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{ Poetry Coroner }

jaded16india:

So I wrote this silly poem a while ago that kinda-sorta fits in with this Whole English Tongue Business rather well, if I say so myself. 

———-

English Literature. 

In class we play with tongues

turn, taper, tamper

the tongue twists tales to totem

people to ghosts, ghosts to stones

these consonants to syllables.

We know how to break them now

as we peer into books

we learn the might of 

whose words which words where words

open the mouth wide, 

uncurl the beast, breathe out meaning.

So then my grandmother asked me 

What Happens To The Tongue After Class?

i want to show her that it still works 

so i reach in and pull it out 

she pets it and asks it to speak

muffles form and then they break

as the tongue starts lapping up

silences within loose spaces.

So then she asks me Which Class Is This

as i fit my tongue in, it readjusts its form

i try to say ‘In Class We Polish Our Father Tongue’

it dissolves in my throat

and now all that is left is

paper, pen, ink, scent and sometimes 

shadows of caged syllables. 

(via oncejadedtwicesnarked-deactivat)

{ We should have remained statues. }

ohtheclouds:

We should have stood still and clung to the wind
We should have dug our teeth into its feathers
We should have strapped our bodies to a mountain, and turned our lungs into stone

that is awesome.

(via ohtheclouds-deactivated20110219)

{ LINK: Mother to Son }

doobietrapped:

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor –
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now –
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

- Langston Hughes

(via so-treu)

“Tell me what my fists are writing. My fingers open up like gates when I type, and the wind is swinging in the wake. I lift bridges with poems, mothefucker, and forests grow in my mother’s eyes; I am looking for God.”

Anis Mojgani (via ohtheclouds)

that is amazing

(via ohtheclouds-deactivated20110219)

{ LINK: ओं मणिपद्मे हूं: - Coded Language by Saul Williams }

guerrillamamamedicine:

- Coded Language by Saul Williams

Whereas, breakbeats have been the missing link connecting the diasporic
community to its drum woven past
Whereas the quantised drum has allowed the whirling mathematicians to
calculate the ever changing distance between rock and stardom.
Whereas the velocity of the spinning vinyl, cross-faded, spun backwards, and
re-released at the same given moment of recorded history , yet at a
different moment in time’s continuum has allowed history to catch up with
the present.

We do hereby declare reality unkempt by the changing standards of dialogue.
Statements, such as, “keep it real”, especially when punctuating or
anticipating modes of ultra-violence inflicted psychologically or physically
or depicting an unchanging rule of events will hence forth be seen as
retro-active and not representative of the individually determined is.

Furthermore, as determined by the collective consciousness of this state of
being and the lessened distance between thought patterns and their secular
manifestations, the role of men as listening receptacles is to be increased
by a number no less than 70 percent of the current enlisted as vocal
aggressors.

Motherfuckers better realize, now is the time to self-actualize
We have found evidence that hip hops standard 85 rpm when increased by a
number as least half the rate of it’s standard or decreased at ¾ of it’s
speed may be a determining factor in heightening consciousness.

Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the
unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Equate rhyme with reason, Sun with season

Click » HERE « to see him perform this live on Def Poetry Jam
To read the poem in full Click » HERE «

stfuracists:

STFU RACISTS CELEBRATES BLACK HISTORY MONTH
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
“Their colour is a diabolic die.”
Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.
Phillis Wheatley - “On Being Brought from Africa to America”
A black girl born in West Africa in the 1750s was brought to Massachusetts in 1761 on a ship called The Phillis, sold into slavery to the Wheatley family. The family was far more interested in educating “Phillis Wheatley,” as they named her, than putting her to work. Phillis was deeply involved in Bible study, literature, Greek, and Latin.
Her poetry garnered enough attention to gain an audience with the Lord Mayor of London during her time in England in the early 1770s, the same time she was emancipated from slavery, but not yet legally a free woman. In 1776, her poem about George Washington got her invited to his home. In 1778, Mr. Wheatley died, officially freeing her from slavery. She married a free black John Peters, but he went to a debtors prison, leaving behind his ill wife and their sick infant. Phillis and her baby died on the same day in 1784.
She was celebrated in her time, and still has a legacy today, as a pioneer in African-American literature, one of the first published black poets.

[image: bronze statue of Phillis Wheatley, sitting and stroking her cheek thoughtfully, looking into the distance as if considering something very interesting.]
i’m sorry about the description, i am not good with faces.

stfuracists:

STFU RACISTS CELEBRATES BLACK HISTORY MONTH

Some view our sable race with scornful eye,

“Their colour is a diabolic die.”

Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,

May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.

Phillis Wheatley - “On Being Brought from Africa to America”

A black girl born in West Africa in the 1750s was brought to Massachusetts in 1761 on a ship called The Phillis, sold into slavery to the Wheatley family. The family was far more interested in educating “Phillis Wheatley,” as they named her, than putting her to work. Phillis was deeply involved in Bible study, literature, Greek, and Latin.

Her poetry garnered enough attention to gain an audience with the Lord Mayor of London during her time in England in the early 1770s, the same time she was emancipated from slavery, but not yet legally a free woman. In 1776, her poem about George Washington got her invited to his home. In 1778, Mr. Wheatley died, officially freeing her from slavery. She married a free black John Peters, but he went to a debtors prison, leaving behind his ill wife and their sick infant. Phillis and her baby died on the same day in 1784.

She was celebrated in her time, and still has a legacy today, as a pioneer in African-American literature, one of the first published black poets.

[image: bronze statue of Phillis Wheatley, sitting and stroking her cheek thoughtfully, looking into the distance as if considering something very interesting.]

i’m sorry about the description, i am not good with faces.

(via remembertheladies)

guerrillamamamedicine:

quixotess:

Suheir Hammad, a revision of “First Writing Since.” Def Poetry Jam S1E1. Ultra serious, talks about 9/11, Palestine, war, violence (especially against Arabs and Muslims). Remember this originally aired in 2002.

automatic reblog.  one of my favorite poems and performances of all time.  srsly. 

(Source: t-akver)

emilyswash:

[trigger warning for mention of sexual assault]

to the oklahoma lawmakers who will force all women to receive an ultrasound prier to an abortion:

why don’t you print out the ultrasound pictures out in a pastel frame? make me take them home and hang them on my wall as a souvenir of the night that is branded like red coals to flesh on my memory, the night when his hand pressed so hard against my shoulder blade i felt more intimacy with asphalt.

why don’t you knit the baby a sweater? make me take it out and smell it on the anniversary of this day for the rest of my life to remind me that i chose to be a murderer instead of bringing a child into this world where we kill people in the name of freedom but imprison people in the name of life. you could pass laws for that too, you know.

it’s bad enough that i can still see his handprints on my thighs but now i can see your probing eyes scraping across my cervix, tattooing my womb with shame. why don’t you send me a card every mother’s day to remind me of how wretched i am? sign it, “your friend at the state capital, making sure you know we actually do something all day with your tax dollars.”

look: i know it can get boring, between the [??] association breakfast and the oil and gas industry lunch and i know you need something to do between screwing up our election system and passing off your racism as an immigration bill, but i need a little more from you than a peace of paper.

i mean, if you really want to show me that you believe in faith, family, and freedom, then why don’t you come along for the ride? i could have used you that night, after the football game, him finally showing my attention, me grasping for acceptance. tell me i’m special so when he hands me the next drink i don’t look to the bottom of it for approval. tell me to scream louder so someone might find us. wrap me in a blanket when he’s done. take me home, my body a [??], my heart the grimy gym floor after the pep rally. give me the words to say to my parents when i come out of the bathroom with a plus sign on the stick, and he won’t even talk to me. the school hallway is a canyon. silence echoes in my skull, and i don’t know what to do. tell me what to do. sit with me at the clinic, the ticker plucking away at my innocence, give me the REVELATION that the blip on the screen is actually a baby. take me home when i change my mind, take me to the doctor every month, hold my hand in the delivery room. i will name him after you if you will help me do my homework when he’s crying in the next room. give me food stamps, pay my gas bills, put him in an after-school program where he learns he can sell my pain pills, have mercy on him when he goes to court, give me strength when they sentence him.

if you wanna play god, mister and missus law makers, if you want to write your bible on my organs, you better be there when i am down on my knees, pleading for relief from your morality.

youcanhaveitall:

julietburgess:

This is wonderful.

so beautiful, eloquent and succinct. anti-choicers everywhere need to hear this.

shit. shit. wow.

(Source: anarchkitteh, via justjasper)

{ This Day in Women’s History: Julia de Burgos, an advocate for the independence of Puerto Rico, ardent civil rights activist, and considered by many as the greatest poet to have been born in Puerto Rico, born in 1914. }

fywomenshistory:

It is often difficult to distinguish between the myth “de Burgos” and the reality of the woman born Julia Constanze Burgos García. Legends remain—and an oeuvre of over 200 poems. Her life began in a barrio, but as the first of thirteen children she was given the chance to go to school. Julia de Burgos loved the landscape of her homeland, especially the Río Grande de Loíza, that in a poem of the same name she calls “My wellspring, my river / since the maternal petal lifted me to the world.”

At a young age she learned to love literature. She is beautiful, precocious, sensitive, and has a facility for languages. By age 19 she has already completed a university degree, and soon thereafter she joins the “daughters of freedom”, then the Puerto Rican nationalist party. She becomes a teacher, then a writer. In 1938 she publishes her first collection of poems, which she promotes herself by traveling across the island giving readings and trying to sell the slim volume. A second collection follows only a year later. The third appears posthumously in 1954.

Julia marries young, but dissolves the bond after three years. When she meets the Dominican revolutionary Juan Isidro Jimeses Grullón, she finds a great passion, a love of which she sings in many of her later poems. She follows him to Cuba in 1939, and eventually to New York. But this relationship also falls apart.

After a second sojourn in Cuba, de Burgos returns to New York alone. As a poet, she has many admirers, but she feels isolated in its concrete canyons and suffers from bouts of depression. Her life ends at age 39 in that “tragic horizon of stone.” An alcoholic, she collapses on the street, is taken to the hospital where she dies of pneumonia. Friends are finally able to trace her to an anonymous paupers’ grave and have her remains returned to Carolina in Puerto Rico.

De Burgos is widely admired as the greatest woman poet of the island. In the 1990s her poems are read by a new generation of Caribbean women writers, who find in her a precursor for their own identity struggles. Many of them write in exile as she did. Like her, they continue to struggle against the colonial power of the United States. They hear in her longing for requited love and for social justice, and in her contradictory nationalism an echo of their own voices. They admire her strength despite her weaknesses, and they see her as a feminist, as she calls on “Woman” to “hear the thousand laments / of your children, of your soul, of your homeland demanding liberty.”

(Source: fembio.org, via fylatinamericanhistory)

{ LINK: Call for Submissions: New Trans Art & Lit Magazine }

sheresists:

Bodies of Work, a new Art and Literature Magazine is looking for submissions.

We, the editors, are three trans artists who believe art and literature are two of the most vital parts to our world today. At this moment, there is no magazine which brings all transgender, transsexual and gender variant writers and artists to the forefront. We believe it is time to publish such a magazine!

The purpose of Bodies of Work is to publish and promote literature and art that celebrates the diverse visions and understandings of the transsexual, transgender and gender-variant international community through language and image. We want to inspire and be inspired by the innovative output of our communities and come together with trans artists of all genres in creative discourse. We want to engage and support our creative processes and learn how trans artists and writers create.

Bodies of Work will:

* Introduce a wide audience to literature and art by the trans and gender-variant community.
* Provide a unique opportunity for underrepresented writers and artists viewpoints.
* Discover and publish emerging and developing writers and artists.

Bodies of Work will be published both in print and on the web. Print costs are high, so our agenda is to build a website first and print 3 magazines a year when we have the funds.

We are currently seeking submissions for our inaugural issue! All trans and gender-variant artists, performers and writers are encouraged to submit work.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

Prose and Poetry: Submit up to 8 pages of work(double-spaced, 12 pt.). It is best to send all of your work in one Microsoft Word (.doc) or text (.rtf) attachment.

Interview: We welcome interview submissions with a trans/gender variant artist/writer/performer. Up to 8 pages (double-spaced, 12 pt.)

Graphic files: Submit up to 5 visual art images or photographs. Photography and visual art should be sent using .tif files ( at least 300 dpi /300 pixels per inch resolution) or .jpeg files. Please include a short artist’s statement about the work submitted.

Songs and Sound Art: Submit up to five MP3 files. Please include a short artist’s statement about the work submitted. All sound art and music will be featured mostly on our website.

Video Art/Movies: Please send a URL to the work if it is online. If not, please send a DVD copy. Please include an artists statement about the work.

ALL submissions: Please include:A short bio (two sentences) with your name (as you want it to appear in print), email, phone, and mailing address.

Deadline for submissions to be considered for the inaugural issue will be April 10, 2011

Please send all submissions to: bodiesofworkmagazine@gmail.com

Thank you! We look forward to seeing your work!

Cooper Lee Bombardier, Morty Diamond and Annie Danger

Signal boost.

(Source: jhameia, via mytongueisforked)