The Other Side Of Satchmo

I just finished reading a great collection of writings and essays by someone whom I would have never associated with as being a writer, especially one as brutally honest as he was in the detailing of his life, his career, and his relationships. That person is Louis Armstrong, the famed jazz trumpeter and pioneer. We all know the gravelly voice, the perpetual smile he always wore, and his amazing way with a horn, but in "Louis Armstrong:In His Own Words", you get to see a side of the man that was rarely visible in my lifetime or awareness of him as a performer. And it made him that much more human and accessible. He shared a love of writing--he speaks of always carrying a typewriter with him everywhere he travelled, so that he was always typing in between sets and shows, whether it was his thoughts, an essay or two, a review, or responding to the scores of letters that he got from friends and fans alike. He spoke of his youth, growing up in New Orleans with his mother, May Ann, and his sister, "Mama Lucy", and his evolution as a musician; his appreciation of his mentor and "father figure", the great Joe "King" Oliver; his sojourn to Chicago, along with many other fellow musicians of his time; his marriages and relationships with women; his estimation of other musicians that he worked with and who came after him during the bebop era; and the love and adoration of his fans over the years that he so deeply appreciated. You also get to read his reactions to some of the negative feelings towards him as it pertained to his involvement in race relations in this country.

Like Charles Bukowski and James Baldwin, two writers who I strongly admired and strive to be like in terms of speaking the truth, he spoke plainly and honestly, sometimes bluntly so, about whatever was on his mind or was going on in his life at the time, over the course of his 71 years. Like Martin Luther King, Jr., he was more than the images we are used to seeing. A flesh-and-blood human being--flawed and contradictory, yet talented and profound in ways innumerable to mention. His life would definitely make for a great film, which with the plethora of biopics that are prevalent these days, should be strongly considered. He represented and represents everything I love about jazz and black history and what it means to be a man, a black man, a human. If you are a fan of jazz or even a fan of Louis Armstrong; if you love a good autobiography or series of essays; or if you just want to be inspired by a good life well-lived, I would strongly recommend finding a copy of "Louis Armstrong: In His Own Words", at a local library or bookstore. As he would have said, I am red beans and ricely yours. 'Nuff said.

Celebrating MLK

I think there needs to be a moratorium on the "I Have A Dream" speech as a remembrance to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. As if this one speech defines this man. As if this is the only speech he ever gave in his life. He was much more than this one speech and he certainly wasn't killed because he had a dream of racial equality. We need to overcome, as a nation, our short-term memory of the man, who fought, not just against racism and prejudice, but against poverty, the Vietnam War, and other injustices. A Baptist preacher, a husband, father, son, friend, activist, most likely a real down-to-earth brother who felt just as comfortable talking to people in barbershops and street corners, as he was talking to heads of states in oval offices and boardrooms. In other words, a human being of flesh and blood, who was a voice of the common man, as much as he was an international leader.

In trying to come up with things to write about for this blog, I came across the following article this morning, which much more eloquently says all that I'm trying to and wanted to say in this post. And I hope those of you who read it will come to feel the same way. If we truly want to honor Martin Luther King, Jr., let's remember him beyond the 2-minute soundbites of "I Have a Dream"; let's remember him as he wanted to be remembered--as a "drum major for justice". Justice in all of its forms. 'Nuff said!

http://www.alternet.org/story/74337/?page=entire

It's Nice To Have A Family

Today is the fourth anniversary of the relationship that I have with the woman who is now my wife. We were recently married three months ago in a family commitment ceremony that included her teenage daughter. It was a very personal event, attended to and by many friends and family members, which made it very special, very spiritual, and very emotional. Nothing in life ever comes easy and this was a case in point, in that it almost never happened, due to unforeseen circumstances, including being ripped off by the “owner” of a desert resort we had planned to use for the event. But , as they say, God works in mysterious ways, and gave us a day that will not soon be forgotten and blessed us with people who made it a day worth celebrating.

It’s good to be a part of a family—to be needed and relied upon, and to have people who can be relied upon as well. Especially after coming through a situation where I was no longer needed and made to feel that I was worthless. But in a followup to what I said in my poem, “Mofo’ Risin’”, featured in the May 16, 2006 entry of this blog, I have found a woman who thinks that I am much of a man and can be much of a husband; and not only that, but I have also found a child growing into a young woman, who sees me as a father, even more so than her biological one. All of which, needless to say, came unexpectedly. But isn’t that what a blessing is? An unexpected gift. Well, in that case, I have been doubly blessed and continue to be so and hopefully will for a long time to come.

Below are poems written specifically for the aforementioned ceremony. The first, “Blessed Union Of Souls”, is a poem I read during the ceremony. “Family Snapshots” are poems that were read by the bridesmaids during the reception, as a surprise to my wife. There were actually six poems, the sixth being the poem, “Face”, featured in the Dec. 1st, 2005 entry, “A Portrait In Words”. As with all my poetry, I hope, the words speak for themselves and hopefully convey what I intended them to, which is my heart. And as always, I thank you for your time. ‘Nuff said!



Blessed Union Of Souls



Dearly beloved,
We are gathered today
To celebrate
This blessed union of souls;
This blessed union
Of a man
To a woman and child;
Of a husband to a wife,
Of a daughter to a want-to-be,
Hoped-to-be,
Promise-to-be,
Father.


Witness, if you please,
The pledges of love here today;
A thing of beauty
That will be a joy forever.
Acknowledge, if you will,
This blessed trinity,
This family;
Assure and affirm them, with
Your loyalty and devotion
As they commit to each other
Their loyalty and devotion;
Assure them of your presence
In their lives--
That they will be upheld
By strong arms of love and support;
That the ties that bind
Will never be severed.


Affirm them in their uniqueness,
Their beautiful blend,
Their wonderful eclectic mixture
Of color and spirit,
Of love and peace;
Again, I say, a thing of beauty.


Behold, Toni, Joseph, and Santi,
These three,
These precious three
As they become one,
As they become a symbol
Of what God can do.


So elevate,
Appreciate,
Celebrate,
This blessed union of souls,
This trinity of love and devotion,
This family.


© 2007 Joseph Powell



Family Snapshots



Snapshot #1


I've traded in my tears of solitude
for the love of a good woman
and a child who chooses
to call me father---
I am doubly blessed,
though I never expected it
and never knew how to look for it;
yet I receive them
as I would a precious gift,
beautifully wrapped,
presented in love,
not to own, so much,
but to cherish
and enjoy in their splendor.




Snapshot #2


She calls me husband
And I will do my damnedest
to aspire to be that;
And going in,
I know I will fail
and fail many times,
for I am not perfect;
but it is not perfection
I seek,
at least,
not in her eyes;
what I seek,
is to be
what she calls me---
husband.






Snapshot #3


I will call her wife
And I will do my damnedest
to help her to be that---
not on a pedestal,
not walking behind me,
but partner,
at my side,
for life.

I will seek
to allow her beauty
to shine,
as the precious ruby
that I have found;

I will make room
for her voice
to be heard,
for her voice
will not be contained.

I will call her wife---
partner at my side,
partner of my life,

I will call her wife.





Snapshot #4


Her name is Santi,
which means peace--
And peace is what
she brings to me;
but I will choose
to call her
daughter,
for that is what
she is to me;
though she is not
of my blood,
though I was not
present
at her birth,
and I did not
watch her grow,
as one would watch
seeds and buds
grow into flowers;
I will still
call her
daughter
and be present
as that flower
continues to burst
into bloom,
bringing peace
to others.





Snapshot #5


This family you celebrate
here tonight,
is just one verse
of a larger poem
that continues
to be written;
you friends,
are other verses,
that when added,
will make that poem sing.

So ask yourself,
what verse
will you contribute?
What is the poem
that you want this family
to be?

And then,
go
and write it!


© 2007 Joseph Powell

2008--A Challenge

2008. A brand new year. Full of new possibilities, new challenges, new highs and new lows. There will be births, there will be deaths. Marriages( I know of at least three weddings that I will be attending this year alone) and divorces(hopefully no one that I know). Everyone is/has been making resolutions this year, as they do every year. Mine is simple and one that I have every year—that I devote myself to writing. Of course, I hope to become a better husband, a better stepfather, son, brother, employee, etc. But being a writer is what I’ve always wanted to be and something that I want to make happen, now more than ever. I am hoping to teach myself how to write a script; hoping to write a novel and not a few short stories; and maybe a song or two( I just received a guitar for Christmas and it only seems apropos that I lend myself to songwriting as well). Of course, there will probably be poems(my strong suit), but I do not want to limit myself this year.

That was/is the reason I started this blog, as one of many avenues to challenge myself to write. It has not, unfortunately, been successful, and that’s something I’m hoping to rectify in this new year. To that end, I am challenging myself to submit to this blog weekly, whether it be a poem, random thoughts on my life and its mundanities(is that a word? Hey, maybe I’ll even create some new ones!), and events of the day(hey, it is an election year!). The length of each entry will most likely vary—sometimes a page, sometimes maybe just a line or two, but I will seek to make it happen, as if my life depended on it. And if there’s anyone out there who chooses to read this and stay with me on this, I welcome your encouragement, comments, and/or criticisms.

In closing, I leave with a quote that is one of many sparks to this newfound hope mentioned in this blog and hope that you too may find inspiration in it as well.


“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and famous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in all of us. And when we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”


Used by Nelson Mandela in his 1994 inaugural speech

911 Redux(World Trade Center)

9-11 Redux

Echoes of F.D.R.
Ring in my head—
“A day which will live
in infamy”;
Ringing,
Like the phone
Which awoke
Me from sleep.
Asleep,
While somewhere,
Scores were dying.
And now I find it harder
To sleep
‘cause now I hear blood
crying from the ground.

People will ask,
‘Do you remember where
you were when?’
And I will say,
‘Yeah, in a state of shock,’
which turned into
a New York
state of mind,
wishing I could stop
the madness
that crashed into
the twin brothers
in this first year
of the new century
on the 11th day
of the 9th month—
a day whose numbers
are linked
with the number
for emergency;
a day when chaos ruled
and the news became
a liturgical obituary;

when my bloodshot eyes
were red, not from lack of sleep,
but from the carnage
that filled my TV screen;
when the local news
battled the world news
for body counts.

They say in space,
‘No one can hear you scream’,
But on this day,
I think I heard
The whole universe
Screaming,
A sound matched only
By the falling of teardrops
In a forest of humanity.

© Joseph Powell



World Trade Center(A Review)

The defining moment of our generation, the attacks of 9/11, are brilliantly reenacted in the powerful new film from Oliver Stone, "World Trade Center". There are those who say that it's too soon for a film like this or the earlier release, "United 93"(which I have yet to see), but five years hence, if we've learned anything from history, it's that we should never forget. And Stone does an amazing job of reminding us of the events of that day--from the shadow of the first plane just before it hits the first tower, to the courage and determination of the first responders to the scene at the twin towers; the confusion of what was really transpiring that morning, to the impact it had on the families of the police and firefighters who were doing their duty without realizing that they were diving into the belly of a fierce and relentless beast, from which they might not return.

Whatever you might think of Stone, his politics, or the controversies and conspiracy theories that tend to surround most of his films, this film is an exercise in brilliant, albeit straightforward moviemaking. In the words of Dragnet's Jack Webb, it's "just the facts, ma'am". In addition to making us relive the horrors of that day, we enter into the story of two of the first responders on that day, Sgt. John McLoughlin(subtly played by Nicholas Cage) and Officer William Jimeno(in a bravura performance by Michael Pena, recently of "Crash"). They were just two of an unfortunately small group of survivors from the destruction and we are made to feel that we are with them when they are eventually trapped beneath the rubble of the buildings. Actors are usually required to use every part of their body when performing, whether it's stage or screen(Cage is a perfect case in point in almost every film we've ever seen him in), and I believe it's a remarkable feat when these two actors spend the majority of this movie, trapped with only their faces mostly showing, are able to convey the tension and uncertainty of what those officers must have been feeling in that situation. Kudos also to the two strong actresses who play their wives, Maria Bello(of "The Cooler" and "A History Of Violence"), who plays Donna McLoughlin and Maggie Gyllenhaal(of "Secretary") who plays Allison Jimeno. These are two of the better female performances of the year thus far, not to mention fine additions to what are strongly impressive resumes and they capture the strength and conviction that these two women must have faced(and possibly what every police officers' wives face when their husbands go off to work on what is supposedly just another typical day). There is also fine work from some of the smaller supporting roles of family members and fellow officers, which gives us a sense of the fortitude and determination of the New Yorkers that were involved.

This is another of a long list of Oliver Stone's impressive films(which include "Platoon", "Wall Steet", and "Born On The Fourth Of July", which simply tells a story of real people in unique and sometimes very harrowing circumstances and how they deal with those and how it changes their lives. And as with those films, after viewing them, we are somehow the better for it, if for no other reason, that we are reminded of humanity's potential for good. Sometimes you can't ask for a film to do much more than that.

A Hopelessly Shameless Plug(Is There Any Other Kind?)

For those who may be interested in and/or looking for some good poetry to read, I am currently selling copies of my most recent chapbook of poetry, “Mofo’ Risin’ “. It is a collection of 17 poems that I self-published in 2004, mostly inspired by the aftereffects of a divorce I went through at that time and the process of trying to work through such a drastic life change. The book is on sale for $7 and can be purchased by contacting me through email at jobypoet@yahoo.com. Some of the poems I’ve published in this blog are featured in the book. Other excerpts can be found at http://www.musesreview.org/ and http://www.instantpublisher.com/, the site I used to self-publish the book. There’s also an excellent review of it at http://www.infoedit.net/. If any of you have enjoyed my work thus far in this blog, I would strongly implore that you consider buying a copy of my book. Thank you for your time and patronage and happy reading. God bless!

With Thanks To Edvard Munch

I just want to fucking scream. I want to scream until all the blues that are pent up in my soul comes pouring out; until all the murderous violence I feel inside bleeds out of my pores. I want to scream for all the stupidity I see in the world, both near and far. The stupidity of an endless war; of people still being judged by the color of their skin; of poor and homeless people living less than a stone’s throw away from the offices and homes of the wealthy. The stupidity of ‘trying to squeeze a dollar out of a dime when you haven’t even got a cent’. Of a president who can’t see the forest for the trees that he’s mowing down to pave way for more of the same bullshit he’s been laying for the past 6 years.

I want to scream the truth! I want to scream for a better life—not necessarily of fame or fortune, but one of realness and honesty. To not be afraid of what I want to be or want to do in this fucked-up world. I want my poetry to matter, Mr. Gioia, wherever you are! I want to live my raison d’etre to the fullest possible degree. To still be able to create beauty out of pain; to celebrate love and faith and sex and all the rest. In other words, to be human, as humanly possible.

Mofo' Risin'

This poem, I believe, speaks for itself. It’s the title piece of my most recent chapbook, published in 2004.




Mofo’ Risin’


The beautiful
Fucked-up man
Has left
The
Building
And he’s
Taken his
Cross,
What’s left
Of his
Dignity
And manhood
And his
Creamy
Peanut butter,
Because
Only choosy
Motherfuckers
Choose creamy
Peanut butter,
Jif or otherwise.

And
he’s going
to devote
himself
to his
poetry
because
only real
motherfuckin’ men
write poetry.

And he’s
Going
to devote
himself
to being
a friend
to his friends
and being
a friend
to those
who need
friends
because
only real
motherfuckin’ men
are true friends.

And he’s
Going
To devote himself
To finding
A woman
Who
Thinks that
He is
Much of
A man
And can
Be
Much of
A husband
Because
Only real
Motherfuckin’ men
Know
How to be
Husbands
Even
If they
Have to
Learn
By
Trial and
Error
And by
Fucking up
And trying
Again
And again
Because
They never
Had a
Real
Motherfuckin’ man
To
Show them
How
To be
A real
Motherfuckin’ man
And how
It would
Take a real
Motherfuckin’ woman
To
Understand that
And
Give
A real
Motherfucker
A chance.

But,
In the meantime,
This beautiful
Fucked-up man
Will rise
Up,
Dust himself
Off
And
Move on
With his cross
To bear,
What’s left
Of his
Dignity
And manhood
Intact
And his
Creamy
Peanut butter,
Because
Only choosy
Motherfuckers
Choose creamy
Peanut butter.

Be on
The lookout
For him;
He might
Be
A good friend
To you;
He could
Be your
Next lover
Or husband;
Or
He might
Just read
You
This poem
And
Make you
A sandwich
Because
That’s what
Real
Motherfuckin’ men
Do.



© Copyright 2003 Joseph Powell

In Celebration Of Black History

My life is black history. The very fact that I exist. My mama’s son. Third of five. Didn’t know my father. Wanting to be a father. Wanting to be a man, wanting to be a writer—wanting to be James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, the entire Harlem Renaissance wrapped up in one. Standing on the shoulders of those who came before, who kicked down the door, so that I could strut right through, doing the funky chicken and the jitterbug, to Duke’s “A-train”, and Miles’ “Kind of Blue”.

My life is black history. Growing up in high-rise projects. Fat kid with four eyes and crooked teeth. The brain, the Professor, they called me. And sometimes it’s hard to hold your nappy head up, sometimes it’s hard to press on, wondering what it means to overcome, just trying to stay in school and keep mama from “whuppin’ your behind”. Playing in rundown yards and broken down cars, dreaming you were someone else, like the Batman, sometimes dreaming you lived somewhere else, anywhere but where you lived.

My life is black history, but the kind that is still ongoing, that still lives and moves and has its being. The kind that says I can, as one man, make a difference, again like those who came before, especially the ones who aren’t in the history books. You can’t tell me my history—the reason we aren’t in the history books, is because it would take more books than we know what to do with to tell our story-- his story, her story, my story. My life is a song of my people, black people, black and beautiful, black and proud. It is a love poem, to my mama, about my mama, in celebration of my mama—of all mamas. It’s also a love poem to my brothers and my sisters, and to my ‘bruthas’ and ‘sistahs’. It’s a thank you  for wiping my nose and kicking my ass, for giving me wisdom and helping me grow, for showing me God and how to dance with the devil. For the blues and funk. For poetry and the telling of our stories. For teaching me to appreciate myself without having to look down on others, regardless of race, color, or creed.

My life is black history, in all its glorious splendor. The man that I am and still want to be; the lover of my woman that I still aspire to be; the poet and writer, the preacher and the teacher, instilled in me, still yearning to display himself for the world, “for him who has ears to hear”. I share with you my life, my history, but you must accept it on its own terms and not what you wish to make it, for it will not be denied, like the shining of the sun or the brightness of the moon. My life is history in the making, my life is black history.

Death May Not Be Proud, But He's One Persistent Mofo'

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. It seems to be unavoidable. It seems to pervade every part of our national consciousness. From the recent hurricanes, including Katrina, to the war in Iraq. Even closer to home, I’m constantly hearing of deaths within people’s families, from car accidents and stillbirths, to others being ravaged by disease. It seems that as I get older, death has become more and more a part of my daily existence, whether directly or indirectly. In films such as “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” and shows such as the recently ‘deceased’ “Six Feet Under”, death is and/or has become a very palpable reality, not to mention that it has always existed in much of our literary and artistic canons for centuries.


According to life span estimates, I’m about halfway to my date with destiny(I’m 41 now), though with the overwhelming evidence of the precariousness of life, and the all but undeniable fact that estimates don’t always add up, I could be even closer than I may be willing to realize or able to fathom. I feel pain in places that I didn’t feel them in not even 10 or even, 5 years ago, the cause of which could be any number of things, not least of which could be attributed to old age setting in, but unfortunately, without the assistance of health care insurance at the present time, I’m unable to learn of the causes and reasons of said pains.


But it’s the precariousness that, for lack of a better word, upsets me. Because there always feels like so much that needs to be done, things that I want to do but haven’t yet. I still want to write the “great American novel”, write that really good script that will be turned into an amazing film, travel to other countries, etc. I know that I’ve accomplished a lot in the “short” time that I have lived, that others have not or will never be able to for a variety of reasons, and hopefully by accomplishing those things, I’ve affected people’s lives for the better. But as is seemingly wont in human nature, there’s a hunger for more. And I hope that when that time does come, when God decides to sever my mortal cord, I will be ready and have been able to look back on a life well lived and fully accomplished, that they will be able to say of me a statement(a quote by James Baldwin) that I’ve adopted as my motto and creed and hopefully have lived up to—He was ‘an honest man and a good writer.’

A Portrait In Words

Below is a poem I wrote for my girlfriend, Toni, shortly after we met nearly two years ago. The beauty of poetry is the ability to convey so much with so few words and though the picture I’m trying to convey would warrant a thousand words, I think the few words expressed here in this piece do justice.



Face



The sun rises
Just to greet your smile
And the stars
In the night sky
Want to know
How you make your eyes sparkle;

Me,
I’m wanting to know
How I came to deserve
Such beauty.

Copyright © 2004 Joseph Powell

Quotable Quotes for $200, Alex!

One of my favorite things to is finding and collecting quotes that I find inspirational to me, as both a writer and as a human. They range in diversity, of the people quoted as well as the ideas and the intent behind those ideas. I have included some below that I have truly enlightening and hope that you will do the same.



"Any writer overwhelmingly honest about pleasing himself is almost sure to please others."

-Marianne Moore

"If one waits for the right time to come before writing, the right time never comes."

-James Russell Lowell

"Honesty is the essence of eloquence."

-James Cunningham

"You can never be sure that what you write is any good...If you have to be sure, don't write."

-John Berryman

Creators and artists possess the capacity "To see a World in a Grain of Sand/And a Heaven in a Wild Flower."

-William Blake

"We are all bastards, but God loves us anyway."

-Will Campbell

"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science."

-Albert Einstein,

What I Believe

Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love that is the soul of genius."

-Wolfgang A. Mozart

"Joy comes to those who have the heart to convert their pain into art."

-John D. Engle, Jr.

"When the Muse comes, She doesn't tell you to write/She says, get up for a minute, I've something to show you, stand here."

-Michael Goldman

"Never lose a holy curiosity."

-Albert Einstein

"There are two ways of spreading light:To be the candle or to be the mirror that reflects it."

-Edith Wharton

"Be what you is 'cuz if you be what you ain't, then you ain't what you is."(I didn't make this up, I swear!)

-Anonymous

"Be dignified enough to make your statement. Don't leave the earth until you do."

-Leo Buscaglia

"The act of writing is the act of discovering what you believe."

-David Hare

"The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question."

-James Joyce

"The real artist is the one who has learned to recognize and to render what Joyce has called the 'radiance' of all things, as an epiphany or showing forth of their truth."

-Joseph Campbell

"The sacred obligation of the poet is to find, is it not?"

-David Citino

"Writing poetry is like daring to dance with the demons inside you. A poem is a howl against the darkness around us."

John Mason

"If you write, you're a writer. You need no one else's validation."

-Marshall J. Cook

"Be mundane and commonplace in your life so you can be insane in your art."

-Gustave Flaubert

"I'm suggesting that one try to listen to one's heart. And tell the truth."

"I do know that great art can only be created out of love..."

-James Baldwin

"Ask yourself in the stillest hour of your night, must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple 'I must', then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it."

-Rainer Maria Rilke,

Letter To A Young Poet

Jarhead--A Brief Interpretive Look

War is hell, whether it's four days or four years. Boredom...black rain. We have seen the enemy and it might be us... or them, you just never know. Island of sand and fog. Your best friend is your rifle. And it's 1, 2, 3, 4, what are we fighting for...? To be or not to be becomes a reality. You're not sure what is truth and what is just another line of bullshit. My country wants me here--but their country doesn't. The footsteps that I'm following in no longer fit my feet. The woman I left behind has left me behind. Everyone is telling me to stay the course and I've lost my compass. If I get out of this alive, I will not be the man I used to be and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But I must get out alive.

A Requiem For Sister Rosa

Rosa Parks has died. May she rest in peace. Let's stand up for someone who sat down for justice. Let's be the bouquet of roses that celebrates Sister Rosa. A light in a time of darkness; a woman who said no and no more when a nation was still saying yes and wait!; a small, quiet voice in a world of noise. It is because of you (and others like you) that I(and others like me) can sit where we choose, whether on a bus, train or plane. May you not be forgotten, though I doubt that you will be. May you most certainly rest in peace, whereever you now sit--your time here on earth has earned it, as I'm sure that God has now welcomed you with the words, "Well done, my good and faithful servant!"

Def Poet

Below is a poem that is featured in my latest chapbook, "Mofo' Risin' ". It is titled, "Def Poet". Enjoy!




DEF POET



If I were a slam poet
and, I'm not, by the way,
I'd breathe similes
into your nostrils
and give you life;
(w)rap metaphors
around your ears
like the garland wrapped
in Billie Holiday's hair;
I would not lull you
to sleep,
because my words
would be on fire,
shocking you
with
existential soliloquies,
like,
to be
or not to be;
making you
hear songs
in the key of life;
making you
hear rhapsodies
in the key of blue,
if I were a slam poet.

If I were a slam poet,
in three minutes or less,
I'd fire word darts
into your mind,
fire projectile missiles
of poetic wisdom,
like a sermon on the mount
in iambic pentameter;
spin romantic sonnets
that would have made
Shakespeare jealous;
from behind the mike,
my words
would spring forth
like an Ellington tune,
played by Miles Davis,
alongside John Coltrane,
backed by Thelonius Monk,
and Charles Mingus;
like your mama's voice,
when the hurt was so bad
and nobody else's words would do;
make you recall memories
you'd long forgotten;
recall memories
you wish you had;
makin' those three minutes,
a memory
that you will
never forget--
that is,
if I were a slam poet,
which,
I'm not.


© Copyright 2004 Joseph Powell

Bohemian Rhapsody

I'm trying to stay sane in an insane world. Trying to find words that speak truth, conveys pain, and highlights my ugliness. I am Bukowski in his drunken poetry; I am Baldwin, in his fiery rage; I am the savage beast that will not be tamed by music alone; the fallen angel trying to fight my way back into heaven; the poet whose pen is filled with blood. My faith is doubt; every breath I take is on loan and I'm wondering when my balance is due. Suicide...is a last resort and all the other inns are booked up. I'm not crazy--just fucked up and not fucked enough. Am trying to keep the demons at bay, but sometimes they fuel my fire, feed my soul. It matters not who sees this--what difference would it make? No one pays attention to writers anyway. No one cares for the outsider, the monster, the ones who are not like them. But I am you--the secrets you try to keep; the words that you will not say; the skeletons in your closet. You can't hide from the truth--maybe you too are trying to survive, stay sane, live life, breathe freely, trying to get just a touch of grace. But I can't help you unless you choose to acknowledge me or die trying. Open your eyes, open your ears, read between the lines, dare to feel something for this bohemian and his kind--who knows, like they say, the truth just might set you free. But then again, this may be much ado about nothing. You decide.

U2 Sermons Blog for the book "Get Up Off Your Knees: Preaching the U2 Catalog"

U2 Sermons Blog for the book "Get Up Off Your Knees: Preaching the U2 Catalog"

I Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans

I wrote the following poem, "I Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans", prior to the recent tragedy that struck there. It was just a few months ago that my girlfriend, Toni, and I spent a week there and I was inspired to write this poem shortly afterwards as a homage to the great time we had there. And a couple of months later is when Katrina hit, so the poem seems to have a greater meaning, given the circumstances, and so I print it here, and hope that people will feel what I feel about this wonderful city that will hopefully be reborn, like the phoenix from the ashes. Viva New Orleans!





I Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans



French Quarter
Bourbon Street and cool jazz
Cheap beer, 7 & 7’s,
And hot sex in
Third story hotel window.
Dive bars and cable cars
Beads, blues, and voodoo
And Kermit Ruffin,
A modern-day Satchmo,
Tearin’ it up
At the Blue Nile.

Everybody tryin’
To make a buck or two;
Some of them tryin’
To take a buck from you;
Sometimes, we say,
‘What the fuck?’—
voodoo!
Night is day
And day never seems to end.
What happens here,
Doesn’t necessarily
Have to stay here,
For you have to take
Your memories with you
When you check out.
You don’t have to leave,
But if you do stay,
It’s gonna cost you
More than you know,
More than you know.


© Copyright 2005 Joseph Powell

Either Shit Or Get Off The Pot

"I want to be an honest man and a good writer."

--James Baldwin

if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.

-Charles Bukowski

The first statement above is my raison d'etre. The second is one that I aspire to and wrestle with, although in regards to the first statement, the same could be said in that vein. Henceforth, on this fine September day, the 21st, in the year of our Lord, 2005, I am embarking on what will hopefully be a fruitful endeavor and at least one reason to keep me in front of a computer screen and writing, my foray into the information superhighway--my own personal blog. Herein I will try to contribute to the human experience and the literature world at large by publishing thoughts and writings, including new and old poetry that I have written as well as hopefully story ideas. I'm not doing this so much for feedback, though it may be welcome, but for the opportunity of getting my self out there, to speak to whomever will hear, as it were. In the past, I've never been good at consistently keeping up on journals(in a class I once had, I spent an entire week and a half making up three months of journal entries for a project that I had and to which I was surprisingly given full credit for), so I may not always be forthcoming with this venture, but I will do my best as time and inspiration and other outside distractions allow. I hope whoever reads this is enlightened, inspired, and entertained. Ciao for now.