Pat Parker's "Where will you be, When they come?"

Boots are being polished…trumpeters clean their horns
Chains and locks forged…the crusade has begun.
Once again flags of Christ…are unfurled in the dawn
and cries of soul saviors…sing apocalyptic on air waves.
Citizens, good citizens all…parade into voting booths
and in self-righteous sanctity…X away our right to life.
I do not believe as some…that the vote is an end,
I fear even more…it is just a beginning.
So I must make assessment…look to you and ask:
Where will you be…when they come? [...]
Where will we _all be_
when they come?
And they will come-
they will come…because...
[continue there...]

Camille T. Dungy's "Ark"

I will enter you as hope enters me,
through blinding liquid, light of rain, and I
will stay inside until you send me out;
I will stay inside until you ground me.
We cannot outrun the rain. So many
summers I have tried. So many summers.
But when the rumble calls after the spark
there can be no escape...
[continue there...]

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[read...]

Rhyming

Poetry: Poetry Techniques

Chris Abani's "Hands Washing Water"

Even in the falling
a train breaks for the light.
The tunnel, the darkness – never

sweeter. This body is not
real. Yet living.
This living body.

There is a child. The blessed
coolness of water.
And hands
© Chris Abani

[source 1...] and [source 2...]

Literary Award: Penguin South Africa

PENGUIN BOOKS SOUTH AFRICA ANNOUNCES A NEW LITERARY AWARD

21 April 2009
Penguin Books announced today a new literary award for writers from the African continent. The Penguin Prize for African Writing has two categories: a previously unpublished full-length work of adult fiction and one of non-fiction. The prize in each category will be R50 000 and a publishing contract with Penguin Books South Africa, with worldwide distribution via Penguin Group companies.

Penguin South Africa’s CEO Alison Lowry commented, “Although this prize does not exclude established authors, we believe that there are new writers from Africa for whom Penguin can provide a platform, and in so doing we hope to reflect and showcase the diversity of voices on our continent both at home and abroad.”

Books to be considered for the non-fiction award will be serious narratives that examine and explore African issues and experiences for both local and international audiences in an engaging, thought provoking and enlightening way.

For the fiction prize the judges will be looking for novels of freshness and originality that represent the finest examples of contemporary fiction out of Africa.

Penguin’s Chairman and Chief Executive, John Makinson said, “As we approach the end of our second decade of publishing in South Africa, it is exciting to be able to look ahead to the next phase of the company’s development. The Penguin Prize for African Writing will give us opportunities to reach new readers across Africa and bring talented and important writers to the attention of book lovers around the world.”

Submissions for both categories are now open, and close on the 30^th of January 2010. The shortlist will be announced in April 2010 and the final prizes will be awarded in September 2010.

See below documents for the fiction and non-fiction prize criteria.
[source...]

Kwame Dawes's "She's Gone"

I savor a story that is so rooted in culture that I feel as though I can sink into its reality. For the moments that easily drift into hours of reading, I’m living the characters’ rich lives as if their own mothers had birthed me. Hearing and seeing in a world that is not just familiar to them, but one I readily fall prey to. One that becomes me.

For seven hours, I lived in She’s Gone.

Two lovers torn, Keisha and Kofi’s love was imperfect, yet perfect for them. Dawes crafted a masterful poetic removal of love’s mask, unearthing its harsh reality. Never simply flowers and sweets, but a sinister mix of joy and pain, more often pain that eventually morphs into the illusion of comfort. She’s Gone was simply real. A dance between two worlds, so different but similar. An exploration of two cultures clashing, and the courage it takes to break familial bondage and free the spirit, ready the soul for acceptance—even at the brink of madness.
[continue there...]

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O jwang?

Ka tlhaho o sehlekehleke,
Hlekehleke baka se hara metsi,
Hara metsi ha habo mmamolapo le kganyapa,
Shaka le leruarua ba sa sale morao.

Ha mmila o ntse o puta wa fetoha,
Wa fetoha moleko mohlorisi wa Maaforika,
Maaforika a lwanelang toka le nnete,
Nnete e reng tsa bo bona di boye sekwele.

Empa jwale nna o a mmakatsa nneso,
Hantlentle o jwang moleko towe?
Hoba batho ha o aka wa ba tshwara ka ho tshwana,
O bile le dithatohatsi le ba nenwang.

Maoba o tshwere ba tshwanang batho,
O tshwere dikwete,banna ba sebele,
Banna ba neng ba lwanela toka le nnete,
Maaforika sebele ho qeta.

Ho kgutleng ha bona ha ba aka ba tshwana,
Tshobotsi ne di fapane haholo,
Bang eka be ne ba ile paradeising,
Ha ba bang eka ba tswa diheleng.

Hantlentle o jwang moleko towe ?
Hoba bang ba kgutlile e le dikwete,
Ba shahlile bala le hlakile,
Eka hodimo ba le bone ka mahlo.

Mpolelle hle o jwang?
Hoba bang ba kgutlile e le mehoboko,
Ba qhiletsa maoto a feletse ho wena.
Matsoho le menwana ha re sa bua.

Hapehape ke sa o botsa weso,
Hantlentle o jwang motswalle?
Bang ebile mokete mohlang o ba lesang.
Ha ba bang o ba lahletse Qwaqwa ho itshokolela.

Hantlentle o jwang moleko towe?,
Bang esale o ba nka,
Le kajeno re sa ba lebelletse,
Kapa o ba entse dithotsela na re tsebe.

Mpolelle monna o jwang ?
Hoba bang ka sehloho o ba fenethile,
Matsohong a hao ba shwetse sehloho.
Tjhefo a ba file tse tabolang mala.
© Teboho Mahapa

Opal Palmer Adisa's "The Muse"

Quote: Robert Frost

"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader."
~Robert Frost

Maya Angelou's "We Had Him"

Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind.

Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace. Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.

In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time. No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.

Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.

Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us, and we did have him.

He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.

Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love, and survived and did more than that.

He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style. We had him whether we knew who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his.

We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.

His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.

And we laughed and stomped our feet, for him.

We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing. He gave us all he had been given.

Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana’s Black Star Square,

In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England,

We are missing Michael Jackson.

But we do know we had him, and we are the world.

[source...]

Kwame Dawes's "Hope's Hospice"

Kwame Dawes launched his poetry book, Hope's Hospice. Inspired while reporting on #HIV / #AIDS in Jamaica. http://bit.ly/v4EVU
about 3 hours ago from bit.ly

Pulitzercenter
Pulitzer Center

Niyi Osundare's "Not My Business"

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...]

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[Listen]

How to write poetry

How to Compose Poetry

Poetry? Dead? Naaaah...

The paradox of poetry is that so many more people write it than read it. In this, it’s a little different than the other arts: people who play instruments listen to music all the time. Would-be painters spend lots of time in museums and galleries. I’m not sure why this disconnect exists: perhaps it’s a chicken and egg thing, where the less attention is paid to poetry — in magazines, reviews, even bookstores — the less people are aware of what’s going on in the art, which causes the media to neglect poetry even more, because who wants to read about this obscure thing nobody seems to care about? Or perhaps it’s due to the way poetry is taught in high school, as a kind of maddeningly complicated way of saying something simple, like seize the day, or my girlfriend says she loves me, so why won’t she sleep with me?
[continue there...]

Can it be possible to be this daft?

LINK: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/business/8118721.stm

Thanks for sending this my way, Dave. When are we and our families mealing together?

Who is your Michael Jackson?

"I ask who is your Michael Jackson? Are you gonna wait for he or she to die before telling them that they are Great!"
~Wyclef Jean

Geoffrey Philp's "He Would Dance"

he would dance,
even when his frail body could no longer bear
the weight of all our fears

or when we questioned his allegiance
under the spotlight's unforgiving glare
he would dance
[continue there...]

Global or Local? Kwame Dawes

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Michael Jackson, RIP

LINK: http://poefrika.blogspot.com/2007/08/happy-birthday-michael-jackson.html

Groundwork's poem is here: http://groundwork.wordpress.com
Geoffrey's poem is here: http://geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com

"Dis-Leur" by Ernest Pépin

Un oiseau passe
éclair de plumes
dans le courrier du crépuscule
VA
VOLE
ET DIS-LEUR
Dis-leur que tu viens d'un pays
formé dans une poignée de main
un pays simple comme bonjour
où les nuits chantent
pour conjurer la peur des lendemains
dis-leur
que nous sommes une bouchée
répartie sur sept îles
comme les sept couleurs de la semaine
mais que jamais ne vient
le dimanche de nous-mêmes
VA
VOLE
ET DIS-LEUR
Dis-leur que les marées
ouvrent la serrure de nos mémoires
que parfois le passé souffle
pour attiser nos flammes
car un peuple qui oublie
ne connaît plus la couleur des jours
il va comme un aveugle dans la nuit du présent
dis-leur que nous passons d'île en île
sur le pont du soleil
mais qu'il n'y aura jamais assez de lumière
pour éclairer
nos morts
dis-leur que nos mots vont de créole en créole
sur les épaules de la mer
mais qu'il n'y aura jamais assez de sel
pour brûler notre langue
VA
VOLE
ET DIS-LEUR
Dis-leur qu'à force d'aimer les homes
nous avons appris à aimer l'arc-en-ciel
et surtout dis-leur
qu'il nous suffit d'avoir un pays à aimer
qu'il nous suffit d'avoir des contes à raconteur
pour ne pas avoir peur de la nuit
qu'il nous suffit d'avoir un chant d'oiseau
pour ouvrir nos ailes d'hommes libres
VA
VOLE
ET DIS-LEUR...
----------




Tell them

A bird of bright feather
dashes away in
the message of twilight
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM
Tell them you come from a country
built in a handshake
a country easy as one two three
where night sings
to keep tomorrow’s fears away
tell them
how we’re a mouthful
spread over seven islands
like the seven colours of the week,
but that the Sunday of our own days
never comes
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM
Tell them that tides
unlock our memories
and that the past sometimes blows
to excite our flames
because a people that forgets
no longer knows the colours of its days
but moves through today’s darkness like a blind-man
tell them we use the sun's bridge
to go from one island to another
but that there’ll never be enough light
to illumine
our dead
tell them our words go from créole to créole
on the shoulders of the sea
but that there’ll never be enough salt
to burn our tongue
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM
Tell them that by dint of loving people
we’ve learned to love the rainbow
and be sure to tell them
that it’s enough for us to love a country
that it’s enough for us to have stories to tell
so as not to fear the night
that to open our wings as free men
it is enough for us to have the bird’s song
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM...

© Ernest Pépin
Translated by Rethabile Masilo with the author's permission



Please visit http://www.lehman.cuny.edu/ile.en.ile/paroles/pepin.html for the full bio.

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