I found this video on youtube today. The poem is a beautiful one that speaks about power and the ultimate destruction it causes. I love how it never mentions the impending apocalypse that comes with the acquisition of fire, as if damnation was obvious when those who are ill-equipped wield what never should have been theirs to hold.
“My horizon on humanity is enlarged by reading the writers of poems, seeing a painting, listening to some music, some opera, which has nothing at all to do with a volatile human condition or struggle or whatever. It enriches me as a human being.” Wole Soyinka
| Dedication by Wole Soyinka
for Moremi, 1963 Earth will not share the rafter’s envy; dung floors Break, not the gecko’s slight skin, but its fall Taste this soil for death and plumb her deep for life As this yam, wholly earthed, yet a living tuber To the warmth of waters, earthed as springs As roots of baobab, as the hearth. The air will not deny you. Like a top Spin you on the navel of the storm, for the hoe That roots the forests plows a path for squirrels. Be ageless as dark peat, but only that rain’s Fingers, not the feet of men, may wash you over. Long wear the sun’s shadow; run naked to the night. Peppers green and red—child—your tongue arch To scorpion tail, spit straight return to danger’s threats Yet coo with the brown pigeon, tendril dew between your lips. Shield you like the flesh of palms, skyward held Cuspids in thorn nesting, insealed as the heart of kernel— A woman’s flesh is oil—child, palm oil on your tongue Is suppleness to life, and wine of this gourd From self-same timeless run of runnels as refill Your podlings, child, weaned from yours we embrace Earth’s honeyed milk, wine of the only rib. Now roll your tongue in honey till your cheeks are Swarming honeycombs—your world needs sweetening, child. Camwood round the heart, chalk for flight Of blemish—see? it dawns!—antimony beneath Armpits like a goddess, and leave this taste Long on your lips, of salt, that you may seek None from tears. This, rain-water, is the gift Of gods—drink of its purity, bear fruits in season. Fruits then to your lips: haste to repay The debt of birth. Yield man-tides like the sea And ebbing, leave a meaning of the fossilled sands. |
Somebody asked me the other day, “Why do you do what you do?”
The only answer I could think of was, “because I have to”. I guess what would have been more accurate to say would have been because I am driven to. Spoken word, particularly my brand of wild eyed, transcendental ranting, is a serious labor of love. It is often misunderstood. It takes effort from the audience. Although it is up beat and full of expression, it is very different from what people are used to hearing and therefore needs to be approached with an open imagination. What I do goes beyond the superficial need for attention and touches the very core of my journey.
My journey is to seek out the voice of inspiration and divine truth. Music becomes the mantra through which I can reach my trance.
It seems that much of the performing arts these days is bereft of this purpose. It feels empty and lost. Through my art I hope to deliver a message and spark emotional response that encourages deeper thought, questioning, or simple awe. My goal is to express all aspects of human life experience from the context of my own perspective, love, hate, fear, confidence, social injustice, new awareness, hope, despair, longing, lust, fulfillment, dreams lost, dreams found, and everything else that collectively comprises that life experience.
The leader of a well-known pop band once told me to be less serious and more easily understood. There is a place and need for that kind of art as well. I think I will let him take care of that and stick to my own journey.
Here is Alabama When the Sycamores Soared 
. I wrote it in 1996. While sitting in Tokyo they announced on the news that somewhere in Alabama there was a church that had been burned down by racists. I immediately recalled the 1963 song by John Coltrane, Alabama. He composed the tune in memory of 4 children who died in a similar attack. 33 years had slipped between the Coltrane’s outcry and my own. Though we cried in different ways the message, I believe was the same.
The audio is of a live recording I did in Tokyo, though I don’t remember the exact date.
Here’s a poem I suddenly remembered from my collage days. Although my professor (RIP) said I was wrong,
the poem to me was about lust, sex, prostitution, over indulgence, and the irony loneliness
when a prostitute dies. The Emperor is the creator of pleasure, ie her pimp.
Dr. Magner thanks for having such a big impact.
.
.
The Emperor Of Ice Cream
By Wallace Stevens
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
I love how poetry can be full of love, anger, hope, despair, friendship, betrayal, and horniness.
Speaking of love and horniness, I am enamoured by the prodigious mowing in this poem.
I Knew A Woman
By Theodore Reothke
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I’m martyr to a motion not my own;
What’s freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
Spoken poetry has been around since man was first able to form language. Through these spoken stories and poems we were and still are able to entertain, pass down collective knowledge, ponder the philosophical meaning of existence, stage protest, wage war, make peace, profess love, or stimulate the imagination.
I love spoken poetry, good spoken poetry, because it takes what has been a slowly dying art form and breaths spirit and passion back into its limp body. In cafe’s and poetry slams poets of all ages are carrying on the growth of literary culture. Sure a lot of the poetry you hear in places like these is crap. But it’s important crap. It’s important because without this, we could not continue to find greatness. Poetry would be left in a coma, near death, with only a handful of quirky gray-haired geeks to look after it.
A few years back, in Tokyo, I had the pleasure of meeting Saul Williams. He didn’t speak to me much. I think the only thing he actually ever said was “nice to meet you” when my poet friend Taylor Mignon introduced us. After that, he promptly clamped his jaws shut and kept them that way until it was time for him to perform. I hated him for ignoring me and for the discomfort his silence made me feel. When he finally did speak from the stage I had no choice but to forgive him because I had realized he was saving his conversation for that moment.
I love spoken poetry because sometimes words on the page alone loose their magic.
Sometimes they need a voice to deliver them.
This blog is dedicated to poetry, literature, music, performance and the general pondering of life and self-expression. It’s the first blog I have ever written. I’m not even sure if I can keep up a regular pace of updating and adding interesting stuff. I guess that’s the way things are for many of us. We start out with good intentions and then somewhere along the way get distracted or disinterested. Let’s see how far this goes.
Today I was remembering one of my favorite poems, Dreams by Edgar Allen Poe. I love it because it speaks to me of hardship, pain, suffering and a desire for escape. All of these things sound horrible, I know. This poem is very effective in communicating those emotions. That’s why I love it.
Poetry, like all art, should be reflective of the human condition, which is lovely at times but also horrifically tumultuous. When I read “Dreams” I could hear the voice of an addict explaining why he has chosen to dwell in the world of his addiction.
If anyone out there stumbles upon this page I would love to hear what you think.
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho’ that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
‘Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
‘Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell’d, when the sun was bright
I’ the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
‘Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- ’twas the chilly wind
Came o’er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe’er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.
I have been happy, tho’ in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
Edgar Allan Poe
