Under Construction

So, it has been a hot minute since the last time that I posted anything up here.  If you're wondering why please see my post entitled "The Resurrection of Calypso".  Anyway, I have decided to do a new feature, my Under-Construction pieces.  these are poems and short lines that I am working on.  More than any of my other pieces, I WANT PEOPLE TO COMMENT AND RESPOND TO THESE PIECES.  THese are raw poems that are in their infancy.  I am putting them up to see what people think and to get feedback on what I can do with them.  Please feel free to say what you want about them.  Remember, that this is still my damn blog so I will use what I want and ignore the rest.  I will try to at least respond to all comments, but what will make it to the editing table is up to me.  Thanks in advance.

Untitled 1

You step into the room
and my eyes swerve
for a side glance to
enhance my perspective
on this perception
of heaven
that strides, no
glides
as I sigh from the inside
releasing the tension
within and outside
my body.
Then palms meet
great
touch
clutch
and linger
with pssibilites unknown.
Only to part
leaving me alone
lost
unsure of unsure thoughts
about self:
self that was
self that is
and the self I want to be.
Lost for a time only
to meet again
to share a meal
and open the door to
self discovery.
You lead me
palm to palm
touching
clutching
and lingering
through the portal to new
ventures
that start with a kiss
lips on lips
lips on lips
lips on lips
reflections
dancing in dim light.
Angelic fingers
start from the ground
up
tracing the fault lines
of my doubt.
What is this between
He and Me?
This reflection of myself
tht touches
clutches
palm to palm
slides
and glides
while sighing from
my inside
lips to lips
hips to hips
anglic fingers
tracing
possibilites unknown
and bringing me
to joy
to self
to other
only to part
and meet again
What is this thing between
Me and He?
It' is concrete
poured into the falt lines
of my soul
cementing
the self that was
the self that is
the self yet to be
with the reflection
that
is me but not me
that touches
grasps
clasps
slides
glides
and sighs
from my inside
at the possibility.

The Resurrection of Calypso

So for those of you who aren't in the know, my poor MacBook Pro, Calypso finally kicked the bucket.  Her screen had been messed up for a while, but because I work for non-profit pay I didn't have a cool $1,000 just laying around to get her a face lift.  So instead of doing anything about the situation, I grabbed some tape and hoped for the best.

Well, she finally gave up and the screen no longer works.  The hard drive is still in tact though and yesterday I got the brilliant idea to nigga rig this joint and connect the hard drive to an old tv.  Voila.  A brand new makeshift monitor until I can afford to buy  new Mac. 

Yall let's hope she keeps it together for the next two paychecks and my tax return. 

Red Ink, Chapter 1

The lights were dim as I crept into the bedroom, the sound of my feet muffled by the steady beat of the rain outside my window. Despite the downpour outside, I was determined that everything be just right. It had been three months since I last saw Terrell and everything had to be perfect for our reunion. I wanted to call the airline one more time to check and see if his flight was still on time despite the heavy rain and thunder, but I had already called twice and knew I was just anxious. Instead, I turned on a little Erykah Badu, closed my eyes, and tried to relax.

Just as I started to calm my nerves, my cell phone began to ring. Unconsciously, I quickly glanced down to see who was calling. I did not recognize the number, so I immediately pressed ignore. Didn’t they know I was waiting for Terrell to call and let me know he was in a cab and on his way home? I didn’t have time to waste talking to some random ass caller.

I gave up on trying to shake my anticipation and nervously looked around the room, checking everything once more. As I turned around our apartment, my gaze fell on an old picture of us sitting on the dresser.

Terrel was wearing a snug pair of dark blue jeans, a fitted white tee that accented his tight frame, and a trim chocolate sports coat that complimented his caramel complexion. Everything about him dripped of urban sophistication and you couldn’t help but get caught up in his brownie-tinged eyes and ever present smile. Even two years later, a photo was enough to get my blood pumping. With all of that Hershey’s goodness to gaze at, it was easy to overlook the guy standing next to him.

I picked up the frame to get a closer look. My hair was a lot shorter in those days. Just a small neatly trimmed afro; nothing compared to my now shoulder length locks. Clean-shaven except for a well-groomed patch of hair nestled on my chin. Skin the color of roasted almonds, I was all business in my navy blue dress shirt, black slacks, and tie.

My phone began ringing again. I reminded myself that Terrell’s special ring tone was Chrisette Michele’s “Love is You” and quickly preceded to ignore the phone, loosing myself in the picture.

I started to smile to myself as I remembered the day we took the photo. It was the beginning of my junior year of college and I was at a New Student Orientation event, tabling for the Black Student Association. I hated doing these events and would have much rather been at home curled up in a chair with a book and Lauryn Hill playing in the background. I had already been sitting there for two hours, when in walked Terrell.

“Helloooo everyone. My name is Terrell Davis a.k.a. Mr. Personality a.k.a. The Truth. Nice to meet all of y’all,” he declared with a slightly southern drawl.

Conversation stopped as everyone turned to take in our new arrival. To say he woke me up would be an understatement.

I could hear as everyone, myself included, shook their heads and mouthed “This Negro.”

Terrell was not to be deterred though; he confidently walked into the room and proceeded to parade around introducing himself to everyone. I watched as he walked up to each table tossing his brilliant smile and hugs around like M&M’s, allowing them to slowly melt and spread their sweet taste all over the room. I sighed to myself.

I could not stand him.

I can not help but laugh as I recalled that little fact. It’s funny to think about it now, but when I first encountered Terrell he urked my nerves. I generally did not have a problem with people with an abundance of confidence. I was a Black man at an elite university, I was used to encountering people with an over abundance of self-esteem, but I felt Terrell was just being extra and making the rest of us more mild mannered Negroes look bad. I was tired of playing the role of the welcoming upperclassmen and decided to call it quits before I had to deal with another outburst of Mr. Personality.

As I began to pack up my flyers, I was interrupted by a voice.

“Hi. My name is Terrell,” he said with his hand extended.

“Hi,” I replied while silently thanking the powers that be that he didn’t attempt to put me in one of those hugs he was tossing around earlier. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, in case you didn’t notice my mocha complexion, I am a Black student and you seem to be from the Black Student Alliance. I want to know how I can sign-up.”

“Sure, here is our e-mail sign-up sheet,” I responded and pulled out the paperwork I had been putting away. “Let me grab you a pen.”

I was reaching for a pen in my bag when a girl with a camera interrupted us and asked, “Can I take a picture of you two for the paper? We are running a story on diversity programming during New Student Orientation and I need to take a picture of all the ethnic clubs.”

Before I could object Terrell shouted, “Of course, girl.”

He slipped around to my side of the table and put his arm around my waste.  I tried to subtly slip from his grasp, but he had a firm hold on me and I did not want to make a scene.

“How is this?” he asked.

Ring. Ring.

“Shit!” I said to the empty room, my daydream ruined. “Damn phone.”

I set the picture frame back on the dresser and reached for my phone more than a little irritated that my moment of nostalgia was being interrupted.

“Hello. This better be important,” I growled.

“Is this Mr. Dupri?”

“Yes. Who is this?” This had the makings of a telemarketing call and I had no time for that shit tonight. My beau was on his way home.

“Mr. Dupri. Sir, there has been an accident. We are going to need you to come to the hospital.”

My heart froze and the phone tumbled from my hands.

“Mr. Dupri? Mr. Dupri, are you still there sir?”

Snowballs, liquor, and cops...Oh my!

Walks up to street corner.  Looks both ways.

Carefully places wooden soap box down on the ground and climbs on top.

Clears throat.

White people are CRAZZZZZY!

Steps down from soap box.
-----------------------------------------------

I suppose that that first part begs an explanation.  Well it all began when this nameless Negro and my horde of alter egos decided to brave The District's snowpocalypse to have a little fun before I was going to be forced into solitary confinement in my house.  I should have known things were going to be trippy when I got to the metro and the power was out, but they were still letting people come in.   I ignored my inner old Black man also known as  Common Sense and held firmly to my desire to go and shake my groove thing.

20 minutes later I got a call from my friend Culito and was saddened to hear that our rendezvous point was closing early, but would that stop me and my entourage of alternative personalities, I think not.  So, rather than calling it a night I went to my local watering whole.  It was packed, the music was good, and bodies were shaking in ways that made me smile. After a beer or two I gave into the music and got lost in the crowd.  Found some fun dance partners and I let the music and good vibes loosen up some of the tension that had been building up the last few weeks.  Meanwhile my inner old Black Man was getting antsy.

After a few hours, the lights turned back on and the crowd was turned out to a Winter Wonderland. 

With the ground freshly covered in white powder, the folks from the bar did what came natural to them and started a moderately sized snowball fight.  Things were fine and dandy until a police car showed up and for those who know, The District has not had a lot of luck with spontaneous snowball fights and the police.

At first sight of the flashing lights, my inner old Black Man said it was time to wrap shit up and head on across the street to my house, but I was still in a state of euphoria and a little deaf from the music in the bar and I didn't hear him.  When the police showed up, I expected people to just start to disperse and head on home.  It was nearly 2:30 am and with recent history, I was not expecting much resistance from the crowd.  Then I was reminded of the difference between white folks and Negroes.

See (some) white people seem to have an unshakable belief that they can do what ever the hell they want to, whenever they want, and the hell if they are going to be told otherwise.  I am speaking in generalization of course.

*wink*

So armed with snow and a sense of infallibility, several folks decided now would be a good time to curse out the police with a few sprinkled shouts of "pigs".  And of course they weren't going to stop there, they also decided to throw a snowball of two at the cop car and the officers.  A few minutes later 4 more cop cars pulled up.  As you can imagine, my inner old Black Man had said fuck this shit a while a go and left my happy ass looking befuddled at what was unfolding before me.

I was so shocked by the fact that this crowd of drunken white people didn't give a fuck about the police.  Now, I  must admit that my folks work for the Fire Dept. and Police respectively, so I have a  bit of  respect for the boys in blue.  I by no means think that they are always right.  In fact, i hold them to a stricter standard because of my proximity to them.  With that said, I was still taught that as a young Black man, you don't fuck with the police because they will beat, shoot, or arrest your ass without a second thought.  And if our really lucky all three.  That isn't some self imposed myth, it's a simple reality of Negrocity.

After being antagonized by the crowd, the police did what they do and arrested to mofos.  And get this, the crowd had the balls to get pissed off.  I don't get it.

It is one thing if you weren't doing shit and are wrongfully imprisoned or intimidated by the police.  Just ask half the folks in the county lockup who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.   But, do not scream injustice if your ass is in the wrong.  Give that shit a rest.

I have a good deal of white friends, but they tend to display a good deal of common sense.  I know there must be others, they just weren't there last night.  Now if there is anyone out there who can explain to me the interesting phenomenon of (some) white folks not giving a fuck about the police, please let me know.

Meantime, I will try to catch up with my inner old Black Man and teach him how to drunk text, so I can avoid this shit in the future regardless of my state of bliss.

Echoes: Verse 6, Audre Lorde

So, one of my readers called me out on the fact that I had yet to give and Echoes feature to a female poet and I realized they were right. Here is my first attempt to correct that with a poem from one of the fiercest sisters to ever pick-up a pen.

*drum roll*

Power

by Audre Lorde

The difference between poetry and rhetoric

is being ready to kill

yourself

instead of your children.

I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds

and a dead child dragging his shattered black

face off the edge of my sleep

blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders

is the only liquid for miles

and my stomach

churns at the imagined taste while

my mouth splits into the wetness of his blood

as it sinks into the whiteness

of the desert where I am lost

without imagery or magic

trying to make power out of hatred and destruction

trying to heal my dying son with kisses

only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.

A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens

stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood

and a voice said "Die you little motherfucker" and

there are tapes to prove it. At his trial

this policeman said in his own defense

"I didn't notice the size nor nothing else

only the color." And

there are tapes to prove that, too.

Today that 37 year old white man

with 13 years of police forcing

was set free

by eleven white men who said they were satisfied

justice had been done

and one Black Woman who said

"They convinced me" meaning

they had dragged her 4'10" Black Woman's frame

over the hot coals

of four centuries of white approval

until she let go

the firs real power she ever had

to make a graveyard for our children.

I have not been able to touch destruction

within me.

But unless I learn to use

the difference between poetry and rhetoric

my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold

or lie limp and useless as a an unconnected wire

and one day I will take my teenaged plug

and connect it to the nearest socket

raping a 85 year old white woman

who is somebody's mother

and as I beat her senseless and set torch to her bed

a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time

"Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are."

Audre Geraldine Lorde was a critically acclaimed novelist, poet and essayist. She was born on February 18, 1924 in Harlem and died on November 17, 1992. Her parents were immigrants from Granada who seemed to continually plan to return to the Caribbean throughout most of Lorde's childhood. Lorde recalled that as a child, she spoke in poetry. When she couldn't find existing poems that expressed her feelings, she began to write poems at age twelve or thirteen. She attended Hunter College High School and then supported herself with low paying jobs. Her first lesbian affair was with a coworker at a factory in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She attended the National University of Mexico for a year, starting in 1954. Upon her return, she entered the "gay girl" scene in Greenwich Village but was often the only Black woman in the bars. She recalled that she did not try to build ties to the other three or four Black women in the scene as it seemed to threaten their status as exotic outsiders. She began to study at Hunter College, worked as a librarian, and, of course, wrote poetry. She attempted to join the Harlem Writers Guild but the overt homophobia of the group led her to leave. She received a BA in literature and philosophy from Hunter in 1959 and an MLS from Columbia University in 1960.

Lorde, Audre. "Power." The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde. New York: W.W. Norton & Comapny, Inc., 1997. p. 215-216. Originally published in Between Our Selves. Eidolon, 1976.

Pen and Paper: Les eaux noires

In tribute to the Saints victory at the Super Bowl I dug up this poem I wrote just after Katrina hit.  We must not forget that there are still those who suffer, still those whose lives were forever altered, and still those in need.  I offer this poem as tribute for those lost in the hopes that by remembering them we can prevent ever seeing such devastation and such blatant disregard for the lives of the poor and colored from ever happening again.

Les eaux noires¹


Black water over jazz
my invisible city          hidden skyline       flowing away
into the sea you go.
I am here Mother.
Maman, ne laissant pas votre enfant.²


Mes frères, mon soeurs, ne vont pas.³
Siblings that share the blood of a vanishing mother
You are with the fled, si vous êtes blanc.⁴
But I, ľenfant foncé⁵, am with the forsaken.

Je suis oublié⁶, by all those I love.
Damned to have the sounds of
sidewalks, levees, and waterways flood my ears;
Ľeau remplissant ma bouche, ma gorge, mes poumons.⁷


Black waters over jazz
once blue and foamy white.
Backland waters, darkened
with my floating flesh.
Into the sea I go
because the white waters have filled my mouth
Ainsi personne ne peut m'entendre et me sauver.⁸


Wait for me.
Si vou plait, attente.⁹
______________________________________
¹ The black waters
²  Mommy, don't leave your baby
³  My brothers, my sisters, don't go
⁴  If you are white
⁵  The dark child
⁶  I am forgotten
⁷  Water filling my mouth, my throat, my lungs
⁸  So nobody can hear and save me
⁹  Please, wait.

Echoes: Verse 5, Paul Laurence Dunbar

Longing
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

If you could sit with me beside
     the sea to-day,
And whisper with me sweetest
     dreaming o'er and o'er;
I think I should not find the
     clouds so dim and gray,
And not so loud the waves com-
    plaining at the shore.

If you could sit with me upon the
    shore to-day,
And hold my hand in yours as in
    the days of old,
I think I should not mind the chill
    baptismal spray,
Nor find my hand and heart and
    all the world so cold.

If you could walk with me upon
    the strand to-day,
And tell me that my longing love
    had won your own,
I think all my sad thoughts would
    then be  put away,
And I could give back laughter
    for the Ocean's moan!

Paul Laurence Dunbar (June 27, 1872 - February 9, 1906) was a seminal African-American poet in the late 19th and early 20th century. Dunbar gained national recognition for his 1896 Lyrics of a Lowly Life. Born in Dayton, Ohio to parents who had escaped from slavery, Dunbar died from tuberculosis at 34.

Dunbar, Paul Laurence.  "Longing."  The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar.  Ed. Joanne M. Braxton.  Charlottesville:  Universty of Virginia Press, 1993.  p. 21. 

Echoes: Verse 4, Michael Knoll

Prison Letter
by Michael Knoll

You ask what it's like here
but there are no words for it.
I answer difficult, painful, that man
die hearing their own voices.  That answer
isn't right though and I tell you now
that prison is a room
where a man waits with his nerves
drawn tight as barbed wire, an afternoon
that continues for months, that rises
around his legs like water
until the man is insane
and thinks the afternoon is a lake:
blue water, whitecaps, an island
where he lies under pale sunlight, one
red gardenia growing from his hands --

But that's not right either.  There are no
flowers in these cells, no water
and I hold nothing in my hands
but fear, what lives
in the absence of light, emptying
from my body to fill the large darkness
rising like water up my legs:

It rises and there are no words for it
though I look for them, and turn
on light and watch it
fall like an open yellow shirt
over black water, the light holding
against the dark for just
an instant: against what trembles
in my throat, a particular fear,
a word I have no words for.

       "After spending seven years in prison I wonder if the sameness of life here is so much different from the sameness which (Wallace) Stevens felt, and which fueled his desire to write.  In one of his poems, 'The Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour,' Stevens speculated that God and Imagination were one.  He envisioned a central imagination, a kind of room, in which all human beings were connected, a place where the candle of the imaginatin shone over the darkness of separation and discontent.  Here, for Stevens, the 'world imagined' was the 'ultimate good,'...
       As it did for Stevens, writing has given me the power to alter the dimensions of this world, to see beyond the myopia of prison into whatever exists beyond.  My poems, most of them, begin with a concrete, literal imge, and, when they work, expand outward to illuminate the territory of the imagination" 'a brief light in a sky above guntowers.'"  - Michael Knoll, May 1983

Knoll, Michael. "Prison Letter." The Light from Another Country: Poetry from American Prisons. Joseph Bruchac. New York: Greenfield Review Press, 1984. Print.

Definitions of Family

Family.

That word is multi-faceted and the people that I have come to associate with it do not all fit the “traditional” western interpretation of the term. So, I thought now would be a good time to introduce those people who make up my Family.  In the weeks and months to come I am sure each of them will have their stories told  But, for now a simple introduction will serve.

In the beginning....

I suppose I should begin with my grandmother Mecca. As her name implies she is the center of my family and the bond that unites us all. No matter where I am in the world, I can turn to her and feel a sense of peace and calm. That is not to say that Mecca is always tranquil. Sometimes she can be as full of rage and turmoil as any of the rest of us. Her past is full of both beauty and struggle, and the years have brought her greater wisdom, if not greater fortune.

It is from Mecca that Isis was born.  (This is my blog and my rules, so please don't try to come at me with the accuracy of my mythology and geographic history.  Thanks.  The Management).  Isis had it pretty rough growing up.  I will probably do a entire post on her alone, but for now I will stick to the basics.  She was the goddess who controlled all the major forces in my life, but like most gods, that also meant she was usually to busy running shit to intervene directly in my life.  It has only been in the last few years that I have begun to understand the mythos of my mother.  To see her as more than figure.  To recognize her as a person.

I have four siblings: Bigger, Blackbird, Pandora, and Confusion.  The boys are older and the girls are young, which leaves me smack dab in the middle.  I shall introduce them in turn.

The Boys

Bigger like his namesake, grew up filled with a rage he didn't quite understand, and thus was not able to fully control.  And like Bigger, he has wound up behind a set of steel bars.  Blackbird is a a pretty slick cat (mixed metaphor, so what bite me).  Unfortunately, Blackbird never really learned how to fly, mostly because people kept his wings clipped.  He never really had a lot of encouragement to succeed and follow his passions because his interest (b-ball and art) were regulated to pipedreams by my kin.  As he has gotten older though, his feathers have grown out and he has begun to test his wings.

The Girls

Pandora was the center of my world growing up and in a lot of ways still is my touchstone for home.  When she was a little girl, I gladly stepped into the role of big brother and her happiness was synonymous with my own.  Sadly as we have grown older, the kindness in our relationship has been replaced by an animosity and combative energy that I struggle to understand, but find myself helpless to resist.  Confusion is the baby and to be honest most of us don't really know what to do with her.  She is really trying to figure herself out and keeps drawing a blank.  I know in the end she will find her way, but in the meantime I worry.

(Side note, both Blackbird and Confusion are really my half cousins, but they were informally adopted by Isis.  Confused yet?)

This is where things get more interesting, because like most members of Negrocity (Negro Society), I entertain a host of play siblings and cousins.  If you don't know what a "play cousin" is here is urban dictionary for you.

1. play cousin
n. someone who you growed up around, who you know like family but ain't related to yaz.

These are my closest friends and confidants and they make up my High Council.

The High Council

I never really thought about it until now, but the Council is pretty much made up of women.  My little band of Amazonians, who give me advice on life.  The High Council is really governed for the most part by Peaches, Black Laces, Bella Bilar, Pinay,  Tigress, Eb, and Profesora.  I met Peaches, Black Laces, and Bella Bilar in my college days and they were a large part of how I made it through.  I really don't see them as much as I would like and have been working on visiting more frequently and I am sure that they are about ready to kick my ass for my negligence.  Pinay, Tigress,  Eb, and Profesora have known me since my Cali days and I can still turn to them to remember the old days and to share in the shit I find myself in now.

There are a handful of others who sometimes attend meetings of the High Council and there are definitely a few new editions that I think will be nominated for lifetime appointments (Pixie and Bubbles for example).  There are also three guys who have been voting members of the High Council from time to time: Waru (The Lost One), Puck (The Betrayer), and Apollo (The Fallen).

So these are my people. The ones who keep me going in more ways than they could possibly imagine.

My Family.

Echoes: Verse 3, Don Charles

Comfort
by Don Charles

When you looked and
          saw my Brown skin
Didn't it make you
         feel uncomfortable?

Didn't you remember that
         old blanket
You used to wrap up in
         when the nights go cold?

Didn't you think about that
         maplewood table
Where you used to sit and
         write letter to your daddy?

Didn't you almost taste that
         sweet gingerbread
Your granny used to make?
         (And you know it was good.)

When you looked and
         saw my Brown eyes
Didn't they look just like
        home?

Don Charles, twenty-nine (at the time this poem was published), lives in Kansas City, Missouri, where he was born and raised.  "My poetry reflects my personal experience as an unemployed gay black man trying to survive in a hostile society.  I'm sexually attracted to other men of color, and not ashamed to say so."

Charles, Don. "Comfort." Brother to Brother: New Writings By Black Gay Men. 1991. Essex Hemphill. Washington: Red Bone Press, 1991. Print.

Pen and Paper: Tryst and Open Letter

Here are two poems on love.  (Valentine's Day is coming up, so give me a break, lol). They sit in balance to one and other I think.  Please leave you're comments (good or bad).  Or better yet, write a poem in response.
_____________________________________________

Tryst

To be held and behold
in the grasp of hands
The floodgates of human desire
unnamed and unmanned
souls burning like cold embers
on the hearth
a breathe away from the flare of
recognition
left to sputter at the futility of
unrealized dreams and half
whispered thoughts,
the sweetest of
lies,  manifest sorrow that words
only begin to encompass
guilt and regret fail
to reflect
the pain of this moment before
illusion gives way to truth
when fond dreams are burned by
first lights fire
fast consumed by the present pressure
for release
an end to delusions of
self and others
and like infinity i move on
only to my beginning
and the ending
of a tryst
that should have never been

_________________________________________

Open Letter

Dear       ,

I sit here waiting
Always waiting
Waiting for the moment you return
With open arms and lips
Waiting
For
Mingled thoughts and tongues
That speak a language
Only two understand
Me
Waiting
For something that exists
Only
In thoughts
I sit
Waiting

With all my heart,