Poetry

I love this poet. Check him out. . .

Arise, then, women of this day!
Arise, all women who have breasts,
Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!

Say firmly:
"We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies, Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We, the women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

From the bosom of the devastated Earth a voice goes up with our own.

It says: "Disarm! Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."

Blood does not wipe out dishonor, nor violence indicate possession.

As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war,

Let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel.

Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace,
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God.

In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And at the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.

Yeah, I watched Oprah...This ain't about poetry, hip hop...or censorship!

I am a poet, and I took exception to Russell Simmons donning the breastplate of artistry, while standing on his righteous indignation over censoring said artistry to defend and legitimize the output of various rap performers. (I refuse to give many of them the dignity of being called poets much less artists.) His naming, those who write and perform rap music as poets, without making distinctions regarding the type of rap music they perform was circumspect, best case scenario, or worse case scenario, duplicitous.

As far as I'm concerned, all rap is not created equal, and Hip Hop is not the commodity mass produced and blasted on radio and television stations. Hip Hop depicts a culture of consciousness one that observes, analyzes and reflects the world in which it exists. It seeks to educate and uplift, to offer criticism and critique, to mobilize its listeners to pursue positive change, both inwardly and outwardly. Sometimes, Hip Hop is just plain fun. Hip Hop lives mostly off the screen of mainstream entertainment, creating the occasional blip--Common....Mos Def...Eryka Badu....Jill Scott.

In my opinion, much of the rap music produced, sold and shoved via the spoon of mass marketing down the throats of those who once loved it, is an over exuberant exercise in mediocrity. Rap has become a festival of depravity in which the most base and debasing elements of human existence are glamorized and presented as life pursuits. I won't focus on the misogyny of rap, because it is guilty of many other abuses as well. From its perspective, the world is full of black people who are moving targets which receive every type of abuse, mental, physical and sexual, especially from their own.

Veteran/author/activist Lori Perdue read this poem at a gathering of progressive politicians, activists, and artists the other night at Washington's 'Busboys & Poets' venue. I can't say for sure just who it was she was describing in these words, but I suspect we can all think of several potential candidates for the honor... *grin*

Driven 9/25/06

One handed freestyle keyboarding and talking on two cell phones at once, she is driven, on a mission.
She catches my eye.
The buttons on her jacket are mis-aligned, making her collar jump up on one side.
She is unaware of her visage, she is driven, on a mission.
She hangs up the phone in her hand and places it on the table beside her computer,
Seamlessly sliding into another conversation, another gear, another thought process, talking into the phone balanced in the crook of her neck.
She squints at the screen of the laptop in front of her, clicks on something, passes on the retrieved information to whomever exists on the end of the sound wave, and signs off.
Letting the phone slip from her shoulder to her waiting hand, she ends the call with a practiced thumb and the slightest of glances at the tiny screen on the face of the device, and expertly drops the phone into the unfastened pocket of the ill-buttoned denim jacket.

Photo used with permission from Heartland