Words without Borders; The Home of International Literature
Mauritania- Movement and Stasis/ * Click above image to read on...
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Celebrating Philadelphia's Young Poet Laureates; Siduri Beckman and Sojourner Ahebee
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| Larry Robin, Moonstone Arts Center Director |
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| Siduri Beckman and Sojourner Ahebee |
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| Joyce Haines, Octavia McBride-Ahebee and Marva Jackson |
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| Lillian Dunn, Editor of Apiary Magazine, and poet Octavia McBride-Ahebee |
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
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| Double-Dutch by Sol Robbins |
* One of My Favorites
Double Dutch
BY GREGORY PARDLO
BY GREGORY PARDLO
The girls turning double-dutch
bob & weave like boxers pulling
punches, shadowing each other,
sparring across the slack cord
casting parabolas in the air. They
whip quick as an infant’s pulse
and the jumper, before she
enters the winking, nods in time
as if she has a notion to share,
waiting her chance to speak. But she’s
anticipating the upbeat
like a bandleader counting off
the tune they are about to swing into.
The jumper stair-steps into mid-air
as if she’s jumping rope in low-gravity,
training for a lunar mission. Airborne a moment
long enough to fit a second thought in,
she looks caught in the mouth bones of a fish
as she flutter-floats into motion
like a figure in a stack of time-lapse photos
thumbed alive. Once inside,
the bells tied to her shoestrings rouse the gods
who’ve lain in the dust since the Dutch
acquired Manhattan. How she dances
patterns like a dust-heavy bee retracing
its travels in scale before the hive. How
the whole stunning contraption of girl and rope
slaps and scoops like a paddle boat.
Her misted skin arranges the light
with each adjustment and flex. Now heather-
hued, now sheen, light listing on the fulcrum
of a wrist and the bare jutted joints of elbow
and knee, and the faceted surfaces of muscle,
surfaces fracturing and reforming
like a sun-tickled sleeve of running water.
She makes jewelry of herself and garlands
the ground with shadows.
bob & weave like boxers pulling
punches, shadowing each other,
sparring across the slack cord
casting parabolas in the air. They
whip quick as an infant’s pulse
and the jumper, before she
enters the winking, nods in time
as if she has a notion to share,
waiting her chance to speak. But she’s
anticipating the upbeat
like a bandleader counting off
the tune they are about to swing into.
The jumper stair-steps into mid-air
as if she’s jumping rope in low-gravity,
training for a lunar mission. Airborne a moment
long enough to fit a second thought in,
she looks caught in the mouth bones of a fish
as she flutter-floats into motion
like a figure in a stack of time-lapse photos
thumbed alive. Once inside,
the bells tied to her shoestrings rouse the gods
who’ve lain in the dust since the Dutch
acquired Manhattan. How she dances
patterns like a dust-heavy bee retracing
its travels in scale before the hive. How
the whole stunning contraption of girl and rope
slaps and scoops like a paddle boat.
Her misted skin arranges the light
with each adjustment and flex. Now heather-
hued, now sheen, light listing on the fulcrum
of a wrist and the bare jutted joints of elbow
and knee, and the faceted surfaces of muscle,
surfaces fracturing and reforming
like a sun-tickled sleeve of running water.
She makes jewelry of herself and garlands
the ground with shadows.
*Gregory Pardlo, "Double Dutch" from Totem, published by The American Poetry Review. Copyright © 2007 by Gregory Pardlo.
Source: Totem (The American Poetry Review, 2007)
Hey Philly, we can claim him !!! Gregory Pardlo Wins the 2015 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry
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| Gregory Pardlo-Photo Thomas Sayers Ellis |
Hey Philly, we can claim him !!! Gregory Pardlo wins the 2015 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
He won for poetry collection "Digest". Judges cited Pardlo's "clear-voiced poems that bring readers the news from 21st Century America, rich with thought, ideas and histories public and private."
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| Pardlo- AP Photo/Kathy Willens |
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Singing Our Song in a Strange Land by Furaha Youngblood
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| Writer Furaha Youngblood |
Great news!!! Furaha Youngblood's debut novel is now available on Amazon. She is my dear friend!!! Our paths first crossed in Cote d'Ivoire, where we had both lived for many years. We were part of a writing circle there and now to see how our writing lives have blossomed is a real joy!!!! Congrats, Furaha !
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Because Phyllis Wheatley Set Out Alone, We Don’t Have To; A Homage to Wheatley by Solmaz Sharif
Because Phyllis Wheatley Set Out Alone, We Don’t Have To!
A Homage to Wheatley by Solmaz Sharif, A Lecturer in Poetry at Stanford University and my daughter’s teacher !!!!
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| Poet and Stanford Lecturer Solmaz Sharif |
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| The Phyllis Wheatley Monument by Meredith Bergmann /Boston |
Monday, March 23, 2015
Home, Memory and the Power of Poetry by Sojourner Ahebee
Sojourner Ahebee's essay, Home, Memory and the Power of Poetry, is featured in the current issue of Imagine, a journal published by the Johns Hopkins Center for Talented Youth.
Here is the link to read it: http://cty.jhu.edu/imagine/about/current.html
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| * Drawing by Kim Suwan Lee |
Monday, March 16, 2015
* Philadelphia- Live Jazz at the Calabash
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| Painting of Sarah Vaughan by Will Enns |
Join Calabash, Philadelphia's premiere jazz venue, for a SPECIAL JAZZ NIGHT this Tuesday. It's St. Patrick's Day and a Fundraiser for Councilman Curtis Jones Jr. It's going to be a great night with: Chris Aschman, Mike Boone, Frank Strauss & Leon Jordan. Calabash always has exceptional musical talent like: Mark Fury, Jill Salkin, Pamela Renee, Denise King, John Williams and more.
Come out, support and enjoy Philadelphia's dynamic jazz scene.
Click here to see more: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZ7KYf8IkxE
Live Jazz at Calabash
Every Tuesday 8:00 pm - Midnight. 6208 Lancaster Avenue (Entrance on Malvern Avenue) Philadelphia, PA 19151. For more information Call: La Reine @ 215-878-8800 or Ronnie @ 267-507-8098
Every Tuesday 8:00 pm - Midnight. 6208 Lancaster Avenue (Entrance on Malvern Avenue) Philadelphia, PA 19151. For more information Call: La Reine @ 215-878-8800 or Ronnie @ 267-507-8098
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| painting by Palmer Schoppe |
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Happy Birthday Langston Hughes!
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| Langston Hughes testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee, 26 March 1953. Hughes was forced to appear before the House of Un-American Activities. He refused to name the names of other radicals and denied he had ever been a member of the American Communist Party, but he did agree to let particular poems drift from his active repertoire. |
Let America be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!
I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.
Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."
The free?
Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.
O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!
Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
The 1st Shakespeare Showdown Competition for Philadelphia High School Students
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| Akala |
I am reaching out to all of my teacher friends and others to
encourage their students and teens to participate in the 1st Shakespeare
Showdown Competition for Philadelphia
high school students.
Do check out this video featuring an enchanting brother from
England
sharing his TEDTalk about how relevant Shakespeare’s work is to young people, especially
urban youth . Hip-Hop and Shakespeare: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSbtkLA3GrY
This event is in association with The Philadelphia
Shakespeare Theater and 900AM-WURD.
When: Friday March 13, 2015
Time: 3-5PM
Where: Philadelphia
Free Library Auditorium Lower
Level Parkway Central Library 1901 Vine Street
This event is the brainchild of the amazing social activist,
poet and all-around renaissance woman KT- The Poetic Queen
For more information:
CONTACT:
KT TERRY
vauntee23@gmail.com
or 610-284-0629
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