Poetic Preliminaries:

 

ROXY MUSIC remains one of my all-time favorite bands. I attribute my useless love of poetry in part to some of their lyrics. The cover of this very poetic record was always too hot to handle. I thought of pasting it in here but 5 of my 7 regular readers would be offended. It was risqué in 1974 and it is still so today. If you are curious you can always click HERE. The heavenly bodies distract us, yes, but it is the words that I am after.

I also love the Southwestern states of the U.S. where I lived for years.
And so I bring you two favorite Roxy songs: Prairie Rose and Amazona:

TEXAS . . . that’s where I belong / It seems to me
Lonesome star / Shine on / The big country
With open skies, and you for company
Oh prairie rose . . . how happy I should be

Hey hey . . . You can take it from me / Hey hey, I’ll be coming, you’ll see
Hey hey, oh what a state to be in / Hey hey, you’re tantalizing me

Texas: I will compose in fancy rhyme, or just plain prose
A song of praise / To you, Prairie rose
Though I’m not sure I can explain your strange allure
Prairie rose / A crown of thorns / A scented flower
Hey hey
I’d better leave right away / I can hear you calling me / Prairie rose

 

AMAZONA . . . is a zone where / there is no doubt / No more fall-out
Why don’t you step through the mirror and see?

From Arizona to Eldorado / Sure is a mighty long way.
Hey little girl / Is something wrong?
I know it’s hard / For you to get along

The bell-tower rings; it tolls a hollow sound
But your castles in Spain still maybe realized / And longings more profound.

You see, every cloud has a silver lining . . .
And sometimes paradise around your corner lies . . .
In Amazona everything is nice
Little one, come take my hand; I’ll try to help you there
I’ll take you there

Amazona’s getting closer / Soon you’ll see.
Journey’s over / We’re almost there!

Face Me on Twitbook

 

I still listen to cassettes on my Walkman —

so wake me up when the next big thing develops . . .

 

Cuneiform: Textual Intercourse

u text me dis
i text u dat
she dissed my dis
i sent last Sat.

u lol’ed
on down the list
i sexted six
(my 7th missed)

u banned my width
i book your face
u twittered on
she save my space

u scrolled me down
he tweeted smiles
we USB’ed
recharging miles . . .

u giga-bit
encrypted files;
i saved as mine
and cached denials

in digital
we re-erased
then skyped our souls
and interfaced.

 

PROMPT #17: write a poem that features forgotten technology

(You can download it for free.)

Featured Poet:

 

 Femi Abubakar: Curating Diaspora

 

Confronting postmodernism’s strident “no”, blithely pessimistic in its desire for organic negation of its own existence, Femi Abubakar’s Manual of Dispossessed Motherlands repeatedly says “yes”. Throughout Abubakar’s collection of poems, affirmations, and acceptance are lines of flight that ally “with striated territorialities of occupation” harmed by the system and its outmoded, “illogic of whiteness.”

When Abubakar arrived in Omaha in 1994, the same year that Reagan-era poultry farms were finally deconstructed, he initially “refused” to identify as an African, and, instead, “celebrated whatever was not Eurocentric, working in meat-processing and youth centers… and thinking the only community possible was a community of resistance.” Now he admits that “poetry is also a city,” and writes of the diverse cities, past and present, inside and outside of Greater Africa—of the way that identity, for people of color, actual and virtual, has intersected the orthodoxies of the African age and fractured and liberated its content, both bride-price and wedding guests. In syntax that is intentional in its non-whiteness, Abubakar acknowledges that a sentence and grammar itself can contain or oppress. He writes, for example, after Mugabe’s “Non-native Agricultural Appropriations Act,” of:

[…] the exhausted government ministers who, as development loans defaulted and life blossomed into a bloodless auction, had to choose between educating their children in the U.S. and selling their Mercedes fleet or acquiring the confiscated farms of people who might and did hurt their wives and mistresses, who made the decisionless-decision of continued personal enrichment or the impersonal impoverishing of a racist agricultural sector that regularly humiliated Africans for being African and for being married, for having women of no color who had children or women of any color who had children by many fathers or black women who had children with fathers who were not white.

 

Recollected in diaspora: The Bride Price

White goats, pale camels, filthy sheep
and colorless apes of finance
hail the bride-to-be.
They gather in the lengthening shadows of the West
bleating and chattering in that unsafe space
where colonial powers hoard deceptions.
Silent, in her hut,
bound, excised, sewn shut, she sits
sullen, coagulating:
an African body, a fetishized continent
commodified non-event of bargained victimhood
and among the bloodied baobabs and dusty thorns
we wait for a wedding
to burst forth with ululations of victory
from innumerable hot gun-barrels.

 

Femi Abubakar is an Omaha-based poet and essayist, and a professor at the Diaspora Arts Collective. His works include The Camels of Ouagadougou (Nomad Press, 2003), My Transplanted Nation (Inshallah Press, 2011), and the 2014 Trinidad/Tobago GRIOT award-winning Beads for Slaughter (Carnival Books, 2016), which Shoshana Mandelbaum described in the New York Times as “bold, beautiful, challenging verse that bankrupts the political economy of poetics and of art itself.”

Abubakar’s poetry (he writes mainly in French) has been translated into a number of languages, including Tuareg, English, Basque, and Arabic and his chapbook Tea in the Desert (2013) was published by the collective Djema el F’naa in Amazigh translation. Abubakar’s other chapbooks include Al Haji Masra’s Wedding, and Holy War of Poetry.

In 2016, Abubakar was diagnosed with highly-aggressive case of Trump Derangement Complex which led to his work on the politics of resistance in the age of tolerance. According to critic Idris Washington-Jones, Abubakar’s work “butchers the fatted calf of poetry and culture as we know them.”

( Editor: Harrison Tsinakut-O’odla )
Harrison Tsinakut-O’odla  is a First Nations poet born on land belonging to the Hootenani Nation.
He grew up in Ininew,  Oji-Crow, Dene, and the Ts’msyen Tsimshian territory of Kitsum’k/Kitsalas.
He also lived on Pemmikan, Snuneymxw, Qw’tsun, Anishnabg, Ha’denoyni and Wendat/Tlohtià:ke.
He identifies as a white woman who voted for Donald Trump.
His preferred pronoun is Kootu.

 

Lady from J

 

You speak eloquently

calmly, liltingly,

With West Indian precision.

Your island inflection

Is so lovely. Talk to me

About anything . . .

I could listen all day.

Let us resume the conversation

In Heaven.

Unto eternity . . .

Where we shall be perfected.

I can’t forget your voice.

 

 

 

PROMPT # 16: Pick a person, place, or thing you love, and praise it in the most effusive way you can.