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African or African american militant poetry
Thursday 18 November 2010, by
I Have Seen Black Hands
I am black and I have seen black hands
Raised in fists of revolt, side by side with the white fists
Of white workers,
And some day — and it is only this which sustains me—
Some day there shall be millions and millions of them,
On some red day in a burst of fists on a new horizon!
Richard Wright
Revolution is now !
I write to you fellow youth
From the slums to the suburbs
From upcountry to the cities
Arise!
I write to you fellow youth
Pick up that dream you have shelved
Forget about the voices that whispered
That you can’t; don’t they see the fire within you?
I write to you fellow youth
You, me, we are great
Let us unlearn and break away
From the things that holds us in useless, undeserving bondage
I write to you fellow youth
Life will not begin tomorrow
Change is now
We can have the life we desire
I write to you fellow youth
Your mind is great
Your future is bright
The glimmering horizon beckons..
I write to you fellow youth
We are the beauty and life of the world
The strength of our nation
The pillar of our legacy
I write to you fellow youth
Revolution will not come by violence
But by reason, patience, relentlessness
By love and unity of purpose
I write to you fellow youth
Let us be people of integrity, people of justice, people of leadership
Let us show them how things should be done
Change things now, through hard work, greatness and service
I write to you fellow youth
The future is for the brave
For those who dream and pursue
And we, we are The Brave!
I write to you fellow youth
ARISE!!!!! Revolution is now…
Dayan Masinde
Revolution
Great mob that knows no fear-
Come here!
And raise your hand
Against this man
Of iron and steel and gold
Who’s bought and sold
You-
Each one-
For the last thousand years.
Come here,
Great mob that knows no fear,
And tear him limb from limb,
Split his golden throat
Ear to ear,
And end his time forever,
Now-
This year-
Great mob that knows no fear.
Langston Hughes
Between the World and Me
And one morning while in the woods I stumbled
suddenly upon the thing,
Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly
oaks and elms
And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting
themselves between the world and me....
There was a design of white bones slumbering forgottenly
upon a cushion of ashes.
There was a charred stump of a sapling pointing a blunt
finger accusingly at the sky.
There were torn tree limbs, tiny veins of burnt leaves, and
a scorched coil of greasy hemp;
A vacant shoe, an empty tie, a ripped shirt, a lonely hat,
and a pair of trousers stiff with black blood.
And upon the trampled grass were buttons, dead matches,
butt-ends of cigars and cigarettes, peanut shells, a
drained gin-flask, and a whore’s lipstick;
Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the
lingering smell of gasoline.
And through the morning air the sun poured yellow
surprise into the eye sockets of the stony skull....
And while I stood my mind was frozen within cold pity
for the life that was gone.
The ground gripped my feet and my heart was circled by
icy walls of fear—
The sun died in the sky; a night wind muttered in the
grass and fumbled the leaves in the trees; the woods
poured forth the hungry yelping of hounds; the
darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves
into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into
my flesh.
The gin-flask passed from mouth to mouth, cigars and
cigarettes glowed, the whore smeared lipstick red
upon her lips,
And a thousand faces swirled around me, clamoring that
my life be burned....
And then they had me, stripped me, battering my teeth
into my throat till I swallowed my own blood.
My voice was drowned in the roar of their voices, and my
black wet body slipped and rolled in their hands as
they bound me to the sapling.
And my skin clung to the bubbling hot tar, falling from
me in limp patches.
And the down and quills of the white feathers sank into
my raw flesh, and I moaned in my agony.
Then my blood was cooled mercifully, cooled by a
baptism of gasoline.
And in a blaze of red I leaped to the sky as pain rose like water, boiling my limbs
Panting, begging I clutched childlike, clutched to the hot
sides of death.
Now I am dry bones and my face a stony skull staring in
yellow surprise at the sun....
Richard Wright
Beyond rhythm of sorrow
Beyond mountains and valleys.
Beyond great seas and rivers.
Beyond the distance of imaginations,
stood endless walls of stress and
struggle.
In clutches of failures I lift my weak
voice in songs of praise.
It could have been worse but life was speared.
I have reached the peak of crisis.
I am afraid there is no where higher to go.
I have touched the bottom there is no
where deeper down to go.
I have given up to wind of music and
melodies of sweet songs in rejuvenation
of my mind, soul and body.
We have gone beyond bounds of hardship.
We have gone beyond bounds of sorrows.
We have run out of tears of sadness and
self pity.
We have grown sick of songs of sorrow.
We have long crossed rivers of solitude
to sing new songs of joy.
We sing and dance in gratitude for life.
Beyond rhythm of sorrow we celebrate our
past and present in anticipation of a better
tomorrow.
Chidi Okoye
Dawn Rising
i see many voices rising with the sun
sharp spears of the sun ,undulating with coming freedom
mother was there during liberation
i will be there for the other liberation
a revolution of million voices
voices of children of song
children of the soil
children unborn ,children born
voices of hunger in the gutters
voices in memory of those gone by the wind of madness
voices of vendors whose tomatoes squashed in days raids
voices whose taxes perished on talk tables
voices riddled by sanctions
voices roasted by imperialism
one million voices
from a country whose spirit is chimurenga
whose breath is nehanda
whose scent is the mist of matopos
voices of freedom coming
voices tired of honey coated promises
iam one of voices freed by my poetic words
drinking from poetic grape fruit
born with sugar and salt words on my tongue
iam mother africa raving metaphors
iam a slave of my verbal bravado
iam singer of africa untold
iam the blak poet
the bread of revolution
the rose blooming liberation
million voices sing me a song
i dedicate this satire to you
Iam a revolution
tongues of their guns kissed the bottoms of our country walls
sand of corruption sedimented our banking malls
bishops munching rainbow chicken bones
,singing political verses
violence is a black disease
racism is a white disease
xenophobia is epidemic
blood spilling is endemic
dissidents studying theology
eunuchs graduating criminology
afghanistan ,earthquake of religions
pakistan,volcano of political legions
corruption natural lotion applied in armpits heavy weights
extortion vaseline shining on thighs on high offices
iam not revenging freedom of expression
iam bubbling with freedom of expression
iam constitution of word identity
iam poetry butter and bread
i see children blinded by propaganda peri peri
i see blinded nations
they ate the last supper joburg
their departure never came ,
even when the rainbow sun rose
iam in the drama of the state
my temper of dignity rise and sink
my children drank the apatheird poison
iam diagnosing them with freedom passion
iam tired of academics who loot
and intellectuals who shoot
luther is my tight comrade
iam a cheer leader
iam an african phonologist
i was born fron african sound
iam renaissance home bound
propaganda is the jingle of peasants
verdict is the slogan of exiled
iam a brand of poetic tomatoes
iam diving in trees of political apples
doubtful metaphors still dance out night in the glory of african sun
barometer of poverty boxed by Khoisan
rainbow streets bling with ghettoes
so what the fuss,motorcades
no longer drive ,village dust highways
rhythm of rainbow eaten by dogs
blood rhymes of freedom born frees sucked
by bed bugs
daughters depleted by social anorexia
babies whipped by cultural diarrhoea
we are suffering from freedom malnutrition.
Mbizo Chirasha
Abiku
In vain your bangles cast
Charmed circles at my feet;
I am Abiku, calling for the first
And the repeated time.
Must I weep for goats and cowries
For palm oil and the sprinkled ash?
Yams do not sprout in amulets
To earth Abiku’s limbs.
So when the snail is burnt in his shell
Whet the heated fragments, brand me
Deeply on the breast. You must know him
When Abiku calls again.
I am the squirrel teeth, cracked
The riddle of the palm. Remember
This, and dig me deeper still into
The god’s swollen foot.
Once and the repeated time, ageless
Though I puke. And when you pour
Libations, each finger points me near
The way I came, where
The ground is wet with mourning
White dew suckles flesh-birds
Evening befriends the spider, trapping
Flies in wind-froth;
Night, and Abiku sucks the oil
From lamps. Mother! I’ll be the
Supplicant snake coiled on the doorstep
Yours the killing cry.
The ripes fruit was saddest;
Where I crept, the warmth was cloying.
In the silence of webs, Abiku moans, shaping
Mounds from the yolk.
Wole Soyinka
Dawn (l’aube)
Remember in baton boot and bullet ritual
The bloodhounds of Monster Vorster wrote
SOWETO over the belly of my land
with the indelible blood of infants
So the young are no longer young
Not that they demand a hasty deat
Keorapetse Kgositsile (South Africa)
Oh, Congo brother
With your tribal marks,
We, too, emerge
From ageless darks.
We, too, emit
A frightening cry
From body scarred,
Soul that won’t die.
We encarnadine the sky.
Langston Hughes(USA)
I cannot think of alle the pains
i cannot think of all the pains in men’s breasts
without the urge to sleep, or to lie down, I cannot think
without seeing God’s face in the child’s smile,
or in the lonely cry in the night and in the sea.
i cannot think of all the pains that have come
and gone, pains in men’s waists
and in men’s shoes –
i cannot have relief proper, wearing a neat tie.
i run around in circles, like sprinkling water,
i can’t have true relief, swearing out loud
and counting out the pains in my breast,
and in my pants.
i cannot think of all the pains and all the years wasted,
all the craze of lonely men in village rooms,
and all the bodies that lie out cold, in avoided streets-
i can’t run out old, like a joyful child
and watch a sky pregnant with pain, or with turbulent rain;
i cannot think of the soil without lying down,
i cannot think of tears, lonely geographies
and the third world, without the urge to cry or to sit down.
Mxolisi Nyezwa
I am a Negro
I am a Negro:
Black as the night is black,
Black like the depths of my Africa.
I’ve been a slave:
Caesar told me to keep his door-steps clean.
I brushed the boots of Washington.
I’ve been a worker:
Under my hand the pyramids arose.
I made mortar for the Woolworth Building.
I’ve been a singer:
All the way from Africa to Georgia
I carried my sorrow songs.
I made ragtime.
I’ve been a victim:
The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo.
They lynch me still in Mississippi.
I am a Negro:
Black as the night is black,
Black like the depths of my Africa.
Langston Hughes
So you’re one of the real revolutionaries
A whole lot on your mind that you feel you must say
Are you ready to walk the picket lines today?
Or are you one of those that demand equality, while throwing your fist up in the air
as you sit there in you’re reclining chair.
You can say what you want but it doesn’t mean a thing
it’s putting that thought into action that carries the swing
Screaming and yelling talking about equal rights
Yet to scared to fight.
By the way what is your cause, what is your desire
What topic sets your emotions on fire?
Is it Racism?
Welfare
The way your girl wears her hair.
Drugs in school
Homeless teens
Keeping the rims on your car clean
Low test scores in urban school
Parents saying they don’t know what to do
Now I know pornography gets you upset
Or haven’t you decided yet.
Is it family violence?
Sex crimes
Drug dealers walking the streets not doing time
Or better yet, your job asked you to pee in a cup
After that same drug dealer hooked you up.
Is that what you’re mad about?
If so sit back in that reclining chair and raise your fist up in the air.
So you’re one of the real revolutionaries
And you’re going to save the planet.
Hmmm.. let me take a long look at you
As well as say a little something too.
Understand these words, Real Revolutionaries move in silence
If you are still confused as to what that statement means
I will now try to throw a little more light on the scene
To be real means to be real to yourself and real to your people,
Your not Malcolm X or Harriet Tubman so don’t pretend to be their equal.
Revolution means the movement, the turning of something upside down
Revolution means going against the crowd
Revolutionaries perceive If you can’t go through the wall go over or around
Silence- when your are under pressure will keep you calm
Silence- when there is danger all around will keep you from harm
When you think before you talk you are in silence
When you fight before you think now that’s meaningless violence
So you’re one of the real revolutionaries
Fighting for a cause
Or fighting because
Which is it
Tell me what is your plan?
To feed the people and nourish the land.
So tell me are you sitting or standing?
Acting or planning
Will you walk or run
Act now or wait until the morning sun.
Will you talk or scream
Awaken or continue to dream
Will you bark or bite
Fight for your own rights,
or the rights of the people
to be look at as equal
So you want to be a revolutionary
Then be real to your cause
Act in silence and be fresh like the morning dew
or the next dead revolutionary could be you.
MrMichael
Nothing’s changed
Nothing chnaged
Small round hard stones click
under my heels,
seeding grasses thrust
bearded seeds
into trouser cuffs, cans,
trodden on, crunch
in tall, purple-flowering,
amiable weeds.
District six.
No board says it is:
but my feet know,
and my hands,
and the skin about my bones,
and the soft labouring of my lungs,
and the hot, white, inwards turning
anger of my eyes.
Brash with glass,
name flaring like a flag,
it squats
in the grass and weeds,
incipient Port Jackson trees:
new, up-market, haute cuisine,
guard at the gatepost,
whites only inn.
No sign says it is:
But we know where we belong.
Tatamkhulu Afrika
Militant
Let all who will
Eat quietly the bread of shame.
I cannot,
Without complaining loud and long.
Tasting its bitterness in my throat,
And feeling to my very soul
It’s wrong.
For honest work
You proffer me poor pay,
for honest dreams
Your spit is in my face,
And so my fist is clenched
Today-
To strike your face.
Langston Hughes
Forum posts
1. African or African american militant poetry, 18 November 2010, 16:49, by Haitian anonymous poet
They are the cholera of the world
The night is purple in my heart
The black trunks of the sunset
It’s raining in my soul
Dead branches dripping
On the red earth
Time is tender and sad
My body lies on the ground
Thrown by soldiers
Of International forces
Come from every where
To pull us from life
To kill us
No burial
No mercy
No regrets
Do not forget my friend
My Comrade
Proletarian of the world
More importantly, do not forget
That these soldiers are there too
To prepare for your death
As they held mine
No hate, no regrets
But remember everything
Do not be sorry for the killing of this unjust order
Which oppresses and kills ....
2. African or African american militant poetry, 6 April 2021, 21:21, by El Desdichado
I think militant poetry of all kinds is overdone, predictable and boring.
It fails as often as Communism fails.
1. African or African american militant poetry, 7 April 2021, 06:16, by R. Paris
Communism has not failed but been killed by stalinism and imperialism!