#BlackHistoryMonth I asked a young Blood poet if my stuff was correct by Hoagland

Puttin’ on the Dog

for “Corner Girl”
By Everett Hoagland

Is my shit correct?
Is my vine correct?
Are my kicks country or correct?
Is my “do” down?Is my shit correct?Is my rusty black diction correct?
Should my ever more erudite
utterances be in “The Vernacular?”
Should my presentation be
theatrical and spectacular?

Is my shit correct?

Should my manner be mannered
and laid back?
Is my poetry Posey?
Does it go to too far into haute couture
noire?
Does it come from hard facts
and Fanon,
or does it refer repeatedly
to The Canon trippin’
in Trickster Mode, tryin’
to Trope-A-Dope????

Is my shit correct?

But, hey, black poetry’s got more
than one good way.
The other day I asked a young Blood
poet if my stuff was correct, if it was
happenin’.
He said, Breaklight becomes dawn,
Ol’ Head.  The word “happenin”
ain’t happenin’, ain’t “where it’s at.”
Today it’s on. Word!
Our work is all that.

Advertisements

Spring Haikus by Issa – Japanese poet.

Image

 

Early spring –                                From the bough
stream flows                                 floating downriver,
toward my door                            insect song.

In spring rain
A pretty girl
yawning.

Face of the spring moon –
About twelve years old,
I’d say.

The cricket
proudly pricks up its whiskers
and sings

My spring is just this:
a single bamboo shoot,
a willow branch

Moist spring moon –
raise a finger
and it drips.

The spring day
Lingers
In the pools.

Blossoms at night,
and the faces of people
moved by music.

 

A world of trials,
and if the cherry blossoms,
it simply blossom

 

Moon, plum blossoms,
this, that,
and the day goes.

Not very anxious
to bloom,
my plum tree

The new year arrived
in utter simplicity –
and a deep blue sky

People working fields,
from my deepest heart, I bow.
Now a little nap.

Before I arrived,
who were the people living here?
Only violets remain.

 

Silly funny poem about chocolate cats!

The Sugar-Plum Tree
by Eugene Field

 Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
'T is a marvel of great renown!
It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
(As those who have tasted it say)
That good little children have only to eat
Of that fruit to be happy next day. 
When you 've got to the tree, you would have a hard time
To capture the fruit which I sing;
The tree is so tall that no person could climb
To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!
But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,
And a gingerbread dog prowls below---
And this is the way you contrive to get at
Those sugar-plums tempting you so: 
You say but the word to that gingerbread dog
And he barks with such terrible zest
That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,
As her swelling proportions attest.
And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around
From this leafy limb unto that,
And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground---
Hurrah for that chocolate cat! 
There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes,
With stripings of scarlet or gold,
And you carry away of the treasure that rains
As much as your apron can hold!
So come, little child, cuddle closer to me
In your dainty white nightcap and gown,
And I 'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

Moon in virgo- James Lee Jobe

You are not beaten. The simple music rises up,

children's voices in the air, sound floating out

across the land and on to the river beyond,

over the valley's floor. No, you cannot go back

for those things you lost, the parts of yourself

that were taken, often by force. Like an animal

in the forest you must weep it all away at once,

violently, and then simply live on. The music here

is Bach, Vivaldi; a chorale of children, a piano,

a violin. Together, they have a certain spirit

that is light, that lets in light, joyful, ecstatic.

"Forgive," said The Christ, and why not? Every day

that you still breathe has all the joy

and murderous possibilities of your bravest dream.

Forgive. Breathe. Live. The moon has entered Virgo,

the wind shifts, blows up from the Delta, cools this valley,

and you are not beaten; the children sing, it is Bach,

and you are brave, alive, and human.

 

Charles Bukowski- The Night I Was Going To Die.

The Night I Was Going To Die

Written by: Charles Bukowski

 
 the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets 
and there was a cat fight outside
and I could feel my soul dropping down through the 
mattress
and just before it hit the floor I jumped up
I was almost too weak to walk
but I walked around and turned on all the lights
and then I went back to bed
and dropped it down again and
I was up
turning on all the lights
I had a 7-year-old daughter
and I felt sure she wouldn't want me dead
otherwise it wouldn't have
mattered
but all that night
nobody phoned
nobody came by with a beer
my girlfriend didn't phone
all I could hear were the crickets and it was
hot
and I kept working at it
getting up and down
until the first of the sun came through the window
through the bushes
and then I got on the bed
and the soul stayed
inside at last and
I slept.
now people come by
beating on the doors and windows
the phone rings
the phone rings again and again
I get great letters in the mail
hate letters and love letters.
everything is the same again.

We Aint Got No Money Honey But We Got Rain! Charles Bukowski.

We Aint Got No Money Honey But We Got Rain!

I particularly remember the rains of the 
depression era.
there wasn’t any money but there was
plenty of rain.

and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were imprisoned in their houses with their
wives and children
and their
pets.

“I’ll kill you,” I screamed
at him. “You hit her again
and I’ll kill you!”
“Get that son-of-a-bitching
kid out of here!”
“no, Henry, you stay with
your mother!”
all the households were under 
seige but I believe that ours
held more terror than the
average.
and at night
as we attempted to sleep
the rains still came down
and it was in bed
in the dark
watching the moon against 
the scarred window
so bravely
holding out 
most of the rain,
I thought of Noah and the
Ark
and I thought, it has come
again.
we all thought
that.
and then, at once, it would 
stop.
and it always seemed to 
stop
around 5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful then,
but not an exact silence
because things continued to
drip
drip
drip

the the recess bells rang 
and we all waited for the 
fun.
then Mrs. Sorenson told us:
“now, what we are going to
do is we are going to tell
each other what we did 
during the rainstorm!
we’ll begin in the front row
and go right around!
now, Michael, you’re first!. . .”
well, we all began to tell
our stories, Michael began
and it went on and on,
and soon we realized that
we were all lying, 

one boy said he stuck
his fishing pole
out the window
and caught a little
fish
and fed it to his
cat.
almost everybody told
a lie.
the truth was just
too awful and
embarassing to tell.
then the bell rang
and recess was 
over.

Charles Bukowski

Dickinson on sleeplessness.

Dickinson on sleeplessness.

Will there really be a morning?
Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?
Has it feathers like a bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
Oh, some wise man from the skies!
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called morning lies!