Open Mic and Open Art Show
Come enjoy an evening of
Poetry, Art, Rapso and Music
On Saturday 28th 2007
At the Sangre Grande Civic Centre
At 6pm
Admission: Free
Monday, July 23, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Let him write
Brown school shirt and khaki pants,
Rubbing his left eye with his right hand
Picture him in a forward movement,
Hesitantly, with legs straddling across a pavement,
Grazing cigarette butts and a city dust he can’t see
Because his eyes, wet and swollen shed what he
Only wished a father could understand,
But his tongue would never dare to explain it.
Because on the other hand,
Their ears are shut tight to the silent pleas
Of ink across these pages.
For he wrote with the ambition of Kings and the wisdom of sages,
Who could promise us better tomorrows.
But in the hollows of his nervous stomach-
He digests their scorn,
And in the torment of this mental havoc,
Rebellion was born,
Not only to warn
Us of who he will become on the day after this one,
But to have his feet drag and his heartbeat to run,
Into a place, and at a pace that that caused it to stop.
Not only to stop, but to erupt- into a cold silence.
Because dead souls make no noise…
And so his silenced voice harmonizes with a Charlotte street breeze,
Picture him, distressed, stumbling and with weakened knees,
For in his hands are manuscripts that recorded every semibreve,
Quaver and Note that echoed the arrangement of his life story,
This young, dreary face intensely worried- about losing himself.
See the books and pages as they cascade into the bin,
One by one,
You need to see him for who he is
For he is your own son,
And you have punctuated his dreams with a full stop.
Rubbing his left eye with his right hand
Picture him in a forward movement,
Hesitantly, with legs straddling across a pavement,
Grazing cigarette butts and a city dust he can’t see
Because his eyes, wet and swollen shed what he
Only wished a father could understand,
But his tongue would never dare to explain it.
Because on the other hand,
Their ears are shut tight to the silent pleas
Of ink across these pages.
For he wrote with the ambition of Kings and the wisdom of sages,
Who could promise us better tomorrows.
But in the hollows of his nervous stomach-
He digests their scorn,
And in the torment of this mental havoc,
Rebellion was born,
Not only to warn
Us of who he will become on the day after this one,
But to have his feet drag and his heartbeat to run,
Into a place, and at a pace that that caused it to stop.
Not only to stop, but to erupt- into a cold silence.
Because dead souls make no noise…
And so his silenced voice harmonizes with a Charlotte street breeze,
Picture him, distressed, stumbling and with weakened knees,
For in his hands are manuscripts that recorded every semibreve,
Quaver and Note that echoed the arrangement of his life story,
This young, dreary face intensely worried- about losing himself.
See the books and pages as they cascade into the bin,
One by one,
You need to see him for who he is
For he is your own son,
And you have punctuated his dreams with a full stop.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
WORDS
These poet words, nuggets out of corruption
Or jewels dug or dung or speech from flesh
Still bloody red, still half afraid to plunge
In the ceaseless waters foaming over death.
These poet words, nuggets no jeweler sells
Across the counter of the world’s confusion
But far or near, internal or external
Burning the agony of earth’s complaint.
These poet words have secrets locked in them
Like nuggets laden with the younger sun.
Who will unlock must first himself be locked.
Who will be locked must first himself unlock.
(1957)
Or jewels dug or dung or speech from flesh
Still bloody red, still half afraid to plunge
In the ceaseless waters foaming over death.
These poet words, nuggets no jeweler sells
Across the counter of the world’s confusion
But far or near, internal or external
Burning the agony of earth’s complaint.
These poet words have secrets locked in them
Like nuggets laden with the younger sun.
Who will unlock must first himself be locked.
Who will be locked must first himself unlock.
(1957)
Martin Carter
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Forgotten Holocaust: The Eastern Slave Trade
The Arab Slave Trade is the longest yet least discussed of the two major trades. It begins in the 7th century AD as Arabs and other Asians poured into Northern and Eastern Africa under the banner of Islam, either converting or subjugating the African societies they came upon. In the beginning there was some level of mutual respect between the Blacks and the more Caucasian-Semitic Arabs. Mihdja, a Black man, is said to be the first Muslim killed in battle while another, Bilal, is regarded as a "third of the faith." Dhu'l-Nun al-Misri, born in Upper Egypt near Sudan, is regarded as the founder of Sufism. Today Sufism's greatest stronghold is in Southern Egypt and Sudan. Islamic prosperity was based upon Black as well as Arabic genius.
The children of a stinking Nubian black---God put no light in their complexion!
Arab Poet, late 600AD,
But as Islamic prosperity grew, so did an air of hostility towards many Blacks, Muslims or otherwise. Some Arabs complained about having to work next to Blacks in high positions. After the Prophet's death, even the descendants of Bilal received negative treatment. Arabic writings became laced with anti-Black sentiment. This reaction of Blacks at the time to this can be seen in the writings of a contemporary 9th Century Black scholar in residence at Baghdad by the name of Abu 'Uthman' Amr Ibn Bahr Al-Jahiz. Al-Jahiz, to confront a growing tide of anti-black sentiment in the Muslim world, published a highly controversial work at the time titled, Kitab Fakhr As-Sudan 'Ala Al-Bidan, "The Book of Glory of the Blacks over the Whites." Al-Jahiz in his work contended that even the Prophet Mohammad's father may have been of African lineage.
These new attitudes towards Blacks by Arabs marked the beginning of African enslavement. Though not based solely on race, the Arab Slave Trade did focus heavily upon Africans whom Arabs now saw as inferior to themselves. At first these Arabs raided African villages themselves seeking humans for sale. This not being always successful, they soon enlisted the aid of fellow African Muslims or recently converted Blacks. Wrapping themselves within Islam, these converts rationalized the slavery of their non Muslim brethren as the selling of "unbelievers." At other times the Arabs would demand tribute in the form of human bodies from Africans weary of the fight against Arabic-Islamic incursions.
The Arabs took advantage of regional wars in Africa to buy captives from the victor. They also used the old divide-and-conquer technique. They worked one group against the other and took or killed the best and strongest.
S.E. Anderson, The Black Holocaust for Beginners
The children of a stinking Nubian black---God put no light in their complexion!
Arab Poet, late 600AD,
But as Islamic prosperity grew, so did an air of hostility towards many Blacks, Muslims or otherwise. Some Arabs complained about having to work next to Blacks in high positions. After the Prophet's death, even the descendants of Bilal received negative treatment. Arabic writings became laced with anti-Black sentiment. This reaction of Blacks at the time to this can be seen in the writings of a contemporary 9th Century Black scholar in residence at Baghdad by the name of Abu 'Uthman' Amr Ibn Bahr Al-Jahiz. Al-Jahiz, to confront a growing tide of anti-black sentiment in the Muslim world, published a highly controversial work at the time titled, Kitab Fakhr As-Sudan 'Ala Al-Bidan, "The Book of Glory of the Blacks over the Whites." Al-Jahiz in his work contended that even the Prophet Mohammad's father may have been of African lineage.
These new attitudes towards Blacks by Arabs marked the beginning of African enslavement. Though not based solely on race, the Arab Slave Trade did focus heavily upon Africans whom Arabs now saw as inferior to themselves. At first these Arabs raided African villages themselves seeking humans for sale. This not being always successful, they soon enlisted the aid of fellow African Muslims or recently converted Blacks. Wrapping themselves within Islam, these converts rationalized the slavery of their non Muslim brethren as the selling of "unbelievers." At other times the Arabs would demand tribute in the form of human bodies from Africans weary of the fight against Arabic-Islamic incursions.
The Arabs took advantage of regional wars in Africa to buy captives from the victor. They also used the old divide-and-conquer technique. They worked one group against the other and took or killed the best and strongest.
S.E. Anderson, The Black Holocaust for Beginners
For more information, go to
Assata Shakur
My name is Assata ("she who struggles") Shakur ("the thankful one"), and I am a 20th century escaped slave. Because of government persecution, I was left with no other choice than to flee from the political repression, racism and violence that dominate the US government's policy towards people of color. I am an ex political prisoner, and I have been living in exile in Cuba since 1984. I have been a political activist most of my life, and although the U.S. government has done everything in its power to criminalize me, I am not a criminal, nor have I ever been one. In the 1960s, I participated in various struggles: the black liberation movement, the student rights movement, and the movement to end the war in Vietnam. I joined the Black Panther Party. By 1969 the Black Panther Party had become the number one organization targeted by the FBI's COINTELPRO program. because the Black Panther Party demanded the total liberation of black people, J. Edgar Hoover called it "greatest threat to the internal security of the country" and vowed to destroy it and its leaders and activists...
For more info go to www.assatashakur.org
Dream Raider
My luck travels on a beam of light,
That comes not in any shade of white,
But as black as starless skies,
As deep as the truth in the pupils of elders’ eyes,
And as tall as the African’s ambition,
Focused
Able to pierce like Japanese ammunition,
A conscious understanding,
Like intuition,
I see positioned
His black protruding eyes,
With lids maintaining themselves as connected horizons,
So if he was to blink twice within every second,
Then I live for two complete days
Sunrise to sunset,
Sunrise to sunset,
Because somehow the sun-rising
And we ain’t come off the phone yet
From since the 10:22 the night before,
Cuz every time we go to hang up it always have something more,
that either one of us forget to say,
I sometimes get lost and completely enveloped into his ways
That the thought of him stays
For hours on end.
So these two knees I bend
In prayer daily,
So that he will receive right guidance,
But the moment exists here
Within the silence
That we both fully understand.
For the stories of our lives have been written by the same hand,
And thus I do what I can
To maintain my sanity
In joyful hope,
In joyful hope.
So while he touches my face to calm me,
I excuse myself,
I plead you excuse me,
For I am unable to cope
With this surge of hormone-tainted,
Deeply frustrating adrenalin,
That his soul just extracted from my emotions,
Squeezing from them the useless potions
I tried to drug my conscience with.
So in the corner of my room I sit,
And I put my thoughts to rest with the turn of a page,
I put a silencer on the nib of my pen.
I put his spirit to rest by digging a grave with my two hands
Then I sealed it with needle and thread.
I took the fan off because this place is too cold for my existence,
I found myself in this place of hate, and so I treat love with strong resistance.
I switched the light back on, because the darkness began to scare me,
Then I prayed to sleep again, because my dreams couldn’t bear to come near me.
Who are you to bring truths to myths that I myself had made up?
Who are you to barge into my dreams to have my emotions unlocked?
Who are you as bold-faced as night time, yet as quiet as soft morning dew?
Identify the origins of your being,
I ask you again, who are you???
That comes not in any shade of white,
But as black as starless skies,
As deep as the truth in the pupils of elders’ eyes,
And as tall as the African’s ambition,
Focused
Able to pierce like Japanese ammunition,
A conscious understanding,
Like intuition,
I see positioned
His black protruding eyes,
With lids maintaining themselves as connected horizons,
So if he was to blink twice within every second,
Then I live for two complete days
Sunrise to sunset,
Sunrise to sunset,
Because somehow the sun-rising
And we ain’t come off the phone yet
From since the 10:22 the night before,
Cuz every time we go to hang up it always have something more,
that either one of us forget to say,
I sometimes get lost and completely enveloped into his ways
That the thought of him stays
For hours on end.
So these two knees I bend
In prayer daily,
So that he will receive right guidance,
But the moment exists here
Within the silence
That we both fully understand.
For the stories of our lives have been written by the same hand,
And thus I do what I can
To maintain my sanity
In joyful hope,
In joyful hope.
So while he touches my face to calm me,
I excuse myself,
I plead you excuse me,
For I am unable to cope
With this surge of hormone-tainted,
Deeply frustrating adrenalin,
That his soul just extracted from my emotions,
Squeezing from them the useless potions
I tried to drug my conscience with.
So in the corner of my room I sit,
And I put my thoughts to rest with the turn of a page,
I put a silencer on the nib of my pen.
I put his spirit to rest by digging a grave with my two hands
Then I sealed it with needle and thread.
I took the fan off because this place is too cold for my existence,
I found myself in this place of hate, and so I treat love with strong resistance.
I switched the light back on, because the darkness began to scare me,
Then I prayed to sleep again, because my dreams couldn’t bear to come near me.
Who are you to bring truths to myths that I myself had made up?
Who are you to barge into my dreams to have my emotions unlocked?
Who are you as bold-faced as night time, yet as quiet as soft morning dew?
Identify the origins of your being,
I ask you again, who are you???
-Arielle John. copyright 2006
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