Black History Month Installment #2

For my first actual post this Black History Month, I decided to post something written by a black hero for a black hero. Malcolm X's eulogy as written and read by Ossie Davis. Every time I read or hear this I am filled with a strange mixture of sadness and pride; to have known or been in the presence of Malcolm, or Ossie for that fact, must have been like knowing you would never be so privileged again in your life. Malcolm X dedicated his life to the advancement and progression of black people and eventually that dedication claimed his life. Ossie Davis dedicated his life to that same end and although he was able to live to see the righting of the many wrongs he fought against, his dedication to the civil rights movement shall never be forgotten.

If I have ever been sure of anything in my life; it is that they would be proud of what we have accomplished in the past couple of years.

RIP.

Faith Temple Church Of God, February 27,1965

Here, at this final hour, in this quiet place, Harlem has come to bid farewell to one of its brightest hopes, extinguished now and gone from us forever. For Harlem is where he worked and where he struggled and fought. His home of homes where his heart was and where his people are. And it is, therefore, most fitting that we meet once again in Harlem to share these last moments with him. For Harlem has ever been gracious to those who loved her, have fought for her and have defended her honor even to the death.

It is not in the memory of man that this beleaguered, unfortunate but nonetheless proud community has found a braver, more gallant young champion than this Afro-American who lies before us, unconquered still. I say the word again, as he would want me to: Afro-American. Afro-American Malcolm, who was a master, was most meticulous in his use of words. Nobody knew better than he the power words have over the minds of men. Malcolm had stopped being a 'Negro' years ago. It had become too small, too puny, too weak a word for him. Malcolm was bigger than that. Malcolm had become an Afro-American and he wanted so desperately that we, that all his people, would become Afro-Americans, too.

There are those who will consider it their duty, as friends of the Negro people, to tell us to revile him, to flee even, from the presence of his memory, to save ourselves by writing him out of the history of our turbulent times. Many will ask what Harlem finds to honor in this stormy, controversial and bold young captain. And we will smile. Many will say turn away, away from this man, for he is not a man but a demon, a monster, a subverter and an enemy of the black man. And we will smile. They will say that he is of hate, a fanatic, a racist who can only bring evil to the cause for which you struggle! And we will answer and say to them: Did you ever talk to Brother Malcolm? Did you ever touch him, or have him smile at you? Did you ever really listen to him? Did he ever do a mean thing? Was he ever himself associated with violence or any public disturbance? For if you did you would know him. And if you knew him you would know why we must honor him:

Malcolm was our manhood, our living, black manhood! This was his meaning to his people. Consigning these mortal remains to earth, the common mother of all, secure in the knowledge that what we place in the ground is no more now a man but a seed which, after the winter of our discontent, will come forth again to meet us. And we will know him then for what he was and is. A prince. Our own black shining prince who didn't hesitate to die because he loved us so.

LoveHate Poetry... Black History Month Edition #1

In anticipation of Black History Month (and in response to some major black history being made this month), I offer you the following poem by the late Oscar Brown Jr.

I Apologize...

I apologize for being black,

For all I am, plus all I lack,

Please ma'am, please sir,

Give me some slack,

Cause I apologize.

I apologize for being poor,

For being sick and tired and so,

Cause I ain't slick, 

Don't know the score,

I do apologize.

I apologize because I bear,

Resemblances most people share,

Thick lips, flat nose, and nappy hair,

Yes, I apologize.

I apologize for how I look,

For all the lows and blows I took,

On those, lord knows I'd close the book,

As I apologize.

I apologize for all I gave,

For letting you make me your slave,

And going to my early grave,

Yes I apologize.

I apologize for being caught,

For being sold, for being bought,

While being told I count for naught,

Yeah I apologize.

I apologize for all I've done,

For all my toil out in the sun,

Don't want to spoil your righteous fun,

So I apologize.

I apologize and curse my fate,

For being slow, for being late,

Because I know it's me you hate,

Why not apologize.

I apologize and tip my hat,

Cause you so rich and free and fat,

Son of a bitch that's where it's at,

And I apologize!

LoveHate Poetry... Installation #4

Tonight (December 20th) I gave my first ever spoken word poetry performance at Seeing is Believing.  The following installation is the poem that I delivered.

I wanna Write a Poem...

By Sean William Bowles

I want to write a poem...

I want to write a poem that will blow your mind an rock your world

I want to write a poem that will weaken your knees, make you sick to your stomach a destroy your beliefs

I want to write a poem about what you are thinking, how you feel and put a screw on your face

I want to write words profound enough to make you transcend this space

I want to inspire you and then to strike a nerve

I want to write with passion, with fire, with contempt and with verve

I want to write a poem about love and sex and burning desire

I want to write about heartbreak, and loss and the resulting gun fire

I want to write a poem about my anger and fear

And about the path that I took that led me up here

I want to tell you that I always choose die over fly

I want you to believe it, even if I think it's a lie

I want to make you think, "what the fuck did I just hear?!"

I want to make you clap, make you yell and sometimes even jeer

I want to write a poem...

I want to write a poem about being a kid

About Saturday cartoons, cops and robbers and bike tire skids

About ow none of us had cell phones like Zack on "Saved by the Bell"

And how playing house, for us boys, was a special kind of hell

I want to write a poem about the first day of school

I want to speak in hyperbole like that Napoleon Dynamite fool

Like how I am the only one here who knows illegal ninja moves from the government

I want to tell you these lies simple for the fun of it

I want to write a poem about new clothes and new shoes

About the smell of erasers, used books and playground rules

I want to write about the old gymnasium and older substitute teachers

I want to write about passing notes and "your mommas so fat" jokes...

I want to write a poem about how High School is everything while you're in it

And then means nothing when you're done it

I want to write a poem about how hard my life seemed back then

And in retrospect, how easy it seems right now

I want to write about how I think today, innocence is wasted on children

And how old people think youth is wasted on the young

I want to write a poem

I want to write a love poem...

About first girlfriends and first kisses

About sweaty Saturday nights and sweet Sunday mornings

I want to write a poem that will take you from the dance floor and on through the bedroom door

About first base, second base and eventually home runs

About how the first time, for both of us... it wasn't really that fun

I want to write a poem about how my heart aches without her

I want to write a poem about how my heart breaks because of her

I want to write a metaphor to describe her beautiful eyes

Like, "Her eyes are the ocean; terrifying and striking, vast and profound. eternally drowning in their magnificence I feel at ease with death as if I have found peace... in heaven..."

But I am just not that deep

So I'll just say that she, is simply, beautiful

I want to write a poem

I want to write a poem about how much I love music

Art Tatum, Jill Scott and Thelonious Monk

Nina Simone, The Commodores, and Felonious Funk

I want to write about Round Midnight and Holiday's Strange Fruit

I want to write about piano, saxophone, the bass and the flute

I want to tell you how I can listen to The Strokes followed by Thriller

Throw in the Big L, Little Brother and then maybe The Killers

I want to write about how Weezy sold a millions albums in one week

And how the media still talks about him with their tongue in their cheek

I want to write about how nobody seems to write lyrics anymore

How artist after artist is just another label whore

I want to write about how House Music still pisses me off

And how on the issues Hip Hop music is getting too soft

I want to tell you how I've got this spoken word shit down to a tee

'Cause no one on the corner has swagger like me

I want to write about booze, ice and every other cliche

But 50s got that covered, so on the subject I've got nothing left to say

I want to write a poem

I want to write about my family

And how divided it is

About growing up black and white

And how difficult it is

I want to write a poem about my mother and how her strength inspires me

I want to write a poem about my grandmother and how her ways can tire me

I want to write about shared Christmases and birthdays and growing up in two houses

About my father, his new life and how I have no idea who his new spouse is

I want to tell you how growing up like this can make you feel like, you're only there to take up space

About how life seems twice as long wen you have no rightful place

And complete families seem to be doubling the pace

I want to write a poem

I want to write a poem about hatred and rage

About how a nigger can't break through the glass ceiling,

But he can damn sure make it up on stage

I want to write about how the United States elected a man named Barack

And how we've finally managed to paint that old slave house black

And why today, all of a sudden racism doesn't exist

Slavery has been forgotten and lynching is no longer considered a twist

What I want to know is who is going to prosecute the KKK

And when will there be equal rights for every person asexual, straight, or gay

I want to write a poem about all of this because it is important to me

I want to write about all of the inequalities I see

I want to write a poem that will break own these walls

I want to see hatred tumble and prejudice fall

I want to write a poem

I want to write a poem about misery and death

About how I wasn't around to see my grandfather take his last breath

I want to tell you how he passes with my grandmother at his side

And how they say he died of Cancer, but I say he died from pride

I want to write about feeling lost and alone

About how is it the people and not the place that make this my home

I want to write about how too many leave us too soon

How final heart beats can feel like final heart booms

I want to write a poem that will make you remember your friends

About their beautiful beginnings and in too many cases, their tragic ends

I want to say it in a way that brings a tear to your eye

Because I know the beauty in the truth and the fear in the lie

I want to write a poem that makes you feel all fucked up in side

Like Knight did, when he said, Hard Rock had had his brain fried

But this is my poem, so I might say something like this...

"I dreamt of the moment Death will leave with my soul/ Standing bare black naked alone, knee deep in the snow/ I see my face mirrored beneath Death's dark hood/ my eyes become his, looking back where I once stood/ I am merely a shadow now, the wisp of my last breath/ I lost my life the moment I dreamt of death..."

Yeah, I want to write something just like this

About my death and I might call it, "The Long Goodnight Kiss"

I want to write a poem...

I want to write a poem about all these things and so much more

But I just can't seem to find the words.

Peace.

LoveHate Poetry... Installation #3

Running up to Seeing is Believing I thought I might share a poem of my own creation. It is dark... but that is what makes it what it is.

I Dreamt of Death

By Sean William Bowles

I dreamt of the moment Death will leave with my soul

Standing bare black naked alone, knee deep in the snow

I see my face mirrored beneath Death's dark hood

My eyes become his, looking back where I once stood

I am merely a shadow now, the wisp of my last breath

I lost my life, the moment I dreamt of death...

I walk alone now with nothing left to feel

The ground beneath my feet is cold and hard like steel

Death has consumed me, I see him with my waking eyes

The shadowy figures of loved ones are nothing but cruel lies

No flesh, no bone, no body, just a spirit in its stead

I ceased to be living; the moment I dreamt I was dead...

They say a dream cannot harm you, but I feel tortured forevermore

I wonder what his plans are, what Death may have in store

You may not believe this, but death will cause you no pain

You dies so you can feel, so Death does not come in vain

We become the earth when in peace we are laid to rest

I began living, the moment I dreamt of death.

LoveHate Poetry... Installation #2

Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, to LoveHate poetry. In today's installment we move into the more contemporary realm of American Poets to Hip Hop's Poet Laureate, Saul Williams. In his book, The Dead Emcee Scrolls: The Lost Teachings of Hip-Hop, Saul Williams destroys all pretenders of written word with lyrics and imagery that will blow your mind! I hope you enjoy this poem, it is one of my all time favorites...

Co-dead Language

Whereas, break-beats have been the
missing link connecting the diasporic
community to its drum-woven past.

Whereas, the quantized drum has
allowed the whirling mathematicians
to calculate the ever-changing distance
between rock and stardom.

Whereas, the velocity of spinning vinyl,
Cross-faded, spun backwards, and re-released
at the same given moment of recorded history,
yet, at a different moment in time's continuum
has allowed history to catch up with the present.

We do hereby declare reality unkempt
by the changing standards of dialogue.

Statements such as, "keep it real," especially
when punctuating or articulating mode of
ultra-violence inflicted psychologically or
physically or depicting an unchanging rule
of events, will henceforth be seen as retroactive
and not representative of the individually
determined IS.

Furthermore, as determined by the collective
consciousness of this state of being and the
lessened distance between thought patterns
and the secular manifestations, the role of
men as listening receptacles is to be increased
by a number no less than 70 percent of the
current enlisted as vocal aggressors.

MTHRFCKRs better realize, now is the time
to self-actualize. We have found evidence that
Hip-hop's standard 85 RPM when increased
by a number at least half the rate of the standard
or decreased by 3/4's of its speed may be a
determining factor in heightening consciousness.
Studies show that when a given norm is changed
in the face of the unchanging the remaining
contradictions will parallel the truth.

Equate rhyme with reason. Sun with season.
Our cyclical relationship to phenomena has
encouraged scholars to erase the centers of
periods thus symbolizing the non-linear
character of cause and effect.

Reject mediocrity. Your current frequencies
of understanding outweigh that which has
been given for you to understand. The current
standard is the equivalent of an adolescent
restricted to the diet of an infant. The rapidly
changing body would acquire dysfunctional
and deformative symptoms and could not properly
mature on a diet of applesauce and crushed pears.

Light years are interchangeable with years of living
in darkness. The role of darkness is not to be seen
as or equated with ignorance but with the unknown
and the mysteries of the unseen.

Thus, in the name of: Robeson,
God's son. Hurston, Akhenaton,
Hatshepsut, Blackfoot, Helen,
Lennon, Kahlo, Kali, The Three
Marias, Tara, Lilith, Lourde,
Whitman, Baldwin, Ginsberg,
Kaufman, Lumumba, Gandhi,
Gibran, Shabazz, Shabazz,
Siddhartha, Medusa, Guevera,
Gurdjieff, Rand, Wright, Banneker,
Tubman, Hamer, Holiday, Davis,
Coltrane, Morrison, Joplin, Du Bois,
Clarke, Shakespere, Rachmaninoff,
Ellington, Carter, Gaye, Hathaway,
Hendrix, Kuti, Dickerson, Ripperton,
Mary, Isis, Theresa, Plath, Rumi,
Fellini, Michaux, Nostradamus,
Neferttiti, La Rock, Shiva, Ganesha,
Yemaja, Oshun, Obatala, Ogun,
Kennedy, King, four little girls,
Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Keller, Biko,
Peron, Marley, Shakur, Those who
burned. Those still aflame. And the
countless un-named.

We claim the present as the pre-sent at the
hereafter. We are unraveling our navels so
that we may ingest the sun. We are not afraid
of the darkness. We trust that the moon shall
guide us. We are determining the future at this
very moment. We now know that the heart is
the philosopher's stone.

Our music is our alchemy. We stand as the
manifested equivalent of three buckets of water
and a handful of minerals, thus, realizing that
those very buckets turned upside down supply
the percussive factor of forever. If you must
count to keep the beat then count. Find your
mantra and awaken your subconciousness. Carve
your circles counter-clockwise. Use your cipher
to decipher coded language, man-made laws. Climb
waterfalls and trees. Commune with nature snakes
and bees.

Let your children name themselves and claim
themselves as the new day for today we are
determined to be the channelers of these
changing frequencies into songs, paintings,
writing, dance, drama, photography, carpentry,
crafts, love, and love.

We enlist every instrument: acoustic, electronic,
every so-called race, gender, sexual preference
every per-son as being of sound to acknowledge
their responsibility to uplift the consciousness
of the entire fucking world!

Any utterance un-aimed will be disclaimed,
will be maimed. Two rappers slain!

LoveHate Poetry.

In case you do not already know Seeing is Believing is coming up in a few weeks and along with my pieces (yet to be revealed on this site) I will also be reciting a couple poems of my own design. In that vain I thought I might post a few poems by other writers that I am quite fond of now and again in a new segment I am calling, LoveHate Poetry. I hope you enjoy this first installment.

*Warning: This poem contains imagery and language of a graphic nature. Basically what I am saying is, if you're lame... don't read it.

Feeling Fucked Up
By Etheridge Knight

Lord she's gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs--

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the deciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all I want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing