused, bruised
ego cradling.

i don't know what you want
but if you're leaving, take my crystal ball.

the others cracked it
now i can see the spider web taking shape...

it's useless to me.

maybe you can ground it into pixie dust.

i need a different spell.


(c) l.a.m. 2008

the moon is waning...

my intuition feels...off. or maybe he's just confusing. i don't know anymore, and this thing isn't enough of a "thing" to try to figure it out.

there's still a lot of this feeling. i don't know whether to throw it off or wrap it around me like a blanket.

the house needs cleaning, but i still don't have the energy. i don't know why clearing space can be so difficult at times. there's still a suitcase beside the couch from the florida trip for chrissakes.

i feel like i've hit some kind of wall...a messy wall. i'm not quite sure what i want to do with these feelings.

i need to use this poem as a prayer.

i just realized i've been drinking water almost steadily for the last couple of hours. i'm sure i need it.

eh. i'm not saying shit.

i'm gonna throw on something from my itunes folder and type up some more pages. if i'm gonna be stuck in the house on a saturday night, i can at least be productive.

use your words

...that's the message i'm working with right now.

so i need to write. often. i need to finish one of these half-assed projects that's been rolling around in my head for the past few years.

i suppose that's all well and good. at least it would be if i weren't so...

frustrated
overstimulated
fiercely impatient
overfed
insatiable
tired
cranky
temperamental
dissatisfied
hot (as in warm. literally.)

...aching like a starving goddess with no living medium to remember her name.

it's probably underutilized and stagnant creative energy bubbling up to the surface.

i'd like it to shut up and go away. or at least simmer down.

but i suppose i'll have to bear with the discomfort until i determine how i'm going to use it...

implacable

i am dantor dissatisfied.

dolorosa encased in tempered glass;
heart pierced and bleeding
despite her riches.

i hear gold is a wonderful conductor,
but i am not interested in intermediaries.

neither blood nor passion
run through my precious metals;
they can only be traded for more paper
to trade again...

je rouge,
kali;
focused rage,
bloodied femininity.

rum and perfume
my sword and shield;
i'll gladly run you through
laughing all the way.

who is brave enough
to construct my altar?

bountiful woman

i stumbled across this sista's myspace page just now and found this:


BOUNTIFUL WOMAN

You are a bountiful woman and if you had
been born in the Motherland among your
Matabele cousins, you would give birth on
one day and the next day strap your newborn
infant to your back, lift your fifty pounds of
wares with ease, carry them to the market to
display your new child and laugh and sing!

You would sit proudly on the Tribal Council
to keep the frivolous men in line and when aged,
be surrounded by your plentiful progeny,
on feast days you would sing songs of love, marriage,
plentiful crops, occasional famine and tell the tribal
history in your songs and tales.

But, your fate has been to be born into a
nation that worships females that resemble
an adolescent boy with breasts instead
of singing songs of blissful union, you tell
tales of unrequited love.

Be patient, Bountiful Woman, because
Somewhere out here is a man who will love
You precisely because there is so much
Of you and you will dance with him and
Sing songs of joyous love!

she credits "Baba Sam" with those words...

amen, brotha. amen.

That's Not In My Job Description
by Paul Beatty

despite that i overslept
and set a guinness book world record for coming in late
its still time for me to take my 15 minute break

pull off my sweater vest
talking shit

cross my sneakers on the desk
threaten to call my union rep
if these fools

dont stop lookin at me crazy
whisperin lazy
under their breath

but during my siesta
i eavesdrop on societys best

imagine im a distinguished ethnographer

on the black pbs
talkin with a british lisp
in front of a bookshelf

welcome to alistair cooke's In Search of
today we pursue The Elusive True Nature of Whitey

notice as
our cameras
zoom in on

a pinstriped pack of business school well groomed brooks brother
smoothies
encamped around a water cooler jostling for room in their natural
habitat
wiping dunkin donut crumbs off their jackets and engaged in debates
on hot topics
such as:

nuclear waste the china syndrome
alternative methods of heating their homes

and right before

the herd starts to roam

the menfolk take part in the ritual
shooting of the styrofoam cups into the trash basket

and if they make it
they dance around like
they just saved the world

headin my way
lookin for some dap

so i try to look busy
which im good at

start rustlin charts
construct some new paper clip art
chew on a pen cap as if im seriously studying my messenger map

hmmmm did you know that main street runs perpendicular to beech
and parallel with elm for exactly 1 and seven/eighteenths of
a mile
before it intersects with west crest
well blow me down

i aint got time to mope
worryin aloud about
how imma cope wid radioactive isotopes and mushroom clouds

when its me myself

thats about to explode

an overloaded low level gung-ho ah-so nigro rickshaw coolie
the company dr. doolittles thought they knew me
i talk the animals como se llama push–me–pull–me

bowin n kowtowin
eatin crow
holdin my tongue
hands clung so tightly to the bottom rung
cant even reach for the glass ceiling

my feet planted in corporate dung
growing roots
in the ground zero
terra firma
of affirmative
daily inaction

copy xerox mop remember the blue ones go on top
shred fedex the checks press the red button next
fax wax collapse the green mail sacks go to jack

right after i put my year-end evaluation
in the management trainee mailbox

one of them fresh out of college cookie cutter fuckers
invites me to meet the buddies for drinks at mcgillicuddy's

i only wanted a nine to five
that classified didnt say nothin bout havin to socialize

now this wage slave
is t-minus nine heinekens from critical mass

me and a few hoogie white democrats
drinking after work rolling rocks
smoking marlboros out of the box

all you can do is wait for the chain reaction show of ass

when one of em
looks me in the eye
and decides
to say something to the colored guy

its
all systems go
the white folks start actin like they know

hey bro er uh bro-ham
i happen to be a big rap fan
went to see ice cube and michel'le
at the hollywood palladium
and i was the only white person in the place
aint i soul brother

there must have been another workshop on how to handle your
support staff
which in this craft is a euphemism for niggers n spics

itsa trip
watching a one-sided will to unite

if i could get in a word edgewise i wouldnt
since im with my boss
and dont want to get fired
all i can do is sigh
too chicken to pay the price

as they get excited
giddy from overexercising their rights

my dad owns a liquor store in the inner city so i know how you feel

ive read toni morrisons beloved twice
and even though i still didnt get it the second time shes just so real

i believe that spike is truly five for five
no no you dont understand i really want to be like mike

or maybe a harlem globetrotter
its my dream to send my daughter to spelman
where can she get a check up for sickle cell
whats the name of your hair gel/pomade
do you use a depilatory when you shave
how can i join the crips
just what is hip
i know its after the fact but i dont think king shouldve called for calm
i wanna be a minister in the nation of islam
isnt so and so such an uncle tom

when theyre through
they pat themselves on the back
and quote jesse jackson

we have to start on the front end of head start and day care
not on the back end of prison and welfare

keepin hope alive
i buy the next round

wonderin how it would sound if i changed my name to skip
placed a mike tyson kingsized if i ruled the world chip on my shoulder
went to a joint full of rednecks
put my elbows on the bar cleared my throat and said

becks
then id go into my show

did you know i was elected to the senate inna landslide
and i was the only colored man there without rag in my hand for
polishin brass or shining shoes

or

at last weeks tractor pull i was the only spear chukker
drivin monster pick-ups over a bunch of crushed oldsmobiles

or

i sailed in the americas cup

or

i went to the university of vermont and rowed crew

or

i grew up in a two room shack in the appalachian mountains picked
myself up
by the shitkickers went door to door selling berlitz and scripture
moved to
utah sang soprano in the mormon tabernacle choir married into the
osmonds
and now i spend my weekends smokin pot with donnie and marie
reading back
issues of teen beat magazine

or

im included in the canon
im a cardinal in the vatican
im the highest paid player on the boston red sox
i own IBM stock
i play nazi punk rock
i drink coors extra gold by the case
i can say puke with a straight face
i have a seat on wall street
im an LL bean catalogue model
my art is in the metropolitan
i had a major part in a woody allen movie
and i do the broadway casting for tommy tune

but i wouldn't give a shit about nuna dis
if i could just say im a nigger who has enough room

(from AGNI 37 & 56)

Paul Beatty was born in Los Angeles and now lives in New York. (1993)

feelin like...

feelin like
brown sugar bubblin up into
sweet sticky caramel

full of
sweet things and
fire

illuminated
golden

me.

talaam acey responds to saul williams

talaam acey's response to saul's letter
i think this is a great dialogue any way you slice it...

Notes on "An Open Letter to Oprah Winfrey" by Taalam Acey

I want to approach this critique cautiously if only because these ideas are among my most sincere. I applaud you for writing your "Open Letter to Oprah Winfrey," and though it took me awhile to get around to reading it, I'm glad I did. When James Baldwin remarked that, "The poet or the revolutionary is there to articulate the necessity," I'm sure that your open letter was the sort of agitation he had in mind.

I was not born of a minister and school teacher. Instead my parents were Black Nationalists in Imamu Amiri Baraka's Committee for a Unified Newark. Unlike you, I was influenced by both Rakim and June Jordan. I affirm these things because they will no doubt color the critique that follows.

As for the illustrious Ms. Winfrey, I too grew up watching her on television. As a teen, my mother had me read Alice Walker's "The Color Purple." In the film, Ms. Winfrey's portrayal of Sofia was exactly how I envisioned it. It was not surprising that she garnered one of that film's 11 Oscar nominations (though, the film somehow didn't win a single Oscar).

Of more relevance here, however, is that Ms. Winfrey, ironically, played a major role in my appreciation for gangsta rap. In 1989, Harpo, her company, produced (and she starred in) Gloria Naylor's "The Women of Brewster Place." Back then I was sure that white America despised young black men. However, in my 18th year, her mini-series convinced me that black women might hate us even more. I felt demonized. Though, I didn't care much for "hard core rappers" beforehand, after Brewster Place, my feelings of betrayal rendered their messages vital.

A few months later, when Ms. Winfrey donated $1 million dollars to your alma matter. I remember thinking it had to be a function of her guilt.

Since then, she has given repeatedly and contributed to the education of hundreds of Morehouse students. I no longer doubt her sincerity. Still, I have come to believe there is a dichotomy in her perception of young black males. She has gone on record about being sexually abused by relatives (including a 19 year old cousin) beginning when she was 9 years old. However, she also credits moving in with her father as saving her life. In fact while Vernon Winfrey was named by her mother as only one of a few potential fathers, he nevertheless took responsibility for Oprah and refused paternity test throughout her life.

I mention none of this to be disrespectful to Ms. Winfrey. She is a self-made billionaire, Television Hall of Fame inductee and media mogul. Yet, she is also human and, like the rest of us, her past experiences may shed light on her current convictions.

Thus, having discussed the above, I'd like to assert that many of today's rap lyrics conform more to the values of her 19 year old cousin than they do those of her father.

I love Hip-Hop. It is and has always been sacred to me. There was something spiritual about Rakim's flow and something evangelical about KRS-One's diatribes. In high school, I spent time with Queen Latifah and was pretty close with Cut Master DC (of "Brooklyn's in the House" fame). I attended shows at Union Square, The Tunnel and even The Castle in the South Bronx. I almost don't know where to stop...during my teens, I got to drive Red Alert from a show in Jersey back to NY and talked him to death. I remember dancin' to Crash Crew records, arguing over who was the best emcee in the Fearless Four, losing my mind when the Sugar Hill Gang and The Furious Five did a record together. There are entire Slick Rick, Rakim and Biggie songs that I still know word for word. Believe me, I too am a hip hop head.

Hip Hop in it's organic form is Melle Mel's, "The Message." Nevertheless, there's always been room for Ice Cube and Snoop. They had a story to tell. Our problem now has become that the stories are being told ad nauseam and by people who not only haven't lived them, but aren't inspired to tell them.

I'm into Spoken Word, one of many forms of poetry. There can be no doubt that rap is another. True, all rappers are not poets. But, even by the definition you applied, all Spoken Word artists aren't poets either. Few artist of any art form operate from a sincerely vulnerable place. That is not a Hip-Hop phenomenon.

The problem is bigger than vulnerability. When you declared "There is no true hatred of women in Hip Hop." I can only assume that you meant in the Hip-Hop that you and other "Backpackers" support. Those of you who choose "to associate...with the more "conscious" or politically astute artists of the Hip Hop community." Surely you don't believe that today's rappers intend their endless litany of "Bitch," "Ho," and "Slut" as displays of affection.

I agree with you that, at our root, we inherently worship the feminine. Sadly it seems that for most of us now, at all points above our root, we've begin to worship money more. The problem with most of Hip-Hop is that it's being co-opted. I cannot imagine what, if any point, you were attempting by mentioning that 50 Cent and George Bush share a birthday. I agree that George Bush is one of the gangsters that control this country, but I am certain that 50 Cent is not one of the "gangsters" that controls Hip-Hop. He may control his entourage and his bank account, but not much more. Curtis Jackson is an "artist," not a mogul. So can you tell me if Lyor Cohen or Jimmy Iovine share a birthday with Bush? That might be slightly relevant.

You are right that "Censorship will never solve our problems." Boycotting the sponsors of a radio show that made disparaging remarks about young black girls isn't censorship though. In America, dollars vote. It is not censorship to use your dollars to vote a bigot off the air. The dramatic decline in the sale of rap records since 2005 is also not due to censorship. People are voting for change. We no longer care to support songs about how your car and house are better than mine because you're really good at selling crack to my children.

This is a serious social issue and has nothing to do with the depiction of G*d in Christianity or any other religion. I've heard the argument about the proper Holy Trinity being man, woman and child, previously. I've attended lectures about instances of chauvinism in organized religion. Still I take issue with the logic that the Western depiction of G*d has driven emcees crazy.

You concluded by saying:

"If we are to sincerely address the change we are praying for then we must first address to whom we are praying."

That's the point, emcees have begun praying to mammon. Most mainstream rappers no longer take pride in their lyricism. They simply write whatever the record company believes it can easily sell. The problem is selfishness, not religion. Believe me, we haven't reached this point in our history because too many rappers have become obsessed with studying the Bible.

This particular weapon of mass destruction is NOT the one that asserts that a holy trinity would be "a father, a male child, and a ghost." This weapon of mass destruction IS wealthy racist white men who exploit and mass market poor young black men who are willing to denigrate themselves for money. We do not require disconnected excuses, only change.

The primary problem with rappers today is selfishness. That's the very quality that separated Oprah's father from her 19 year old cousin. I'll end by saying there's nothing more vulnerable than a broke talentless rapper in the hands of a racist white media mogul. In the end, I hope you understand that these notes are not about you and I but, instead, the masses of oppressed people who deserve to know the truth.

In Brotherhood,

Taalam Acey

water

work in progress...started last night

puts out fire
quenches thirst
melts ice

seeks its level
wears away stone
washes away uselessness
mixes with anything and becomes
a solution

i was born under the sign
that has no enemy
osmotic and self-purifying
i can etch my name in mountains

there is a waterfall
between my thighs
warm and undulating
accepting of warm men
gateway for returning souls...

the essence
of my spirit
gives life to the world

(c) 2007 l.a.m.

the boys downstairs

i don't know how to end this...still a work in progress

aside from my alarm clock
the first thing I hear in the morning
are the cries of a 3 yr old child

after repeatedly hitting the snooze button
there’s the echo of
mommy yelling and
baby trying to figure out why she’s so mad

a few months ago it would be
mommy and daddy fighting that greeted me
7am or earlier
fussing about lies and all other manner of what not
i suppose the experiment in playing house failed
since daddy’s not there anymore

i don’t know what that boy did
pretty as he is
i remember coming out of the house the same time as them
and was greeted with a bright, cheerful “hi!”
then, later, the mischievous face
staring out of the front door calling
“mooooooommy…”
(I’m guessing she was in the basement doing laundry)
I playfully put a finger to my lips
and he grinned that pretty grin
at our quick game of peek-a-boo
and kept calling
“moooooommy…”

i don’t pretend to know
what motherhood is like
but i understand a bit
about the making of happy children

i also know how the other little boy
who used to live in the same apartment
became my godson’s bully

…no one spoke to him
unless they were yelling
my gentle “hey” caught him as a deer in headlights
then he shot finger guns at me
(he was always shooting finger guns
or play ones
expecting you to fall down dead)

i remember hearing the tantrums he’d throw
after daddy dropped him off
on a weekend or
after a weeknight visit
remember thinking
that anger’s gonna get him in
big trouble
someday

big
trouble…

(c) 2007 l.a.m.