From the archives – Still Life

my ideal still life painting would contain
a non-microwave-safe cup and saucer,
a piece of ripened fruit, a wind up watch
with a leather band, and a book, hardbound,

with several bookmarks and tabs. On a desk.
And maybe reading glasses, depending
on the reader’s (and the painter’s) needs.
I’d stare at that canvas, and wonder

if my subject drank tea or coffee, hot
or lukewarm like I like it. I’d wonder
does the book have poetry inside it,
the bookmarks and tabs for his (her) favorite

passages. I’d hang it beside my wife’s
painting of the river ferry crossing.

#BlaPoWriMo – Some thoughts about my country after seeing the James Baldwin movie “I am not your Negro.”

“The end we think
we seek is not near,
& it’s not the end,
& it’s not what we seek.”
— “Amtrak NE Regional”
        April 19, 2013

Your dystopian moment could be the dark ages
before the renaissance – your zombie apocalypse
a golden opportunity for the dispossessed,
a resurrection for the marginalized whose hopes
died on the cross.

The night of doom you recommend could be
a shining star heralding a dawn on a new horizon –
a long awaited dream finally being realized.
The end of all you think you know could be
a new beginning that does not include your past.

Before we nail the coffin shut, let’s listen closely
for a pulse – the quiet beating of a tale-tell heart.
It may not be too late for even you
to turn around.

 

Interview with James Baldwin from WGBH’s 1963 special program The Negro and the American Promise

#BlaPoWriMo – Survival of the Fit

We brought much with us inside those ships
when we emigrated to this new world
of golden promise and opportunity.
Okra & chillies & black-eyed pea seeds
we stowed away in little hiding places –
along with knowledge – how to grow rice,
how to make bread from dried corn, how to deep
fry meats to tenderize them, make them last –  
physical things, to nourish, sustain us.
But our name, our faith, our spirituality
also survived the Middle Passage,
along with our mathematics, our psychology,
& our cosmology. It all survived.
Underestimate us. Fine. We will be.

#BlaPoWriMo – Fridays

Friday mornings always take me back in time
to foreign language classes & my turn coming
to say what I’m doing for the weekend –

I used to regret not learning an African language
while living overseas – but no more.
More Portuguese is spoken in Africa
than in Portugal. More Arabic than in Arabia.
Numbers speak. What are the Ghanaians saying
on Twitter today? Is it in English or Twi?

See what I mean? So I’m feeling fulfilled
this Friday morning, recalling phrases
& words in Arabic & Portuguese,
& writing in Haiku. My list of weekend
activities is ready for recitation.

 

 

#BlaPoWriMo – The Roots of Our Love

#BlaPoWriMo – The roots of our love

“We’ll meet again and then we must decide upon the hour
When we’ll allow our destinies to intertwine and flower.”
                                                              From Sonnet #8

with a nod to Deleuze and Guattari –

Over the passing years our love has grown: 
a mass of tangled roots beneath the soil.

Only an expert gardener would appreciate
this rhizome, how interconnected at every point –

each node drawing nourishment from the soil
surrounding it – every connecting root as essential

as the adjoining nodes. No prior unity defines us –
there is no original order to regulate or codify –

we name this love. Errant roots sometimes rupture,
break or fail, and remake their connections

in multitudinous combinations, always seeking
progression, insuring survival, feeding

this intertwining flowering, a map and tracing
of a secret underground geography.

#BlaPoWriMo – A Valentines Day sonnet from the archives

Sonnet #42

Words in poetry and notes in music
Are sounds, simple wavelengths colliding off
Our eardrums and the membranes of our souls.  
Oft times we transmit sound waves, words or notes,
Through positive values, like happiness
And tenderness, timbres soft and bright.
Sometimes negative: sadness, fear – dull and
Sharp, like aches and pains we frequently endure.
At times, we just receive: parameters
Are the same. But when we meet, ah, when we 
Meet, our words and notes connect! Our wavelengths
Intersect, and intertwine, and synthesize! 
And we make love – sweet love. External tones
And errant thoughts die softly in the deep.

From the archives – it all started with a conversation about #Westworld

Yeah, I was talking with my colleague
on the reference desk between walk-ups and chatbox chats,
about cool television shows to check out over the holidays.

Same one who turned me on to Jessica Jones which
later became Luke Cage. An actress with an M.A.
in philosophy, she’s always got good ideas
’bout movies and television. So she started

talking about Westworld. But Westworld is on HBO
and we ain’t got cable, so I said, “Tell me about
it anyway.” She said, “it’s about androids and stuff

they do in a fantasy park when they go off
the program.” Said, “it’s the best series on television,”
and she knew all the plots and theories.
I said, “I have some android sonnets.”

——

And here they are:

——

Sonnet #53

High culture and low,
polished and profaned,
sanctified and ghettoized –

all the decisions we make
stem from false dichotomies
presented to us – opposing options

in a narrative, neither of which
makes us better or worse for the wear –
just older and grayer –
more wrinkled and cataract’d,

until our vision is blocked,
and our tastebuds deadened
by the novocaine they give us –
for good behavior.

Sonnet #54

I wake up with the hiccups,
my coffee jones is down on me –
I stumble to the kitchen,
still some powder left in the grinder
from yesterday’s yesterdays –
I fire up the kettle – twice-boiled
water will do just fine, thank you.
My hiccups are getting worse –

The french press is full of sludge.
I pour the sludge out – most of it –
what remains will season the new batch,
sort of like making yogurt. The whistle
is blowing, the water is boiling again.
Won’t be long now. Won’t be long.

Sonnet #55

another crazy dance with Maria dos Santos Pittsylvania:
she loves the Tango, Lambada, Kizomba –
always well-dressed, her steps are technically
choreographed, mechanically proficient.

The rhythm, the beat of the music determines
each step, each twirl, each bump, each groove:
but the melody stirs the heart, and you want
to peek into her eyes, cast a flirtatious glance, at least –

then the beat shifts, requiring a technical adjustment,
precision; and attention to the glance you seek
gets diverted to the mechanics of the dance, again –
and you know it’s OK, because Maria is an android

in a pretty pink body suit. And you think yourself
a knight in shining armor – this is Second Life, silly.