mofo' rises again--a new poem

the beautiful
fucked-up man
is at it again:
having risen
once again,
he sits
at the keyboard,
writes another
poem,
peanut butter
sandwich
at his side,
his woman
nearby,
and a child
just this side
of womanhood
laughing
to beat
the band.

it’s another day
of ‘I love you’s’
and misbegotten
dreams;
another day
that the sun shines
on the just
and the unjust;
another day,
just to get
a few more words
down on paper,
just to
get
through
another day,
so as
not to feel
like another day’s
been wasted.

a mofo
will not be
beholden
to mundane
existences
and on-the-job
drudgery;
will not be
contained
by the whims
of others
who think
they know
better than
he;
like
a caged bird,
a mofo’s
gotta sing,
even if
it is
only on paper;
even if
no one else
sees it.
other than
the love
of a good woman
and a child
more talented
than he,
other than
perhaps
the camaderie
of a few good
friends
and the
acceptance
of family;
maybe even
other than
the unmitigated
grace
of a
silent God,
it’s the only
fucking reason
to rise
and face
another day.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

for your eyes only--a new poem

your perception
of my reality
is an
overrated
underestimation;
you are
blinded
by the mote
in your left eye
and the
blurred vision
in your right;
you can’t
handle the truth
of me;
you need
to go
back to school,
where I will
be your teacher
and learn
you some knowledge,
cause clearly
you’ve not
been educated.

what you have
before you
is a
containment
of multitudes;
the culmination
of blood spilt
and wisdom
passed down
from centuries;
the sum total
of what
a village
can produce.

recognize,
son;
listen,
for truth will
only be
spoken once
and if
you miss it,
you have
no one
to blame
but yourself.
you’ve been
duly notified
and put
on record
for being
contacted
with
what should
be obvious.
if you
can
comprehend
the meaning
of these
words
you are
reading,
if in fact,
you are reading
them,
then
I will
give you
more credit
than
you deserve,
for this,
your
first lesson,
which hereby,
is now
ended
until further
notice…
stay
tuned.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

this is what's real--a new poem

I haven’t given up the ghost
just yet.
I’m a poet
in an age
of fake reality
I’m more liable
to be killed
in an accident
on the 405
than I am
for speaking
truth to power
with the stroke
of my pen.
no one
gives a damn
about the beauty
in the ugliness
of poetry—
it’s a fool’s
quixotic quest;
and yet
here I still am,
wielding
my ink-ed sword
at windmills
both real
and imagined.
even fools
have to be
listened
to
some time.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

The Word Was And Still Is God

"and you can't force the word
to do anything it doesn't
want to do.
you can't overwork it.
and you can't awaken it
when it decides to
sleep."

"the word will treat you well
at times,
depending upon what you
ask it to
do.
other times, it will treat
you badly
no matter what you ask
it to
do."

"the word comes and
goes..."

Charles Bukowski
from his poem, "the word"

"Anyone who says he wants to be a writer and isn't writing, doesn't."

--Ernest Hemingway



I am writing to save my life. The reason probably why I feel that I am suffocating is that I'm not writing. Writing should be as breathing to me. It's all about the word, stupid. Even God said it--"In the beginning was the Word." The word was and still is God. It's the lifeblood of any writer worth his or her salt. There is nothing else. There's no reason not to be writing. No one else is going to do it for me. No one else is going to push me to do it. I have to be the one to cut the vein; to puke out my guts; to exhale. Whether it takes me all day(what a glorious possibility I wish that was) or an hour or even 10 minutes, there is no excuse. None! I should be prolific. I could be prolific. Even if a lot of it is just crap, I should be utilizing every possible space available to get the word out. Whether it's in prose form or free verse. I should be consumed by the same fire that allowed me to make up three months worth of journal entries in a week and a half's time for a class project. Be reminded of the young man who frequently visited the student lounge of the University of Illinois-Chicago Circle campus just to jot down his thoughts and impressions. Be infused with the same inspiration that caused me to write such poems as "Apple and Rose", "A Hymn For Sister Maya", and "Resolved: To Be Seen And Heard". If not directly influenced by their genius, at the very least, motivated by the output and prolificacy of writers such as Baldwin and Bukowski, Hemingway and Shakespeare, et al. Compelled by the very notion that God in His infinite foolishness decided to bestow upon a wretch like me the talent to string together a few words into some kind of coherent shape. And even though I, like most writers, will continue to strive to make my words available for public consumption, that will not be the be-all, end-all for my writing. If another living soul never, ever sees my words, so be it. I am a writer, dammit! If I had a chalkboard at my disposal to write upon it 100 times or a billboard to post it, I would convey this truth. As much as I am a son, a brother, a husband, a father(the degree to which how good I am at each of these, you'd have to ask those who benefit from these roles), I am a writer and I sum up by humbly acknowledging that I believe I'm only as good as the willingness and effort to be one.

A Poem For Bukowski--A New Poem

A Poem For Bukowski


hey, Hank—
this is me
not trying;
putting one word
after another
after another;
keeping it simple,
shooting it straight.

maybe not
like you did—
I didn’t have
a whiskey bottle
or even a
beer bottle
next to me
as I write
this,
just the desire
to put it
all down
whether anybody
cares to read it
or not.

I don’t even know
if you would
have read it
or not
when you were
alive.
even then,
it wouldn’t have
mattered.
you always said,
it’s all about
the words
and as with you,
for me,
that is
enough.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

Not Just A Passing Phase--A New Poem

Not Just A Passing Phase
(for Santi)



the girl-child
has become
a woman
right before
our very eyes.
it was expected,
but it still surprises.
that’s what time
does, even
when you’re not looking.

she has graduated
from one phase
to the next
and seemingly
unknown one.
soon,
she will put away
childish things;
but hopefully,
not the child
we’ve known
and loved
all these years
as she becomes
the woman
we will get
to know
and learn
even more.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

She Walks In Beauty by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

In Honor Of National Poetry Month 2011

"Poems are like clouds on a June morning or two scoops of chocolate ice cream on a sugar cone in August...something everyone can enjoy. Or maybe poems are your cold feet in December on your lover's back...he is in agony but he lets your feet stay...something like that requires a bit of love. Or could it be that poems are exactly like Santa Claus...the promise, the hope, the excitement of a reward, no matter how small, for a good deed done...or a mean deed from which we refrained. The promise of tomorrow. I don't know. It seems that poems are essential."

"Poems know no boundaries. Poems fly from heart to heart, head to head, to whisper a dream, to share a condolence, to congratulate, and to vow forever. The poems are true. They are translated and they are celebrated. They are sung, they are recited, they are delightful. They are neglected. They are forgotten. They are put away. Even in their fallow periods they sprout images. And fight to be revived. And spring back to life with a bit of sunshine and caring."

--Nikki Giovanni
from the Introduction,
The 100 Best African American Poems

All In A Single Sitting

I'm listening to birds chirping in the background
There's water falling in a fountain nearby
I'm surrounded by people sitting at patio tables
People walking about, going about their business
A slightly gentle breeze blows in
From the marina across the way
A U.S. flag flies at half-mast
I've just put the finishing touches
To a poem about the loss of someone
Life and death,
Considered in one sitting
I choke back the urge to cry
As I get up and walk away.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

A Black Man's Lament

'My man, look what they did to my man'
I've heard this cry
Too many times to count
I've cried it myself a few times
Another brother,
Somebody's son,
A child's daddy,
Felled by an assassin's bullet;
Felled by a cop's bullet
"Bang","bang",
"Bang","bang","bang"

Too many streets have been covered in blood
Like a ballroom's stage
Or a motel's balcony
And the mothers cry
And the wives and sisters moan
And the whys are hurled to the sky
Screamed in anger,
Screamed in grief
Only to go unanswered
And the silence is deafening
Outdone by weeping
Drowned out by sorrow

I write this as a man,
Somebody's brother,
A mama's son,
A father
And a husband,
A man troubled,
A man searching,
A man hoping
And praying
That no one has to endure
Me being taken away unjustly,
Taken away violently,
Taken away senselessly

Maybe someone will read these words
Maybe someone will heed these words
Maybe God will hear my cry first,
...maybe.

© 2011 Joseph Powell

A Review Of Joby, Uninterrupted: Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies

This is a new review of my book, Joby, Uninterrupted: Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies, taken from The Poetry Market Ezine, Vol.10, Issue #2, written by LB Sedlacek.


POETRY REVIEW



"Joby, Uninterrupted -- Bittersweet
Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies
(1989-2009)"
by Joseph Powell
ISBN 978-0-557-10424-6
Copyright 2009
133 pg.
To order:
http://tinyurl.com/2br6mol

Review by LB Sedlacek

Poems taken from his past poetry books
"Mofo' Risin'" and "Blood on the Page"
plus new selections make up this new
collection from Joseph Powell.

Powell's subject matters range from
personal heroes to writing poetry or
being a poet to love poems. Mostly
free verse, Powell's poetry reflects
his own probable reverence for life
and, of course, writing.

Powell's poems are written in such a
way that most readers can get what he's
getting at or they can impose their
own perceptions and possibly arrive
at the same point. I read at least
one poem by a different poet nearly
every day and to me the straightforward
ones with something to say are the ones
I remember.

Joseph Powell definately has something to
say. His works resonate with a local
prescence, a suburban habitat, and
grounded themes.

In "Blood on the Page," Powell laments
trying to get words down on the page
and to survive life as a poet.

From "Blood on the Page":
"...My pen's getting duller by the
minute/So I stick it down my throat,/
Hoping something 'll come that way/
But all I get are dry heaves...."

"Face" is a sweet delicate love poem:
"The sun rises/Just to greet your
smile." "Season of the Poem" is a
rhyming poem about writing that
plunges on into reading (or the
lack thereof) and other current events.
"Cut my finger on a razor blade/
My baby just ran out of Kool-Aid/
And I'm still waiting to get paid,/
or laid, which is better/ When it's
wetter./It's the season of the poem./
Don't mind me/or try to find me/lost
in a haze/gone for days/(or however long
it takes/to finish this poem)/this
poem is wack/but not for lack//of
rhyme or reason--/It's the season/
of the poem;..." The poem
"Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn" about
Gwendolyn Brooks is reminiscent
of something you might read by her.
From "Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn"
(for Gwendolyn Brooks)
"She real cool. She/ Old school.
She/Wrote truth. She/Fool proof..."

While Powell's poems may be too
contemporary for some, they provide
an opportunity for the every day
reader to see it, to get it, and
to most likely like it and that's
what you want if you want your
poetry to be read and heard. Powell's
got that voice that will stick in
your head, and linger a bit in the brain.

To Be Young, Gifted, And Black

Sometimes I come across words or lyrics that speak for themselves. Those below are a case in point. Co-written by Nina Simone for her friend and fellow writer, Lorraine Hansberry(author of the classic, "Raisin In The Sun") and recorded by such artists as Donny Hathaway, Aretha Franklin, and even Elton John, it's one of those songs that will stand the test of time and continue to speak volumes for generations to come. 'Nuff said!


To Be Young, Gifted And Black
(Music & Lyrics by Nina Simone & Weldon Irvine, Jr)



To be young, gifted and black,
Oh what a lovely precious dream
To be young, gifted and black,
Open your heart to what I mean

In the whole world you know
There are billion boys and girls
Who are young, gifted and black,
And that's a fact!

Young, gifted and black
We must begin to tell our young
There's a world waiting for you
This is a quest that's just begun

When you feel really low
Yeah, there's a great truth you should know
When you're young, gifted and black
Your soul's intact

Young, gifted and black
How I long to know the truth
There are times when I look back
And I am haunted by my youth

Oh but my joy of today
Is that we can all be proud to say
To be young, gifted and black
Is where it's at

A Few Words, Some Tears, And Waiting For A Kiss That May Never Come

The words never come fast enough
I want my fingers to bleed from typing them
My eyes filled to overflowing with tears that burn
My throat constricted with the scream that won't ever be loud enough

I want God to kiss me full on the lips
And tell me to my face that He/She loves me
I want to know why my father was never man enough to care
Why I had to learn on my own what I feel I still don't know
I want my dreams to be my reality and my reality my dreams
At least then I'll understand why I yell during the night

I want to live in a world where truth is not based
On what side of the tracks you live on, or
How much money you have, or
which party you belonged to, or
what label you choose to wear.
I don't give a damn what you want to call me,
unless you want to call me by the name my mama gave me.
That's all I will allow you.

I would love to live in a world where poets commanded the same respect
As presidents and heads of state, kings and queens.
Where their words were considered in decisions that affected our societies.

These are just some of the words I have
I'm sure there are more but
They don't come fast enough
It probably doesn't matter
Because the right people will probably never read them
And even that doesn't matter.
But for now, I'll continue to try to make my fingers bleed
And let my tears fall
And let loose the loudest scream I can possibly muster
And wait for a kiss...

Thoughts While Sitting On My Couch On A Saturday Afternoon

So, I'm sitting here on my couch, pen in hand, yellow notepad on my knee, blues playing in the background on the TV--the air is chilled and my mind seems blank. Actually, that's not true--there are words and images flowing through like a strong current, but they're muddled and blurry and I'm not sure which one I should grab and put down on paper. Writing, like a lot of things in life, doesn't come without at least a little bit of effort. Sometimes, I have to remind myself that I am, more than anything else I could possibly be, a writer. It would probably help tremendously if I adhered to that old adage--that a writer writes. Probably just as much if I remembered what a TV producer added to that statement at a screenwriting conference I attended some years ago--"assholes talk about it." I think I'd prefer to be the former rather than the latter, though I'm sure at one time or another, by at least a few people, I've been considered to be the latter. Not that I care to know. Probably safe to say that any one of us, at some point in our lives, has been an asshole.

But...I digress, though from what I have no idea. Right now, I guess I'm just stream-of consciousness-ing it, which can be fun and sometimes produces some really good stuff. I know it's been difficult of late to sit down and write much of anything, because my focus has been on trying to find a job, which is also frustrating, not to mention soul-draining. I'm of the mind that there's nothing more taxing on the soul than to be able-bodied and willing to work and not being able to find work, regardless of how much effort has been put into securing a job. Talk about the blues!

I find myself living vicariously through the writers I read and the works they've produced, whether in the newspaper, magazines, books, and/or the Internet. Although, I continue to aim for the reverse to be true. It would be gratifying to know that there are people out there who are living vicariously through my work or, at the very least, are being inspired and entertained by it. But again, this leads us back to the earlier point that writers write and, though I've produced some work of note, I hope, I could and should be producing more. But then again, the impetus of such an action should be, first and foremost, to my satisfaction and fulfillment of the desire to express myself, before I consider anyone else's benefit from it. As noble as the concept of producing art for the masses is, the artist has to be able to find contentment in the expression and the fruits of that expression before it is subjected to an audience.

So, as I sit on my couch, pen in hand, yellow notepad on my knee, blues playing in the background on the TV, surrounded by the chilled air, my mind starts to fill, along with the words and images swirling to and fro like a strong current, with the notion of me--the writer, the artist--in his daily struggle to create art, to express himself, to live, vicariously, through his own work. 'Nuff said.

A review of Joby, Uninterrupted -- Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies [1989-2009] by Joseph Powell :: The Compulsive Reader :: A Haven for Book Lovers

A review of Joby, Uninterrupted -- Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies [1989-2009] by Joseph Powell :: The Compulsive Reader :: A Haven for Book Lovers

Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies(1989-2009) Redux

A Letter To My Father, Whom I Never Really Knew

Dear Edward,
I am writing this letter with the understanding that you will most likely never see it. It's been over 25 years since the last time I saw you and it wasn't, if memory serves, under the best of circumstances. You were chastising me, if I remember correctly(I am at an age where my memories aren't as clear as i would like them to be), for ditching school. It might just as well have been for something else--our relationship, such as it was, was such that the only times I ever saw you fell into two categories:(1)when I needed money(for movies, ball games, etc.), and (2)when Mama was either too tired or beside herself to punish me and felt that you needed to be involved. Which brings us to the irony involved in said relationship--that other than being able to provide money when I needed it, the fact that you felt needed or responsible enough(or whatever) to be involved with my disciplining, but yet, didn't have the same urgency or leanings to be involved with me at any other phase of my growing up or my development into manhood.

You probably never knew this, and I've since only ever expressed it to a select few people, but because of the infrequency of our times together, I thought you were my uncle. I think I was around 10 or so, when during one of my frequent visits to the clinic, Mama had written your name on the line marked "Father" on my medical history form. I wish I could say I was shocked, surprised, dumbfounded or at the very least, curious enough about this bombshell of information to broach this subject with Mama. But I wasn't--I don't know why--and I didn't--again, I don't know why. Needless to say, I wish I had been and I wish I had. But more to the point, and central to the reason that I'm writing a letter that will probably never be seen by its intended audience, I wish with every fiber of my being, from the vantage point of a man still struggling to find himself all the while trying to be a father himself, that you had been man enough, gave a damn enough, to reveal yourself to be the father that I needed, at the time that I needed one.

Looking back, I wonder what could have possibly gone through your mind all those years, through your heart, developed in the very pit of your soul, that led you to not being there for me. Never teaching me about sports or playing catch with me; never being present during any of my school functions--the times I won certificates or awards; being there when I started being interested in girls, to tell me how to treat them and how to be confident around them; to be there for many of the crucial decisions I would have to make in my life, including where I went to school and what I wanted to be.

Actually, I do remember a rare outing with you and your family, but again, my memory gets cloudy when it comes to filling in the details and, truth be told, it obviously didn't leave a lasting impression on me--the way the aforementioned key points and your presence therein would have.

You know, for the life of me, I don't even know what you did as a job or for a career. What your interests were, your likes and dislikes, what your growing up was like, how you met my mother. You see, I mention these things because they're some of the things my stepdaughter knows about me--she knows me so well that she can draw me from memory and place me in any context to where it is unmistakable. Because I made it a point from the first day that I started dating her mother to get to know her, from our first game of Clue to watching cartoons, to going to most of her school functions, and getting to know her friends. I know I haven't been perfect and probably made many mistakes, but you know what. The fact that she was able to stand in front of over 125 people at our family commencement ceremony three years ago and express how I stood out over the men her mother has dated(which to this day is remembered as a highlight of the event)and how she sees me as a father, over the one, like you, helped to bring her into this world, leaves little doubt in my mind that I must have done something right, in spite of my lack of knowledge and experience.

Maybe you and Mama didn't get along; maybe you weren't meant to be together; maybe...maybe...there's a lot of possible maybes. The maybe that stands out in my mind is that maybe, in spite of any ill or hurt feelings, of pride, of whatever the hell it was, that maybe you could have been the man I needed and the father I wanted and not the man I'm trying so desperately not to become and the father I never really knew.

I can't honestly say if, after all these years, I want to see you. I don't even know if you're still alive(which, if you're not, some would say would render this letter a moot point--I'm inclined to think otherwise, because, if nothing else, I needed to write this letter, for catharsis as well as giving me something to write. Not to mention the lost art of writing letters, but that's neither here nor there). I almost wish a letter was unnecessary, if it could be replaced with the memories of a father who was there. But if I've learned anything in this life is that wishes are for fairy tales. There is more I could write here, but it wouldn't scratch the surface of what I feel any more than what I've already written here. So I will close this letter, with neither forgiveness(don't know if it's warranted or if I have it in me) or forgetting(which I know I can't). This will just have to be. 'Nuff said!


Your...son?,
Joseph

cooley high - part 1of 12

A clip from one of my favorite films, "Cooley High", written in 1975 by Eric Monte and the inspiration for the TV series, "What's Happening?". I'm still inspired by and seek to aspire to the dream of the lead character, Preach, played wonderfully by the great Glynn Turman, to be a successful Hollywood writer, which is what happened to Monte, the writer and creator of the film.

Re: Passing Strange

When film meets theater, enhanced by rock and roll, it becomes a uniquely magical experience. Such is the collaboration of filmmaker Spike Lee and musicians Stew and Heidi Rodewald in the theatrical film version of the Tony-Award winning, Broadway musical, Passing Strange. Highly recommended! Check it out for yourself.

In Honor Of National Poetry Month...

In honor of National Poetry Month starting up tomorrow and running through the entire month of April, I am recommending(actually, begging and pleading!) that those of you who read my blog, order a copy of my book, Joby, Uninterrupted:Bittersweet Symphonies and Bohemian Rhapsodies. It's 79 poems, written over the last 20 years and running the gamut of topics from love, jazz, family, faith, doubt, death, and how I've seen the world during the course of that time frame. They range from whimsical to intense and intensely personal--I can't do it any other way. The poems are inspired by and influenced by my literary muses including James Baldwin, Maya Angelou, Marvin Gaye, Langston Hughes, among others. I can say, with almost absolute certainty, that you will not be disappointed and it will be a welcome addition to however you celebrate National Poetry Month, if you celebrate it at all and I hope you do. If there are any artists in our nation that should be celebrated, it's poets. They are literary filmmakers, whose words are mini-movies for the mind and soul(God knows, it'd be nice to be compensated like most filmmakers!). So, do yourself a favor and those in your sphere of influence who may also love poetry, and direct yourself to the attached link and buy my book. And if not me(WHY NOT?!), then celebrate a poet, any poet, this coming month. Check out a local reading(there's literally one almost every day of the week at any coffeehouse or bookstore in any major city); borrow a book or two from the library; and there's plenty to discover via the Internet(hint, hint). In any event, happy National Poetry Month. Accept some verse into your life--you'll be the better for it. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was life. Peace, shalom, as-salamu alaykum, shanti.