The Question
Most people think they know the answer. I am willing to admit I don’t even know the question.
–Arsenio Hall
Art & Paintings
The Garden Of A Child
I entered the garden of my childhood days after
the storm had passed over. A gentle breeze was
blowing and the sky was blue. Seeing in the
undergrowth a bird that had come out of an egg
only a little while ago and had fallen down, I
put it back in its nest.
It all happened yesterday. Today I am a grown-up
man again, and I just can’t put anything back in
its proper place.
–Nirendranath Chakravarti, India
Why You Do It
The artist’s role is to raise the consciousness of the people. To make them understand life, the world and themselves more completely. That’s how I see it. Otherwise, I don’t know why you do it.
–Amiri Baraka
Theft
I’m breaking-in to tomorrow
with the complete resolve to rob that new person blind
whoever she is
imprisons what I have always wanted
I’m busting in to the dawn of a year
and dragging her riches
back to the past
so she can remember
that I was here.
–Ariama Long
Wind’s Foam
Nothing lasts, behold.
Behold how the leaves, the flowers, the old villagers,
the pose of rivers’ dancing, the brazen pitchers and
the fire of hookah
and the flock of grown up girls gradually diminish
like the monsoon of Hilsa fish !
The yellow leaves, sounding in the wind,
fall down on the droughty desolate land.
The foreign ducks too,
on whose bodies there are millions of bubbles, fly away
into the shallow blue cup of the sky.
Why doesn’t anything last long?
The corrugated iron sheet, the hay or the muddy walls
and the undecaying banyan tree of village
get uprooted by the terrible typhoon of Chittagong.
The plaster splits and in the long run the mosque of our village,
like our Faith, collapses down with a heavy crash.
The nests of sparrows, the love, the twigs and tendrils
and the covers of books fall off twisted.
By the water’s bite of the Meghna,
the crops’ green scream of the horizon starts trembling.
The houses float, float the pitchers and the cowsheds.
Like the affection of my elder sister, the old
embroidered pillow gets also sunk.
After the decay of dwelling-houses, nothing exists more.
Only the birds, fond of water, flying in the sky
wipe off the foam of wind from their beaks.
–Al Mahmud, Bangladesh
Struggling Roots
my coworker politely
and with hesitation
reached
across continents
his hands outstretched
for my
grabbable curly oh so unruly lovable
beauty of a kinked coiled hair
i didn’t make a statement
i wasn’t protesting
in truth, i was tired
the kind of tired that can sag into your skin
and soak up precious energy
tired of
carefully descabbing the scorched scalp
so the blood flakes wouldn’t mar my fresh ‘do
three hours of yelling Dominican women
of avoiding water like acid
my angry kitchen wilting
tired of thinking that one day
my struggling roots would give up,
fall out like milk teeth
tired of missing myself in the mirror.
3. A Term In Memphis: slaveships
loaded like spoons
into the belly of Jesus
where we lay for weeks for months
in the sweat and stink
of our own breathing
Jesus
why do you not protect us
chained to the heart of the Angel
where the prayers we never tell
and hot and red
as our bloody ankles
Jesus
Angel
can these be men
who vomit us out from ships
called Jesus Angel Grace of God
onto a heathen country
Jesus
Angel
ever again
can this tongue speak
can these bones walk
Grace Of God
can this sin live
–Lucille Clifton
The True Import of Present Dialogue: Black vs. Negro (For Peppe, Who Will Ultimately Judge Us For Our Efforts)
Nigger
Can you kill
Can you kill
Can a nigger kill
Can a nigger kill a honkie
Can a nigger kill the Man
Can you kill nigger
Huh? nigger can you
kill
Do you know how to draw blood
Can you poison
Can you stab-a-Jew
Can you kill huh? nigger
Can you kill
Can you run a protestant down with your
’68 El Dorado
(that’s all they’re good for anyway)
Can you kill
Can you piss on a blond head
Can you cut it off
Can you kill
A nigger can die
We ain’t got to prove we can die
We got to prove we can kill
They sent us to kill
Japan and Africa
We policed europe
Can you kill
Can you kill a white man
Can you kill the nigger
in you
Can you make your nigger mind
die
Can you kill your nigger mind
And free your black hands to
strangle
Can you kill
Can a nigger kill
Can you shoot straight and
Fire for good measure
Can you splatter their brains in the street
Can you kill them
Can you lure them to bed to kill them
We kill in Viet Nam
for them
We kill for UN & NATO & SEATO & US
And everywhere for all alphabet but
BLACK
Can we learn to kill WHITE for BLACK
Learn to kill niggers
Learn to be Black men
–Nikki Giovanni
That We Head Towards
That we head towards
our separate End
and know it only
by the name of Death…
But makes this life
with you more dear.
And having known
this joy and you
so tender
without a fear
I face this life
so beautiful
and in the End
will with pain
surrender
the sight,
the touch,
or memory
of You.
–Stephany
Hunk of Rock
Nina was the hardest of them
all,
the worst woman I had known
up to that moment
and I was sitting in front of
my secondhand black and white
tv
watching the news
when I heard a suspicious
sound in the kitchen
and I ran in there
and saw her with
a full bottle of whiskey –
a 5th –
and she had it and
was headed for the back porch
door
but I caughter her and
grabbed the bottle.
“give me that bottle, you
fucking whore!”
and we wrestled for the
bottle
and let me tell you
she gave me a good fight
for it
but
I got it away from her
and I told her to
get her ass out of
there.
she lived in the same place
in the back
upstairs.
I locked the door
took the bottle and a
glass
went out to the couch
sat down and
opened the bottle and
poured myself a good
one.
I shut off the TV and
sat there
thinking about what a
hard number
Nina was.
I came up with
at least
a dozen lousy things
she had done
to me.
what a whore.
what a hunk of rock.
I sat there drinking
the whiskey
and wondering
what I was doing
with Nina.
then there was a
knock on the
door.
it was Nina’s friend,
Helga.
“where’s Nina?”
she asked.
“she tried to steal
my whiskey, I
ran her ass
out of here.”
“she said to meet
her here.”
“what for?”
“she said me and her
were going to do it
in front of you
for $50.”
“$25”
“well, she’s not
here… want a
drink?”
“sure…”
I got Helga a glass
poured her a
whiskey.
she took a
hit.
“maybe,” she said,
“I ought to go get
Nina.”
“I don’t want to see
her.”
“why not?”
“she’s a whore.”
Helga finished her
drink and I poured
her another.
she took a
hit.
“Benny calls me a
whore, I’m no
whore.”
Benny was the guy
she was shacked
with.
“I know you’re no
whore, Helga.”
“thanks. Ain’t ya got no
music?”
“just the radio…”
she saw it
got up
turned it
on.
some music came
blaring out.
Helga began to
dance
holding
her whiskey
glass in one
hand.
she wasn’t a good
dancer
she looked
rediculous.
she stopped
drained her drink
roller her glass along the
rug
then ran toward
me
dropped to her knees
unzipped me
and then
she was down
there
doing tricks.
I drained my
drink
poured another.
she was
good.
she had a college
degree
some place back
East.
“get it, Helga, get
it!”
there was a loud
knock
on the front
door.
“HANK, IS HELGA
THERE?”
“WHO?”
“HELGA!”
“JUST A MINUTE!”
“THIS IS NINA, I WAS
SUPPOSED TO MEET
HELGA HERE, WE HAVE A
LITTLE SURPRISE FOR
YOU!”
“YOU TRIED TO STEA
MY WHISKEY, YOU
WHORE!”
“HANK, LET ME
IN!”
“get it, Helga, get
it!”
“HANK!”
“Helga, you fucking whore…
Helga, Helga, Helga!!”
I pulled away and
got up.
“let her in.”
I went to the
bathroom.
when I came out they
were both sitting there
drinking and smoking
laughing about
something.
then they
saw me.
“50 bucks,” said Nina.
“25 bucks,” I said.
“we won’t do it
then.”
“don’t then.”
Nina inhaled
exhaled.
“all right, you
cheap bastard, 25
bucks!”
Nina stood up and
began taking her
clothes off.
she was the hardest
of them
all.
Helga stood up and
began taking her
clothes off.
I poured a
drink.
“sometimes I wonder
what the hell is
going on
around here,” I
said.
“don’t worry about
it, Daddy, just
get with it.”
“just what am i
supposed to
do?”
“just do
whatever the fuck
you feel
like doing,”
said Nina
her big ass
blazing
in the
lamplight.
–Charles Bukowski
The Poetry Corner 