I have never read any if her work [yet] but this quote makes me want to do so.

 

“Nobody reads poetry, we are told at every inopportune moment. I read poetry. I am somebody. I am the people, too. It can be allowed that an industrious quantity of contemporary American poetry is consciously written for a hermetic constituency; the bulk is written for the bourgeoisie, leaving a lean cut for labor. Only the hermetically aimed has a snowball’s chance in hell of reaching its intended ears. One proceeds from this realization. A staggering figure of vibrant, intelligent people can and do live without poetry, especially without the poetry of their time. This figure includes the unemployed, the rank and file, the union brass, banker, scientist, lawyer, doctor, architect, pilot, and priest. It also includes most academics, most of the faculty of the humanities, most allegedly literary editors and most allegedly literary critics. They do so–go forward in their lives, toward their great reward, in an engulfing absence of poetry–without being perceived or perceiving themselves as hobbled or deficient in any significant way. It is nearly true, though I am often reminded of a Transtromer broadside I saw in a crummy office building in San Francisco:

We got dressed and showed the house

You live well the visitor said

The slum must be inside you.

If I wanted to understand a culture, my own for instance, and if I thought such an understanding were the basis for a lifelong inquiry, I would turn to poetry first. For it is my confirmed bias that the poets remain the most ‘stunned by existence,’ the most determined to redeem the world in words..”
― C.D. Wright, Cooling Time: An American Poetry Vigil

Faces and Masks Cento

I don’t normally incorporate poetic forms in my work but having come across the form of the cento, I thought that sounds interesting. I flipped through several books to pick the words that would form the basis of the piece. The lyricism of Eduardo Galeono’s trilogy Memory of Fire fired my imagination the most for this exercise and so I went with Faces and Masks, the 2nd volume in the series. Here is my attempt at a cento:

 

Ever since dawn
the ground has been steaming
pleading for a drink
while the living seek shade
and fan themselves.

Hidalgo spent the night with his eyes
fixed on the ceiling of the cell
saying goodbye:

my father didn’t put me among the rich
or the generals or those who have money
or claim to have it.

my father put me with the poor
because i am poor.

At the edge of the village of Morón
a common grave
swallows the bones of a poet
who until yesterday
had a guitar
and a name.

His unshrouded body
ends up in the earth;
his couplets, also naked,
also plebeian,
abide in the winds.

On the street
someone plucks
lamentations
from a guitar.

Sustenance

She throws her voice
like a boomerang
that should return
but doesn’t.

She seeks her voice
everywhere except
her own larynx
where it withers
on fleshy folds
and fibroids.

Unspoken, words
tunnel through her
until they tumble
from her pores.

Indelibly linked
she sustains
poetry.

 

© 2015 Tichaona M. Chinyelu

The Pantry of a Modest Foodie: Ideas on “How To” Provision Your Table with Limited Means

As a home gardener (and amateur foodie) I found this interesting…and helpful!

michaelwtwitty's avatarAfroculinaria

JML Buying Cymlings in Mississippi at an HBCU Sponsored Farmer's Market JML Buying Cymlings in Mississippi at an HBCU Sponsored Farmer’s Market

I don’t really want to make this a long post…really I don’t…..so I’m going to try not to.

I am supposed to be working on book proposals and that will happen ASAP, I just need to get my juices flowing at 2:24 AM.  Apologies for rambling in advance…this is more of a brain deluge than a blog post…

Let’s talk about the pantry for the moment….I am a very very very very very financially modest man..let’s get that straight.  When the Ancestors see that I’m following directions…I get blessed, other times I struggle through the muck like everyone else.  However I’ve had to keep up with the big girls and boys in the food world both near and far.  That has meant thinking deeply about how I cook at home and what it means to come up with new…

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Praisesong for the Sun (Revised)

Today you shined, today you defined
the thrill of the unmaligned mind
and love, returned in kind.

Time itself unwinds and I am of one mind.
Spirit and body aligned, love for humankind
I feel as well as find. Am I of sane mind?

Have I joined the kingdom of the blind
where oppression is not enshrined?
I must be losing my blighted mind.

Is my state of mind a design?
The sun seems disinclined
in the manner of the divine
to provide reason or rhyme.

I want to take a hard line
but my anger, the sun declined
and I stay in a lovely frame of mind.

I blame it on the sunshine,
calling it an enemy of mine
but the sun stays benign
and I know I’m out of line.

I Came, I Saw, I Conquered

I slice and dice lands
and create monetary demands
that leave you with no hands.
When I’m not slicing and dicing
I’m straight up enticing
you out of your rings and things.

I cut swaths through people’s villages
earning my wealth through pillages.
I got people on the run, on the move
and kings with strength to prove.
I expel and dump the unwanted
and those who remain undaunted
with the stipulation they remember
they’re undesirable, like my temper.

I am Europe at the end of hte 19th century.
I bring murder, mayhem and rape of your family tree.

I fight wars to make sure what’s mine stays mine
and to make what’s yours become mine.
I send foot soldiers, settlers, even your own kind
deeper into your territory to rob you blind.
All of my languages had a place in the sun:
French, Dutch, English and Belgian.

And now your languages have a foot in the grave
and none of your people know how to behave.
I get to scream loud about genocide
while still taking blood from your hide;
getting world opinion on my side
while your black ass gets fried.

Excerpted from my first book, In the Whirlwind

Sankara Mantra (7 months)

11 years ago today, I gave birth to the one, the only Sankara Kono. Mothering him is a topsy-turvy journey of joy. When he was 7 months old, I wrote the poem below for/about him.  As evident by the photo, his determination lives! Happy birthday, my love!

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Sankara Mantra (7 Months)

Lashes like mine.
Eyes like mine
even in the way
they peruse a room.

Skin like mine
but darker.
A bafflement inside me
every time I hear him
referred to as black.
(how’d you get such a black baby?)

It has happened twice
and so has my response:
(black is beautiful)

Sankara
whose birth filled the holes
consuming my heart

Sankara
who is entranced by his reflection
in the mirror
has begun to stand.

I am in awe of his determination
and the fact that
at barely seventeen pounds
his head is already past my knees.

Sankara
who I brought into an oppressive world
clutches his walker with his pudgy fingers
and walks completely around it.

I watch with a joy that is miraculous.

Sankara
who I brought into an oppressive world
is owed happiness and well-being
and that is a debt I will pay

like Malcolm said
by any means necessary.

Reading Round-up 3.3.15

As of this date I have accomplished the monumental task of reading two books from start to finish. It might seem counter- intuitive for a writer to have a problem completing the reading of a book but such is the nature of my life now. The two books read were Watershed by Percival Everett and Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson.

Watershed – I don’t know what I think/feel about this book. I read it and continued reading it waiting for some “action” to happen.  Considering that the story involves Black Panther history as well as the Indigenous struggle at the Pine Ridge reservation, some action was bound to happen, was it not? However, whatever action did take place seemed muted by the main character, a hydrologist named Robert Hawks’ emotional disconnect. I am not yet sure whether that is an indication of the author’s talent or my response to the novel’s very understated action scenes. I will say this: at the end of the novel, after wading through various chapters being prefaced by hydrologist jargon, I felt like the author was smacking me, the reader, by stating that the prefaces were fictional. In researching the author, I discovered that he is considered a satirist or at the very least includes aspects of satire as one of his literary tropes. I’m just not sure yet whether I appreciate that or not. I shall have to read another book or two of his to figure it out.

Brown Girl Dreaming – First of all, chalk it up to my ignorance that I was surprised to find out on opening the book that it was poetry. I don’t pay as much attention as I should. That aside, from start to finish, Brown Girl Dreaming was a delight. So much so, I plan on it being the foundation of a poetry unit for my home-schooled son.

Deeper than that, however, is the strong sense of love and peace I felt upon finishing the book. In that way, it reminded me of how I felt when I finished Clare of the Sea Light by Edwidge Danticat. Some writers have the incredible ability to write in such a way that reading their works opens up the gentleness of the world. Considering that the world isn’t truly a gentle place, that is a remarkable achievement.