WordUp - kalamu’s words

photo by Alex Lear

 

Remember

 

even as this world goes mad

let us always remember to remember

we can always choose, always choose life

always choose to love

and to treat other humans

with respect and compassion

 

to defend ourselves certainly

if and when attacked, but

also, and more importantly,

to extend ourselves to help others

 

and always, in every way, every

creative way we can conceive, always

to demonstrate with the example

of our every breathing motion

the inspiring power of the positive

 

positive in our projections

of love

& struggle, love for each

other & creative struggles

to help one another

struggles to make this world

better and more beautiful

 

even as the world continues

to go mad

we must continue, we must remember

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

I WONDER WHAT YOU FEEL LIKE NOW

  (after a 24nov2010 meeting with Ozge Ersoy & her friend Canay)

 

I talked to Esim yesterday, had not seen her since

March 1965 when I was fleeing back south, Ozge you were

The Esim I seldom recall but can never forget

 

The patience of Esim’s eyes speaking to me full on unafraid

Of my young blackness, like when you slapped my hand

As I moved to caress the magnet that was your breast

 

And shortly after the sting had subsided and I withdrew

My fingers from beneath your blouse I felt your hand atop

Mine leading me to cup your fully clothed breast

 

I was not confused, I knew that we were reaching

For each other across dangerous cultural waters, Esim

Bozoklar from Turkey, Val Ferdinand from New Orleans

 

Most days I think our union never could have held

I had too many changes yet to go through, too much

Growth to accomplish, too much, besides America is always

 

Both inhospitable and dangerous for any shade

Of otherness, any language other, and especially

Any mixture or matching of outsiders, would I

 

Like Baldwin have flown to Turkey, how would our children

Have identified themselves—Esim, though we chose not to

Cross those tough bridges I think our conversation perhaps

 

Assures me there was room for us on the other side, Ozge

You could have been my daughter and Esim’s eyes

Would be the answer to questions we have for each other

 

A Turkish woman is talking to me tenderly even though

A casual ease-dropper might simply think us intellectuals

In a café exchanging ideas and academic theories

 

The onlooker would not, could not feel the river of emotions

Flowing beneath the calm of our conversation, Esim/Ozge

I don’t know what you were thinking about, but I’m certain

 

I know that I was thinking about you; and now I am writing this

A day later on another day like most days except today is the last

Thursday in November when America celebrates a holiday

 

Giving thanks for all they stole, most of us render praises unto

The lord but shouldn’t our hosannas be devil due? Fortunately

I don’t believe in all of that, any of that, I believe

 

In life in all its contradictions, I try to avoid absolutes

And sentimentalities, regrets and maudlin thoughts about

Could have beens, should have beens, and any thing other

 

Than what is—nevertheless I wonder, Esim, are you still alive,

Do you reside anywhere besides inside this cup of memory

Harbored in the flesh of my hand’s long ago touch

 

—kalamu ya salaam 

 

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

WE ARE ACHIEVERS

(for high school students everywhere)

 

We are achievers, strivers, climbers, those who arrive

despite delays, obstacles and intentional roadblocks

throw up on the diverse paths we trod

in this period when we have to be twice as good

just to get half as far we leap over the top

regardless of how high they raise the bar

 

We are achievers, strivers, climbers, those who march

forward into the future propelled 

by the fuel of historic accomplishments

we stand astride the shoulders 

of all who have gone nobly before

we follow in the footprints of past pioneers

those who set standards of excellence

that we valiantly match and attempt to exceed

 

We are achievers, strivers, climbers, those who are intelligent

we grasp and fully understand all the ways of the world

we can learn any language humans speak

we can master any technology humans create

we can control the international flow of ideas and information

 

We are achievers, strivers, climbers, those who reach

not just for the stars

but for sun, moon and the whole sky too

we know this world can be ours

as we hold the history of tomorrow

in our palms and massage the clay of today 

into resplendent statues and monuments 

marked by the impress of our fingerprints

 

We are achievers, strivers, climbers, those who visit the summits

regardless of the roughness of the mountain

we have prepared ourselves to climb

despite hurricanes and hard times

we have disciplined ourselves to keep on keeping on

no matter who considers us ugly

we have retained our people's fundamental beauty

 

We are achievers, strivers, climbers, creators and innovators

we will find a way forward or make one

this world will be better and more beautiful

as a result of our passing through 

we envision a galaxy of excellence

as we sow seeds of hard work

so that we can reap gardens of peace and prosperity

that we are young is obvious

that we are gifted is important

that we are Black is a reality

of which we will always be proud

 

We are achievers, strivers, climbers, creators and innovators.

 

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

Sadness Is Not Fair

 

i eat the air

 

and the cling of your

vagina after my climax

 

and an after the rain drive

across the dripping mountains above

port-of-spain and a sunday walk

through morning waves’ wash on tobago beach

 

and the sound of coltrane and i eat

milton nascimento, the quiver of his voice,

the suppleness of it, sinewyly climbing into a

realm of distinct sadness brasil calls saudade,

moaning unspeakably beautiful melodies, this

man was born to seductively shoulder the endurance

of pain like the ache in billie’s tortured

knowing, knowing there is always, no matter

the sweetness, always a tasteless after-love

that will unflinchingly flay happiness’ thin

fragileness, a fragileness that can seldom

wholly survive reality’s roughness

 

i drink disjointed memories

i walk down the sidewalk with an armful

of written words, humming aloud trane’s “peace

on earth,” my hard won serenity

at that moment simple as the dull

purple luster of a ripe plum about to be bitten

into or whatever else one finds delicious,

admiring the stylish way we wear troubles

one would think our anguish was a tailored shirt

instead of just a disappointing moment

we turn into music

i do not understand portuguese

i do not understand why i am

thinking these thoughts

sadness is so unfair

 

Alvin "Red" Tyler

 

 

Have You Ever Been A Saxophone

 

a breath blown

softly intoned through curved metal

tubing blew in dazzling duo with the germane glow of life 

gleaming in the gloaming of a gardenia-honeyed evening

 

have you ever

been a song sung in lyrical falsetto

a melody of sensitivity and sincerity

ear caressing, confessing yes, yes love is a sweet wonder

 

have you ever

riden a funky riff with the amazing grace

of a soft shoe toe tapper patting out a discreet beat

as you lightly and politely step through the gentle rush

of the erotic movement of slow sucking the tender of ten tan toes

 

have you ever

nimbly negoitiated complex changes

with moves so smooth you make silk seem rough

as you unerringly address each emotional moment calling coitus

by its familiar names like saying heart be still, skin stop trembling

when i come to see you i'm running cause walking is much too slow

 

have you ever

been so cool in your ecstatic quiverings

that even your shouts come out as hoarse whisperings

and the grunt of your getting it on evidences itself as a one on 

one directional moan, oh baby, come on if you coming, come on

 

have you ever

been a saxophone, a red saxophone gently blown tenderly as red tyler

resplendently fingering the keys of our feelings, his horn a house 

of joy from which dew drops drip as he smiles, winks and slips

unobtrusively back into the mouth of god, the only womb from which

such a magnificent musician could possibly issue

 

alvin red tyler, a red saxophone

when i grow to full maturity, that's the sound i want to be!

 

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

SPIRIT & FLAME

(for Big Chief Donald Harrison)

 

you think this a costume?

you think this a ball?

you think this a lark?

just for the fun of it all?

 

Hoo Nan Ney!

 

the ancestors are enriched / our lives had been made stronger / the flame has purified us / if only / for a moment / the moment / of his flashing / his flaming / his wit / his anger / his upholdance of the legacy / of resistance / intelligence / seriousness / sun seriousness / hot pepper / cayenne colors / the shout of life in the face of whatever / the cultural tourists are calling themselves today / they / will be at the funeral / but who marched with him / when he was alive / who carried the flame / in their mouths / stepped in the sun then / when / no cameras were allowed / who waved hard high / the banner in their hearts / what men and women / sons, daughters / & lovers / who manifested / the dance walk of black shine / guarding the flame of our time / beaconing  bright / terrible / and badder than that / on our good days / in our wild ways / when nobody can't tell us nothing / not a goddamn thing / and we sing / and we shout / and we act out / black & red / african culture / of many colors / don't take no trail of tears to his coffin / donald harrison does not need your pity / your moans / about what we gon / do / now that he gone / the fire is not out / if you continue to carry the flame / if your are guardian / if you are in the groove / conscious of who / & what  we are / & all we come from / don't cry / don't you moan / stand tall / walk proud / let every waist wind up / let every foot kick forward / let every mouth shout / let every eye shine / don't bow down / go forth unbended / don't bow down / in sorry sorrow / you never saw him sad / as a negro / hoping to become white / by committing cultural suicide / he said feed the fire / keep the burning /grab some knowledge / be a scholar / know yourselves / honor your mother / honor your father / love your people / all they been / and had to be / while working through the slaughter / moving forward / keep on dancing / beat the drum / the drums of life / sing the songs / of who we are / follow his example / don't bow down / stand up straight / and guard the flame / the dark flame / of black fire / black fyah i tell you / fyah / & flame the spirit of struggle / spirit & flame / big chief / donald harrison / fayh chief / guardian / guardian of the flame / guardian of the flame / be a guardian / of the flame / shine on

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

There's no big accomplishment in acting white

(after being subjected to some third stream muzak)

 

1.

if a chamber orchestra / complete

w/tympani as percussion

 

plays a pentatonic scale

 

includes six and one half bars 

of flute improvisation

 

& the tune was composed

by an intelligent moor

 

does that make it

black

music?

 

 

2.

does a dollop of musical melanin

make orchestral scores

something blood might

want to dance to

or squeeze lover flesh to

or fit to express 

what we been through?

 

is acting 

white

really more profound 

than afrikan aesthetics?

 

more tragic more magic 

more real more desirous

than soulful us jumping straight up

and being down, head thrown back

wailing into the blue, slightly off their key

but in our tune, blowing bodaciously 

like there was no tomorrow

 

must we really 

dot all our eyes

with fields of blue,

cross all our tee's with the deafening silence

of liberal-arts-degreed negroes demonstrating 

they have arrived by sitting quiet 

legs crossed and morosely 

concentrating on deciphering 

well modulated arias

which resist the tapping foot, still 

the bobbing head and 

reject the shaking of any entraced 

body movements other than polite 

and discreetly tepid applause 

to indicate we're in the pocket?

 

must we make ourselves

into something our enemies love 

to listen to

in order for us and our art 

to be considered human?

 

 

3.

if you want to play compose and be respected

as a classical musician why not just do that

and not insist that there is anything culturally black

about such a quest except perhaps our skin

and a few references to your lynched

history thrown in

 

why not just openly embrace what they do

and be what you've been trained to do

there is nothing prohibiting you

or me or any of we

from acting white

 

except maybe our individual angst 

constantly trying to justify

that there be something real

black about passing

over into the age-old truth 

of negro life and history,

abjectly supplicating to white supremacy

with a sambo-colored shibboleth

on our lips: boss, i may not be quite your color,

but i've disciplined my black ass to be your kind

 

 

4.

acting like our bodies are not us

is one of the most frequent ways

educated blacks manifest

they are cultured

 

the denial of blackness

is petite bourgeois power

 

insisting 

 

there is nothing wrong

with disappearing

 

into the tinkling 

quiet

 

of a well composed 

 

ode 

 

to otherness

 

 

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

locks

 

to shape the world is every man's desire

a drive that phallicly fashions the ultimate

tool of possession—i was fumbling to unlock 

the front door when i realized: these jingling 

surrogate penises were the keys guarding whatever 

material i have been taught to think i own

 

who constructed the first key? my mind flips: i remember

visiting tanzania, inside a traditional home

no lock no bars no closet no safe

and what about chastity belts?

 

i am amazed to realize how much of society

is based on the human body filtered through 

the gender bias of alpha males protecting

the ownership of what they claim is theirs

photo by Alex Lear

 

india, chicago

is a person not a place, an expressing, a sharing that somewhere there are people who write the words she loves and that she wants to write such words, words that somewhere people in chicago and other cities will love even though those words do not resemble the worlds of chicago and other places where people read those words.

but what are we trying to do with words? what do we want those words to do to other people? when we read words do the words do anything? they don't move. they are just impressions on paper. does paper feel words the way readers feel words. what about the words we read that don't move us. do we feel those words. the signs on the sides of busses that pass us, that we pass, sitting in a car, passenger side, looking absent mindedly out the window at the bus and up at the passengers on the bus sitting absent mindedly looking straight ahead or out the window at us now not looking up but inward, who was that declaiming to us to "vote" in big block letters?

at night when the buses are in the barns do those words stop blaring, do they sleep or do they continue to shout "vote" even though no one is noticing. what is the meaning of words if no one sees them?

do you ever wonder about words? do words ever wonder about us? of course not, silly, words don't have minds. people have minds and with their minds they conceive of words and make words. what about people who make words that they know people will ignore. what happens to a mind that makes words that they know will be ignored but that mind is in a body that gets paid to make words and so the mind in the body conceives the words and the hand of the body accepts the check. the same hand that wrote the words pockets the money. words for money.

but those are not the kind of words india in chicago wants to write. those are not words that matter, that have weight, that are remembered, that make impressions that lead to ideas and actions and staying up late, reading, slowly turning the page, mouthing the sounds, even as a lover impatiently asks "when are you coming to bed?"

words that are so strong and insistent they delay us from bedding a lover, i think those are the kinds of words india in chicago wants to write.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

photo by Alex Lear

 

WHAT DOES YOUR LIFE MEAN TO A TREE?

/for Ken Devine paraphrasing Jefferson Airplane

 

1.

why would anybody want to be a picture/a snapshot

of random confusion masquerading 

as a 20th century american citizen

a guest on montel explaining why, contrary to most

males, you masturbate with your left hand

 

we americans watch television more than 

we watch trees or observe the leaves 

shaking in the breeze, it would be hip

to live life like in a movie is what 

some of us actually believe/but dig

life is not something you watch 

from a sitting position with chips & a beer lite

life, like music, is a great goodness

you birth, be godlike & create

 

2.

some one once asked me "what do you do for a living?"

"for a living?" i said "hmmmm, well i

 

dream, write

make love 

create, dream, make love

every chance i get

work, dream

make love, help others do the same 

that's what i do: work, dream

make love 

to live is to dream, to work 

to make..."

you get the picture?

after all life is too hard not to live

once given the opportunity

plus when you step into tomorrow & dance 

before ra's arkestra within the purview 

of eternity, & your steps are cross-examined, an inquisitor

is going to hold up what you did & ask you did you do that

& ask you what good is your life to a tree/cause you know

trees are some hip, hip creatures & their wellbeing

is the ultimate measure of our passing thru

 

& you better be prepared to answer something besides

some shit like "well, i'll be some good ass

fertilizer now that i'm dead..."