i will not run away from the power of the goddess…
live life fast
light will always shine,
soar, chant, love,
never dream less,
no bitter ache.
a gift can leave,
my drive, my vision is essential.
Some women love
for life for a ring
in the June light for a touch
of the sun to heal them for another
woman’s voice to make them whole
to untie their hands
put words in their mouths
form to their passages sound
to their screams for some other sleeper
to remember their future their past.
Some women wait for their right
train in the wrong station
in the alleys of morning
for the noon to holler
the night come down.
Some women wait for love
to rise up
the child of their promise
to gather from earth
what they do not plant
to claim pain for labor
the tip of an arrow to aim
at the heart of now
but it never stays.
Some women wait for visions
that do not return
where they were not welcome
for invitations to places
they always wanted
to be repeated.
Some women wait for themselves
around the next corner
and call the empty spot peace
but the opposite of living
is only not living
and the stars do not care.
Some women wait for something
to change and nothing
so they change
– Audre Lorde
I can still smell the spray of the sea they made me cross.
The night, i can’t remember
Not even the ocean itself could remember.
Btu i can’t forget the first Alcatraz I saw.
High up, the clouds, like innocent witnessing presences.
By chance, i haver forgotten neither my lost coast, nor my ancestral tongue.
They brought me here and here I have lived.
And because i worked like a beast
Here I was born again.
How many a Manginga legend have I resorted to.
His Honour bought me in a public square.
I made His Honour’s shirt and a son.
My son was without a name.
And His Honour died by the hand of an impeccable English Lord.
This is the land where I suffered the whip and degradation.
I trod the length of all her rivers.
Under her sun I planted and gathered harvests I did not eat.
My home was a barracoon.
I myself carried the stones to build it,
Yet i sang to the natural rhythms of the native birds.
I rose up.
In this same land I touched the damp blood and the rotting bones of many others,
Some brought to this place like me, others not.
And i never again thought of the road to Guinea.
Was it to Guinea? Or Benin? Was it to Madagascar? Or Cape Verde?
I worked harder.
I enhanced my hope and age-old song.
Here I built my world.
I went to the hills.
My real independence brought me to the fort
And I rode with Maceo’s troops.
Only a century later
With me descendants
Of the blue mountain
Would I come down from the Sierra?
To put an end to capital and moneylenders
To generals and the bourgeoise
Now I am: only today do we have and create.
Nothing is taken from us.
Ours is the land.
Ours the sea and the sky.
Ours the magiv and the vision.
My peers, here I see you dance
Around the tree we plant for communism.
Her prodigious wood already resounds
This is the eulogy that wasn’t said….
the ritual that wasn’t offered (then)
Because I didn’t even know,
At the time.
I was in Nairobi…….
With borrowed time en irregular access to the internet,
but now I know, en I miss you, (does that make a/ny difference?)
Even though I never met you,
Your music changed my life,
Your words cut deep.
You are a beautiful soul.
And this eulogy is for (the) mama (of) afrika,
in honour of your songs of freedom.
thie eulogy is for (the) child of sorrows,
A (divine) trinity of paradigm shift/er/s.
Thank you for your gifts.
I have such admiration for the diversity of character amongst friends.
There are the brutally honest,with no filters for hot, sterilizing tongues-the poison suckers who carry loads too painful for the weak,
the soft spoken listeners who take forever and a day to take a stand, they care less (i guess) about being counted anywhere- they’re everywhere.
There are the mediators, the monotony shakers, the promise keepers, the silence breakers, group facilitators, and those with the patience to explain it all, just one more time…
There are the knowers who need a nudge. The worriers who just won’t budge, nose divers, cautious survivors, carefree caregivers, and self-directed newcomers … in/Compatibilities cause for the most magical web of relations. Some in the net work, some don’t, some seem like they can’t, while some seem destined, but one thing that I have found is that all are capable of communicating, and love appears to be the strongest coach.
In my life I have learned so many preparations of “truth”
sour, salty, sugar sweet, bland, like sand, enough to save a dying man…
fire hot red pepper tears
At this point I can honestly confide: I give thanks for every serving.
U know how many truths u’ve read ,
on the tip of my tongue
across my forehead,
in my heated connection,
in my nervous stance
in my silent absence
in my raging dance
and, so much more, behind my words, they hide
let the intelligences amongst us be our guide.
daughta of the most deep
this is jus’ an example of how hip hop is not DEAD, but been commodified, exploited and distorted by capitalist/partiarchal/western/imperialist ideologies.
hip hop is NOT dead, just malnourished,
and only in the mainstream at that. en queers doing hip hop is (also) revolushunary.
hip hop is D/DC & weirdMC.
hip hop is dead prez, gif, godessa, head roc, immortal technique, k’naan, marvel, lauryn hill, tupac shakur, ukoo flani, wassun….hip hop is in the ghettoes en the streets.
<object id=”ce_91120515″ width=”400″ height=”300″ data=”http://current.com/e/91120515/en_US”><param name=”movie” value=”http://current.com/e/91120515/en_US”></param><param name=”wmode” value=”transparent”></param><param name=”allowfullscreen” value=”true”></param><param name=”allowscriptaccess” value=”always”></param><embed type=”application/x-shockwave-flash” src=”http://current.com/e/91120515/en_US” width=”400″ height=”300″ wmode=”transparent” allowfullscreen=”true” allowscriptaccess=”always” ></embed></object>