I recently came across this review, from a couple of years ago, of a book of poems that I self-published a few years back. I wasn't aware of the review when it came out and so was pleasantly surprised when I was doing a search online and going through old emails and stumbled on it. Thank God, it was a positive review, though sometimes a negative review can be telling. But it juices me up when someone, other than family or close friends, sees some good in what I put out into the world. And, so I share this with you. If any of you out there in cyberland, who are reading this and are interested in getting a copy of this book, of which I have several and am more than willing to unleash from my stash, let me know, either by leaving a comment or shooting me an email. "Nuff said.
POETRY REVIEW
"Mofo' Risin' " by Joseph Powell
17 Poems
PO Box 10024, Burbank CA 91510
jobypoet@yahoo. com
2004
Review by L.B. Sedlacek
One of the dedications that begins "Mofo' Risin' "
is from Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise" -- "You may
shoot me with your words, / you may cut me with
your eyes, / you may kill me with your hatefulness, /
But still, like air, I'll rise." Powell's own dedication
reads, "Dedicated to all the mofos still tryin' to
rise!!" Having briefly studied poetry with Angelou
and remembering what a powerful force she is
(especially when speaking of her childhood
experiences that inspired many of her most memorable
works), I expected nothing less from Powell's
own poems. I was not disappointed. Each
poem stands on its on with clear crisp meaning,
i.e. anyone can read them and get it. And that's
quite an accomplishment.
His poems are powerful and relatable even
though I must admit that I've lived in the
"Bible Belt" (south) so long I had to sit and
think for a minute to realize what a "mofo"
really is! But, that's the point. I imagine
if I met Mr. Powell in person -- other than the fact
that we're both poets, we'd probably have
nothing in common; yet I and anyone else
could find something inherent in their own
lives in this particular body of work.
From "The Death of Cupid" --
"I will shed no more tears / Will not celebrate
another love song / or write another love
poem; / I will take my heart from my sleeve /
and put it back in my pocket, / where it
belongs, ..."
From "Gratis" --
"You are / the poem / I haven't / written/
yet. // Your words / have shown / me /
how free / I am / to be / me. ..."
From "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, ...."
Powell's verse is fresh and provocative
and sticks in your head. "Mofo' Risin' "
is a refreshing entry into human
observation and the mind of a poet.
Joseph Powell's work has appeared in
"Circle Magazine." He is the author
of "Blood on the Page" (2002) and
"With Unveiled Faces" (1998).
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
More Quotable Quotes
I did a blog entry a few years ago wherein I posted some quotes from other writers and the like, which I have found inspirational and enlightening. Periodically, in this blog, I would like to continue that trend, in the hopes that whoever is reading this, will also find inspiration and enlightenment as well, starting with the quotes you will find below. Enjoy!
"Just remembering how careful you have to be with words, how much we're obliged to be poets as screenwriters, is energising."
--Anthony Minghella, writer-director(The English Patient, Cold Mountain, The Talented Mr. Ripley), who died last week.
There's always something left to love
'BE YE KIND ONE TO ANOTHER...' EPHESIANS 4:32
Tony Campolo writes: 'Some years ago I saw Lorraine Hansberry's play, A Raisin in the Sun, and heard a passage that still haunts me. In it an African-American family inherits $10,000 from their father's insurance. The mother sees the chance to escape ghetto life. The brilliant daughter sees a chance to go to medical school. But the older brother begs for the money so that he and his friend can go into business together, and make things good for the rest of them. The mother gives in. Well, the 'friend' skips town with the money, and the desolate son has to break the news to the family. Immediately his sister lashes him with ugly words. Her contempt has no limits. Suddenly the mother interrupts her, "I thought I taught you to love him." The daughter answers, "Love him? There's nothing left to love." The mother responds: "There's always something left to love. And if you ain't learned that, you isn't learned nuthin! Have you cried for that boy today? I don't mean for yourself and the family. I mean for him: for what he's been through and what it done to him. Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When they done good? Well then you isn't through learning, because that isn't the time at all. It's when he's at his lowest and can't believe in himself 'cause the world has done whipped him so. When you starts measuring somebody, measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you've taken into account what hills and valleys he's done come through before he got to wherever he is".
"Life often has a way of making people feel small and unimportant. But if you find a way to express yourself through writing, to put your ideas and stories on paper, you'll feel more consequential. No one should pass through time without writing their thoughts and experiences down for others to learn from. Even if only one person, a family member, reads something you wrote long after you're gone, you live on. So writing gives you power. Writing gives you immortality."
--Antwone Fisher
"Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it."
–- C.S. Lewis
(On the terrible stutter he suffered from as a young man]: "One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter."
--James Earl Jones
"Put me in a room with a pad and a pencil and set me up against a hundred people with a hundred computers -- I'll outcreate every goddamn sonofabitch in the room."
"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."
–-Ray Bradbury
"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you
have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."
--Sylvia Plath
"Fear of rejection, give that up. See, all fear, you have to give up. All hope, you have to give up. Because there's no such thing as hope in Hollywood. There either is doing it or not doing it."
–-James Coburn, May 22, 1992, "A Day in the Life of Hollywood"
"Don't worry about people stealing your ideas. If your ideas are any good, you'll have to ram them down people's throats."
–-Howard Aiken
"You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you're working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success -- but only if you persist."
–-Isaac Asimov
"Being a real writer means being able to do the work on a bad day."
-- Norman Mailer
"Life is not a support system for art. It's the other way around."
–-Stephen King
"Of all the arts in which the wise excel, nature's chief
masterpiece is writing well."
--Andre Breton (French Writer)
"Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat."
--F. Scott Fitzgerald
"Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them."
–-Nathaniel Hawthorne
"Some of us are timid. We think we have something to lose so we don't try for the next hill."
--Maya Angelou, Writer
'Nuff said for now!
"Just remembering how careful you have to be with words, how much we're obliged to be poets as screenwriters, is energising."
--Anthony Minghella, writer-director(The English Patient, Cold Mountain, The Talented Mr. Ripley), who died last week.
There's always something left to love
'BE YE KIND ONE TO ANOTHER...' EPHESIANS 4:32
Tony Campolo writes: 'Some years ago I saw Lorraine Hansberry's play, A Raisin in the Sun, and heard a passage that still haunts me. In it an African-American family inherits $10,000 from their father's insurance. The mother sees the chance to escape ghetto life. The brilliant daughter sees a chance to go to medical school. But the older brother begs for the money so that he and his friend can go into business together, and make things good for the rest of them. The mother gives in. Well, the 'friend' skips town with the money, and the desolate son has to break the news to the family. Immediately his sister lashes him with ugly words. Her contempt has no limits. Suddenly the mother interrupts her, "I thought I taught you to love him." The daughter answers, "Love him? There's nothing left to love." The mother responds: "There's always something left to love. And if you ain't learned that, you isn't learned nuthin! Have you cried for that boy today? I don't mean for yourself and the family. I mean for him: for what he's been through and what it done to him. Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When they done good? Well then you isn't through learning, because that isn't the time at all. It's when he's at his lowest and can't believe in himself 'cause the world has done whipped him so. When you starts measuring somebody, measure him right, child, measure him right. Make sure you've taken into account what hills and valleys he's done come through before he got to wherever he is".
"Life often has a way of making people feel small and unimportant. But if you find a way to express yourself through writing, to put your ideas and stories on paper, you'll feel more consequential. No one should pass through time without writing their thoughts and experiences down for others to learn from. Even if only one person, a family member, reads something you wrote long after you're gone, you live on. So writing gives you power. Writing gives you immortality."
--Antwone Fisher
"Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it."
–- C.S. Lewis
(On the terrible stutter he suffered from as a young man]: "One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter."
--James Earl Jones
"Put me in a room with a pad and a pencil and set me up against a hundred people with a hundred computers -- I'll outcreate every goddamn sonofabitch in the room."
"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."
–-Ray Bradbury
"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you
have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."
--Sylvia Plath
"Fear of rejection, give that up. See, all fear, you have to give up. All hope, you have to give up. Because there's no such thing as hope in Hollywood. There either is doing it or not doing it."
–-James Coburn, May 22, 1992, "A Day in the Life of Hollywood"
"Don't worry about people stealing your ideas. If your ideas are any good, you'll have to ram them down people's throats."
–-Howard Aiken
"You must keep sending work out; you must never let a manuscript do nothing but eat its head off in a drawer. You send that work out again and again, while you're working on another one. If you have talent, you will receive some measure of success -- but only if you persist."
–-Isaac Asimov
"Being a real writer means being able to do the work on a bad day."
-- Norman Mailer
"Life is not a support system for art. It's the other way around."
–-Stephen King
"Of all the arts in which the wise excel, nature's chief
masterpiece is writing well."
--Andre Breton (French Writer)
"Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat."
--F. Scott Fitzgerald
"Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them."
–-Nathaniel Hawthorne
"Some of us are timid. We think we have something to lose so we don't try for the next hill."
--Maya Angelou, Writer
'Nuff said for now!
Monday, March 10, 2008
We Are The Ones--Another Obama Video by will-i-am
When I watch something like this, I feel encouraged by what is possible. Like what people felt about John and Bobby Kennedy; about Martin Luther King, Jr.; the way I felt when Harold Washington ran to become, and then became, the first black mayor of Chicago; even what I felt when Hillary's husband ran for the presidency in '92. What is possible. When a dream can become a reality. I believe that Obama represents that change is possible and that he will be a president of the people and the face of this nation that the world needs to see. As always, just my thoughts. Enjoy the video and let me know what you think.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
A Reluctant Eulogy
It was a year ago this past weekend that I lost one of the closest friends I have or ever will know--Michael Edmonds. He was my "partner in crime", my brother, compadre, my laugh meter. We shared as many commonalities(both children of the Christian faith; both divorced; both desiring to be writers; lovers of good comedy and strong drama; able to break the other up with a good joke or funny line; co-workers in the field of animation preproduction) as we did differences(he from the deep South, I from the upper Midwest; he white, myself black; he of the conservative Republican persuasion, myself a progressive Democrat), which made for a unique friendship and those are rare indeed. Hardly a day goes by since his passing that I don't think of my friend. There have been scores of jokes and movies that I would love to call him up and chat and laugh about; I would love to hear his thoughts on the current presidential race, even if we probably wouldn't agree on a candidate; and he would have been an integral part of my wedding last October. My life has not been the same now that he's gone and memories, however vivid or not, do not nearly suffice. And talking to the departed seems to work best in movies and on tv. Even the following poem, written for a memorial service that some of his friends here in southern California had for him last year, barely scratches the surface of honoring who he was and meant(still means) to me. All I can say is that I hope whoever read this blog entry will be blessed, as I feel I have been, to know a friend like my friend Michael. "Nuff said"!!
A RELUCTANT EULOGY
(for Michael)
by Joseph Powell
This is for my fallen comrade,
for my brother-in-arms
for my partner in crime.
I am crying copious tears that
I never expected to shed---
So soon, too soon.
I am not asking God to answer me why
He took my friend,
for I don’t expect Him to tell me;
but I am asking Him to turn back the sun
for at least one time,
for one more day to hear his laugh,
for one more day to see that mischievous twinkle in his eye,
for one more day to see that “shit-eating grin”.
But I don’t expect Him to do that either.
But in time, I hope He will strengthen my fragile memories,
let me hear his laughter in my head,
let me turn those tears into twinkles in my own eyes,
let me wear that “shit-eating grin” that he loved so much,
as I remember the bond we shared
as comrades in the struggle,
as brothers-in-arms,
as partners in crime.
In closing, I will ask of God one thing I expect He will grant—
that I not forget.
© 2007 Joseph Powell
A RELUCTANT EULOGY
(for Michael)
by Joseph Powell
This is for my fallen comrade,
for my brother-in-arms
for my partner in crime.
I am crying copious tears that
I never expected to shed---
So soon, too soon.
I am not asking God to answer me why
He took my friend,
for I don’t expect Him to tell me;
but I am asking Him to turn back the sun
for at least one time,
for one more day to hear his laugh,
for one more day to see that mischievous twinkle in his eye,
for one more day to see that “shit-eating grin”.
But I don’t expect Him to do that either.
But in time, I hope He will strengthen my fragile memories,
let me hear his laughter in my head,
let me turn those tears into twinkles in my own eyes,
let me wear that “shit-eating grin” that he loved so much,
as I remember the bond we shared
as comrades in the struggle,
as brothers-in-arms,
as partners in crime.
In closing, I will ask of God one thing I expect He will grant—
that I not forget.
© 2007 Joseph Powell
Monday, February 25, 2008
And, In Closing...
To finish out with the theme of Black History Month, I leave you with another piece from my poetic archives, also inspired by another writer who I consider to be a spiritual and literary mentor and whose ability to speak the truth in love is something I've tried to emulate and continue to aspire to--James Baldwin. He was Harlem's(and therefore, America's) native son. The author of several novels, including "Go Tell It On The Mountain" and "Giovanni's Room";a number of essays including "The Fire Next Time"; as well as plays, screenplays and poems, he was a much needed voice during the height of the civil rights movement, someone not afraid to show this country who it was and still proclaim love for it, in spite of itself. As always, I implore you to check this writer out for yourself and be inspired as I continue to be. In the meantime, enjoy the following poem and let me know what you think by leaving your comments, thoughts, etc. 'Nuff said!
A BELATED MEMORIAL FOR
A PROPHET LONG GONE
(for James Baldwin)
His flesh became word
And was spoken among us,
Though we esteemed him not--
With nappy head
And frog eyes;
Not exactly an appearance
That would easily attract someone.
But he spoke with the tongue
of a fierce angel
and his pen was a mighty, two-edged
sword.
He preached the truth,
in love, of course,
for how else could he have done it?
But heard him, we did not,
like so many of our prophets before him.
He came from among us,
yet he was not quite like us,
with a soul that epitomized
the dichotomy, the paradox,
the bittersweet wrestle
within us all--
black and white,
angel and devil,
male and female,
saint and sinner,
slave and free.
But like Martin and Malcolm,
his younger brothers
and fellow warriors before him,
he is now free at last,
his soul having found a resting place--
his sword beaten into a plowshare,
he wrestles no more.
© Joseph Powell
A BELATED MEMORIAL FOR
A PROPHET LONG GONE
(for James Baldwin)
His flesh became word
And was spoken among us,
Though we esteemed him not--
With nappy head
And frog eyes;
Not exactly an appearance
That would easily attract someone.
But he spoke with the tongue
of a fierce angel
and his pen was a mighty, two-edged
sword.
He preached the truth,
in love, of course,
for how else could he have done it?
But heard him, we did not,
like so many of our prophets before him.
He came from among us,
yet he was not quite like us,
with a soul that epitomized
the dichotomy, the paradox,
the bittersweet wrestle
within us all--
black and white,
angel and devil,
male and female,
saint and sinner,
slave and free.
But like Martin and Malcolm,
his younger brothers
and fellow warriors before him,
he is now free at last,
his soul having found a resting place--
his sword beaten into a plowshare,
he wrestles no more.
© Joseph Powell
Thursday, February 21, 2008
The Quintessential Poet
In continuing the theme of Black History Month, I submit the following poem,"A Hymn For Sister Maya". Like the poem from last week's entry, it too was written roughly fifteen years ago(I hope my best poems are not from fifteen years ago!). It is, what I think, a loving homage to a person who, I feel, is the quintessential poet and the inspiration for why I am a poet and what I aspire to do with my writing--Maya Angelou. If you've never read her work or heard her speak, you are sorely missing out on one of the great treasures of this world. For those not familiar(and you've probably been living under a rock, if that's the case), I would suggest reading "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings", the first in a series of autobiographies she's written about her amazing life. Or get a collection of her poems(preferably in audio if possible, though her voice speaks loud and clear from the page as well). At any rate, I hope the following poem serves the purpose that I intended and that is, to convey the wonder and beauty of this "phenomenal woman"--"the epitome of eloquence" and "the embodiment of elegance"--and that it will inspire you to seek her out. "Nuff said!
A Hymn For Sister Maya
The epitome of eloquence,
The embodiment of elegance;
Queen--
Mother Africa descended
In all her glorious splendor.
Her voice,
Once silent long ago,
Now springs forth
Like the thunder
Of a thousand rainstorms
And just as nourishing;
Or,
Like the still small voice
Of a gentle angel,
Bearing glad tidings
Of great joy.
Her beauty
Knows no equal;
Her words
Are like fine silk,
Smooth to the touch,
Pleasing to the skin;
Or,
A double-edged sword
Piercing bone and marrow,
For she can't help
But bring forth truth,
The truth.
It is her gift to us--
Her calling,
Her life's blood,
Her duty
As one raised up from the wilderness,
Not as a reed swayed by the wind,
But a prophetess of the highest order.
She is
That heaven we find in a wildflower,
Our mirror to nature;
But not only that.
She is
The storefront preacher;
The street rapper;
The social worker;
That favorite teacher.
She is
Mother, daughter;
Sister, lover;
Friend;
Our fielder of dreams
And conveyer of nightmares.
She is
The cry of Rachel
Weeping for her children
And refusing to be comforted.
She is
The song of the virgin Mary
In praise to her God.
The world is brighter
Because she has shone her light
In our dark places.
Her candle
Will one day
Blow out,
But the flame
That she has ignited
Will burn on,
Eternal,
For that is
What flames do.
© Joseph Powell
A Hymn For Sister Maya
The epitome of eloquence,
The embodiment of elegance;
Queen--
Mother Africa descended
In all her glorious splendor.
Her voice,
Once silent long ago,
Now springs forth
Like the thunder
Of a thousand rainstorms
And just as nourishing;
Or,
Like the still small voice
Of a gentle angel,
Bearing glad tidings
Of great joy.
Her beauty
Knows no equal;
Her words
Are like fine silk,
Smooth to the touch,
Pleasing to the skin;
Or,
A double-edged sword
Piercing bone and marrow,
For she can't help
But bring forth truth,
The truth.
It is her gift to us--
Her calling,
Her life's blood,
Her duty
As one raised up from the wilderness,
Not as a reed swayed by the wind,
But a prophetess of the highest order.
She is
That heaven we find in a wildflower,
Our mirror to nature;
But not only that.
She is
The storefront preacher;
The street rapper;
The social worker;
That favorite teacher.
She is
Mother, daughter;
Sister, lover;
Friend;
Our fielder of dreams
And conveyer of nightmares.
She is
The cry of Rachel
Weeping for her children
And refusing to be comforted.
She is
The song of the virgin Mary
In praise to her God.
The world is brighter
Because she has shone her light
In our dark places.
Her candle
Will one day
Blow out,
But the flame
That she has ignited
Will burn on,
Eternal,
For that is
What flames do.
© Joseph Powell
Monday, February 11, 2008
Resolved:To Be Seen And Heard(An Invisible Man Speaks Out)
The following poem is one that I wrote, oh maybe, fifteen years ago or so, and one, I believe, is in keeping with the theme of black history. Not to mention, that some of what it speaks about and to is still relevant in these supposedly enlightened times. I performed an excerpt of it in the National Geographic/PBS documentary special, "Skin", which aired back in November 2002 and which is featured here as well. I hope that you may find something inspirational or thought-provoking or maybe even just a little bit of yourself in the piece. And if not, just keep your comments to yourself.(Just kidding!)
Resolved:To Be Seen and Heard
(An Invisible Man Speaks Out)
Hear me, America!
For I will not be silent.
I will not go gentle
Into that good night
Or anywhere else you wish me to go.
For I am here
And here I'll stay,
Until you acknowledge me
Or die trying.
For I am your darker brother
You'd rather keep in the closet;
The invisible man you choose not to see;
The millionth man wishing to be counted;
The rapper and the preacher,
Speaking the truth to you in love,
But by all means necessary.
I am the somebody standing next to you in an elevator,
As you clutch your purse tighter and hope that
I'm not getting off on the same floor as you.
I am God's child, sitting next to you in church,
And yet as far away from you as the east is from the west.
I am the one who got away
From the projects, drugs, gangs, and prisons;
Who works on Wall Street, Madison Ave, the Wilshire District,
and the Magnificent Mile;
But can't catch a cab or buy a home
or get a loan or date your daughter
or live next door to you.
I am Othello, the hero you love in public,
and the scourge you hate in private.
I am James Baldwin,
Malcolm X,
Martin Luther King,
Thurgood Marshall,
Langston Hughes,
W.E.B. DuBois,
And a host of others--
Still wondering, when are you going to wake up?
Wondering, when are you going to get it?
I am the ghost of decades past;
Of slavery and lynchings,
Of white sheets and burning crosses,
Of Jim Crow and "Move to the rear",
Of attack dogs and fire hoses,
Of "Wait!" and "Be patient!",
Of assassinations and wiretaps,
Of getting the mule without the 40 acres,
Of affirmative action and Indian-giving
(If you know what I mean!).
Am I bugging you?
Have I got under your skin?
Because you haven't gotten under mine yet,
Nor have you walked in my shoes.
For if you could, you'd see
That I am you and you are me;
The reflection of your hopes and fears,
Your thoughts and dreams;
The other side of the coin;
Truth staring you in the face;
Love waiting to be received;
The dream tired of being deferred;
The voice in the wilderness,
waiting to be answered.
Will you see me as I am,
Not as what pride and prejudice
Has blinded you to?
Will you hear me
Amidst the din and noise
Of fear and ignorance?
Hear me say,
In a still small voice,
"I love you!"........
I'm still waiting.
© Joseph Powell
Resolved:To Be Seen and Heard
(An Invisible Man Speaks Out)
Hear me, America!
For I will not be silent.
I will not go gentle
Into that good night
Or anywhere else you wish me to go.
For I am here
And here I'll stay,
Until you acknowledge me
Or die trying.
For I am your darker brother
You'd rather keep in the closet;
The invisible man you choose not to see;
The millionth man wishing to be counted;
The rapper and the preacher,
Speaking the truth to you in love,
But by all means necessary.
I am the somebody standing next to you in an elevator,
As you clutch your purse tighter and hope that
I'm not getting off on the same floor as you.
I am God's child, sitting next to you in church,
And yet as far away from you as the east is from the west.
I am the one who got away
From the projects, drugs, gangs, and prisons;
Who works on Wall Street, Madison Ave, the Wilshire District,
and the Magnificent Mile;
But can't catch a cab or buy a home
or get a loan or date your daughter
or live next door to you.
I am Othello, the hero you love in public,
and the scourge you hate in private.
I am James Baldwin,
Malcolm X,
Martin Luther King,
Thurgood Marshall,
Langston Hughes,
W.E.B. DuBois,
And a host of others--
Still wondering, when are you going to wake up?
Wondering, when are you going to get it?
I am the ghost of decades past;
Of slavery and lynchings,
Of white sheets and burning crosses,
Of Jim Crow and "Move to the rear",
Of attack dogs and fire hoses,
Of "Wait!" and "Be patient!",
Of assassinations and wiretaps,
Of getting the mule without the 40 acres,
Of affirmative action and Indian-giving
(If you know what I mean!).
Am I bugging you?
Have I got under your skin?
Because you haven't gotten under mine yet,
Nor have you walked in my shoes.
For if you could, you'd see
That I am you and you are me;
The reflection of your hopes and fears,
Your thoughts and dreams;
The other side of the coin;
Truth staring you in the face;
Love waiting to be received;
The dream tired of being deferred;
The voice in the wilderness,
waiting to be answered.
Will you see me as I am,
Not as what pride and prejudice
Has blinded you to?
Will you hear me
Amidst the din and noise
Of fear and ignorance?
Hear me say,
In a still small voice,
"I love you!"........
I'm still waiting.
© Joseph Powell
Saturday, February 09, 2008
YES WE CAN - Music Video Barack Obama
This is an amazing video featuring and produced by will-i-am of the group, black eyed peas, inspired by and featuring excerpts from Barack Obama's speech after the New Hampshire primary. It also features some familiar faces you might recognize. Enjoy!
Beyond Baroque - Joseph Powell
This is a video of me reading my poems, "Def Poet" and "Riding the Coltrane", at the Beyond Baroque open mic, Venice, CA on April 1, 2007. Enjoy!
Friday, February 08, 2008
Monday, February 04, 2008
In Celebration Of Black History, Vol. 2
Just as I believe there should be a moratorium on the "I Have A Dream" speech being remembered as the only aspect of Martin Luther King, Jr., I believe that maybe the concept of Black History Month needs to be revisited and/or extended to remembrances and celebrations throughout the year, because the shortest month of the year is not fit to cover all the achievements that are worth honoring, let alone all the other months of the year, because those achievements are beyond numerous. But I may be alone in that assessment--who knows?
Be that as it may and until that happens, I hope to devote the next several entries this month to the celebration of Black History. First off, I would like to point you all to my entry of February 20, 2006. It sums up some thoughts that I had/have on the subject and after rereading them, they still hold up. Secondly, I would like to suggest(recommend?!) as a way to celebrate, going out and renting the movie, "Killer Of Sheep", by Charles Burnett. It's a film that was originally produced in 1977, but without any considerable distribution, until last year, where it received practically a second life after being released in select theaters across the country and as part of a special-edition dvd box set and was considered by several critics, including Time magazine, as one of the best films of the year. It currently is one of the films listed in the archives of the Library of Congress. It's one of the most realistic portrayals of a black family ever filmed--in a lot of ways, it reminded me of growing up on the south side of Chicago during that same period, even though it takes place in south Los Angeles. The film is like a montage of beautiful black and white photographs come to life and some of those images are very stunning, poetic and poignant. Talk about black history.
Thirdly, speaking again of black history, I think that on this eve of Super Tuesday, we are on the verge of making history, not just in terms of black, but possibly as a nation, by potentially electing a black man as president of this country. I submit to you that my support is for Barack Obama and for reasons that go beyond the fact that he is black, though I do honestly take that into account. For the first time in a long time, we have someone who inspires us as a country to move forward, to exemplify progress, and put a new face on this country's leadership that we have never seen in the history of this presidency. Not to mention the inspiration that this gives to scores of young children who will be able to see that anything is possible and that attaining one of the highest positions in the world is not a pipe dream. I finish this thought with a quote from the L.A. Times' recent endorsement of Obama--"In the language of metaphor, (Hillary)Clinton is an essay, solid and reasoned; Obama is a poem, lyric and filled with possibility".
Fourthly, and in closing, I will be posting one of several poems in each entry this month that celebrate some of my heroes, people who inspire me to dream and aspire to greater aspects of humanity and to make my own history. People like Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, and the subject of today's poem, which I wrote 8 years ago, Langston Hughes. I hope that this, along with the other poems to come, will inspire you as well, to make your own history, no matter who you are, for we are all in this together. 'Nuff said.
The Negro Speaks Of Langston Hughes
I've known the blues;
the eternal tom-tom of joy and laughter;
pain swallowed in a smile.
I know, because of Langston;
His words drunk deep into my soul,
like fine cherry wine;
words which flow down like waters
into the wellspring of my being;
flow like the blood that courses
through my veins.
I've known jazz;
the sound of the "A" train racing to Harlem;
the heartbreak of Lady Day;
the za-ba-doo-bop of Satchmo.
I've known blackness,
because of Langston,
of what happens to a dream deferred;
of cotton fields and the Mississippi;
of spirituals and folksongs;
of beauty and ugliness.
I know of poetry,
becuase of Langston;
for you can't be black and a poet,
and not give the man his due.
I know
when the Negro speaks of Langston,
He speaks of America;
of black folks
and white folks;
and even the brown, yellow,
and red folks;
when the Negro speaks of Langston,
He speaks of himself.
© 2000 Joseph Powell
Be that as it may and until that happens, I hope to devote the next several entries this month to the celebration of Black History. First off, I would like to point you all to my entry of February 20, 2006. It sums up some thoughts that I had/have on the subject and after rereading them, they still hold up. Secondly, I would like to suggest(recommend?!) as a way to celebrate, going out and renting the movie, "Killer Of Sheep", by Charles Burnett. It's a film that was originally produced in 1977, but without any considerable distribution, until last year, where it received practically a second life after being released in select theaters across the country and as part of a special-edition dvd box set and was considered by several critics, including Time magazine, as one of the best films of the year. It currently is one of the films listed in the archives of the Library of Congress. It's one of the most realistic portrayals of a black family ever filmed--in a lot of ways, it reminded me of growing up on the south side of Chicago during that same period, even though it takes place in south Los Angeles. The film is like a montage of beautiful black and white photographs come to life and some of those images are very stunning, poetic and poignant. Talk about black history.
Thirdly, speaking again of black history, I think that on this eve of Super Tuesday, we are on the verge of making history, not just in terms of black, but possibly as a nation, by potentially electing a black man as president of this country. I submit to you that my support is for Barack Obama and for reasons that go beyond the fact that he is black, though I do honestly take that into account. For the first time in a long time, we have someone who inspires us as a country to move forward, to exemplify progress, and put a new face on this country's leadership that we have never seen in the history of this presidency. Not to mention the inspiration that this gives to scores of young children who will be able to see that anything is possible and that attaining one of the highest positions in the world is not a pipe dream. I finish this thought with a quote from the L.A. Times' recent endorsement of Obama--"In the language of metaphor, (Hillary)Clinton is an essay, solid and reasoned; Obama is a poem, lyric and filled with possibility".
Fourthly, and in closing, I will be posting one of several poems in each entry this month that celebrate some of my heroes, people who inspire me to dream and aspire to greater aspects of humanity and to make my own history. People like Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, and the subject of today's poem, which I wrote 8 years ago, Langston Hughes. I hope that this, along with the other poems to come, will inspire you as well, to make your own history, no matter who you are, for we are all in this together. 'Nuff said.
The Negro Speaks Of Langston Hughes
I've known the blues;
the eternal tom-tom of joy and laughter;
pain swallowed in a smile.
I know, because of Langston;
His words drunk deep into my soul,
like fine cherry wine;
words which flow down like waters
into the wellspring of my being;
flow like the blood that courses
through my veins.
I've known jazz;
the sound of the "A" train racing to Harlem;
the heartbreak of Lady Day;
the za-ba-doo-bop of Satchmo.
I've known blackness,
because of Langston,
of what happens to a dream deferred;
of cotton fields and the Mississippi;
of spirituals and folksongs;
of beauty and ugliness.
I know of poetry,
becuase of Langston;
for you can't be black and a poet,
and not give the man his due.
I know
when the Negro speaks of Langston,
He speaks of America;
of black folks
and white folks;
and even the brown, yellow,
and red folks;
when the Negro speaks of Langston,
He speaks of himself.
© 2000 Joseph Powell
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 21, 2008
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
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
Thursday, January 10, 2008
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
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
Thursday, January 03, 2008
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
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
Thursday, August 17, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, July 14, 2006
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!
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
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
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
Monday, February 20, 2006
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.
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.
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