25 July 2015

Kwame Dawes's "New Day"

A poem by USC poet-in-residence Kwame Dawes commemorates Barack Obama's inauguration. The eight-part poem, titled “New Day,” soars from Africa to Chicago to South Carolina, tipping its hat along the way to Dizzy Gillespie and Abraham Lincoln.



1. Obama, January 1st, 2009

Already the halo of grey covers his close-cropped head.
Before, we could see the pale glow of his skull, the way
he kept it close, now the grey - he spends little time in bed,
mostly he places things in boxes or color coded trays,
and calculates the price of expectation - the things promised
all eyes now on him: the winning politician’s burden.
On the day he makes his speech he will miss
the barber shop, the quick smoke in the alley, the poem
found in the remainder box, a chance to just shoot
some hoops, and those empty moments to remember
that green rice paddy where he used to sprint, a barefoot
screaming boy, all legs, going home to the pure
truth of an ordinary life, that simple place where, fatherless,
he found comfort in the wisdom of old broken soldiers.


2. How Legends Begin

This is how legends begin - the knife slitting the throat
of a hen, the blood, the callous pragmatism of eating
livestock grown for months, the myth of a father, a boat
ride into the jungle, a tongue curling then flinging
back a language alien as his skin; the rituals
of finding the middle ground, navigating a mother’s
mistakes, a father’s silence, a world’s trivial
divisions, the meaning of color and nation-negotiator
of calm, a boy tutored in the art of profitable charm;
this is how legends begin and we will tell this, too,
to the children lined up with flags despite the storms
gathering, children who will believe in the hope of blue
skies stretched out behind the mountain of clouds;
and he will make language to soothe the teeming crowds.
[continue there...]

22 July 2015

"Not My Business," by Niyi Osundare




NOT MY BUSINESS

They picked Akanni up one morning
Beat him soft like clay
And stuffed him down the belly
Of a waiting jeep.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

They came one night
Booted the whole house awake
And dragged Danladi out,
Then off to a lengthy absence.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

Chinwe went to work one day
Only to find her job was gone:
No query, no warning, no probe -
Just one neat sack for a stainless record.

What business of mine is it
So long they don’t take the yam
From my savouring mouth?

And then one evening
As I sat down to eat my yam
A knock on the door froze my hungry hand.
The jeep was waiting on my bewildered lawn
Waiting, waiting in its usual silence.
© Niyi Osundare   [more...]

19 July 2015

The Sophisticated Skinhead


We don't need
you here,
We can help you
out there
In your homeland
Go home nigger
We don't need you nigger

WELL!

The day you empty your
Ethnographic museums
And send our souls back
To our homeland
Then we will know
You are for real
Mother-fucker
© Lefifi Tladi
© Picture credit and copyright

13 July 2015

Telephone Conversation



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:

Yes


we can he said, and something in his voice
drew listening silence to it like a day
draws history; a gathering of hope and hurt
within the human music of his words.
This is what language asks of us, to hear
the truth’s full rhyme; and why the millions came
to where he spoke, the air they breathed a canvas
for his living speech. We read his lips: a prayer
for bitter faithlessness to learn, a blessing, vow,
a spell which banished lies and greed and harm
into the endless, generous sky. In his voice,
global and intimate, the voices echoed back –
a black woman’s insisting on her seat,
another man’s who said he had a dream.
© Carol Ann Duffy

[Listen to this poem...]
[Source...]

Carol Ann Duffy

12 July 2015

"Magesh", by TKZEE


À mes frères

This is memory with a little dried blood on it,
a thought from children whose brains we know
are indelible. My brothers have carried that memory
for more than thirty years, now, like a woman
carries the scar of a beating. They saw
a human brain for the first time at a young age,
scattered on bedclothes like custard during
some glad event, and even the trees outside,
whose wind that night had thrown hay
against the corners of parapets, had looked away.
The neighbours stopped staying in, with morning,
and started coming out, alerted by screams
from that house on whose hill we had lived.
These two just happened to be the first to stumble in.
But they're men now, my brothers, people
with families, homes outside Maseru, accounts
at a local bank, and children who brush their teeth
after dinner, pray for well-being during sleep,
and jam chairs against their bedroom doors.

Request for submissions. Please submit before 20 August 2015!

Friends and fellow poets,

I'm looking for poems that talk about killings, political killings specifically (or looked at in another way, gratuitous). I have provided five links which I hope contain enough information to spark a poem or poems. If you already have poems dealing with this aberration, I'll take them, published or not. Any poems you might have already written that show how insane (political) killings are.

My father was on a hit list in 1981, they came for him but missed him. Instead they got my nephew, my sister's son. And my older brother, Khotsofalang, whose name means 'Be satisfied' (my own name, Rethabile, means 'we are happy') had already been killed just before that attack.

This is a difficult thing to ask, I know, but if it works out, I would like to have a pamphlet (or a book) of poems that exposes political killings in their generality. Or any wanton killings for that matter. A publisher is waiting by. We in Lesotho need to talk about this and poets and poetry are a non-political means of getting to things.

I understand that it may not be possible. but for the sake what is at stake, I had to ask.Thank you.

And one last request: do not hesitate to pass this message on.

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCh40UPZqG8
Link1: http://www.enca.com/africa/lesotho-edge-after-killing-its-former-army-commander
Link2: http://mg.co.za/article/2015-06-29-killing-of-former-lesotho-army-chief-deepens-instability
Link3: http://www.reuters.com/article/2015/06/29/us-lesotho-security-usa-idUSKCN0P911020150629
Link4: http://www.iol.co.za/news/africa/memorial-service-planned-for-mahao-1.1879080#.VZVb3_nR-M8
Link 5: http://mgafrica.com/article/2015-06-25-still-restless-lesotho-former-defence-force-chief-mahao-injured-in-shooting
----------

Submit to: https://www.facebook.com/rahlooho or https://twitter.com/RethabileESL or ask for an email address.


10 July 2015

Living room

The living room was all that the world
could see of the house we lived in
that was built on a hill, it was sunken
lower than the other rooms, a cold,
depressed place, like a grave expecting someone.
No headstone or garlands, in that room
of our house on a hill, and because
the master chambers were lower still,
not sunken but at the level of the world,
we slept with death as with the living.
That house—bare, if not for rare pieces
of antique wood furniture, one table,
varnished chairs and cupboards my folks
had bought when they got married,
greeted the intruder with its silence.
And so it was not a bunker, never meant
to be one, just a room sunk into the earth
and eyeballing the neighbours with its one
big pane. And perhaps that's why they came
at night to disturb our sleep in such a way,
like a sudden uproar during prayer time;
our prayers, and three square meals a day,
were all conducted in that same room
of the house on a hill where we lived.
In the evening, before we went to bed,
the kitchen was a furnace, no mantle
above the black tin stove, no portraits
of sullen old relatives to eyeball us
in the half light, and though we struggled
with true decisions we never identified
anybody with any of the killings, ever,
but found ourselves in the slow flames
that knots of nuggets made of us, aglow
in the kitchen of the house on a hill
with a sunken room, where we lived.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...