Baraka recap

Well, he was a very angry black man. I may or may have fallen asleep through parts of it; that head-jerky church sleep. Here's what he talked about:

• He went off on Colin Powell and Condoleeza Rice while I was out. Nina summarized for me.



• "You're in college because some people love you and those people who love you, that's who you serve."
• He brought up the idea of having a sort of united black political party a lot.
• He referred to white people as "our enemies" throughout the talk.
• "skin is thin, class with kick your ass"
• a beautiful bit of a poem, something like: "was it ever so quiet that the room started asking you questions"
• Lauryn Hill and his son, Ras Baraka have collaborated on a couple songs.
• recommended this guy: Sekou Sundiata, The Blue Oneness of Dreams
• Nina's note: LOTS of anger/conspiracy theory

Well, I'm glad I went. The audience was about 1/3 white. There were about 150 people there. He ended the evening by reading his super-controversial poem "Somebody Blew Up America" (read it here) He introduced it by saying "Let me read this poem that got me thrown out of being a poet laureate of New Jersey." And, he said later, that they didn't technically throw him out, but actually removed the position. So, right now, New Jersey is the only state that doesn't have a poet laureate. Haha. Hearing him read the poem was amazing. There's a section where he asks "who? Who? WHO?" and he read it like I read a Dr. Seuss book. He was almost sing-songy in parts and shrieking in others.

Amiri Baraka

In honor of poet Amiri Baraka coming to Mizzou tonight (tickets were FREE!!), here are a couple of his poems. Baraka is a pretty angry black poet, and I am fully expecting to be yelled at tonight. Fortunately it's being held in Jesse Hall Auditorium, which is enormous (I saw Maya Angelou there last semester...it was amazing) and so he won't actually be able to see me cowering.

A Poem for Speculative Hipsters

He had got, finally,

to the forest

of motives. There were no

owls, or hunters. No Connie Chatterleys

resting beautifully

on their backs, having casually

brought socialism

to England.

Only ideas,

and their opposites

Like,

he was really

nowhere.

Monk's World

'Round Midnight

That street where midnight

is round, the moon flat

& blue, where fire engines solo

& cats stand around & look

is Monk's world

When I last saw him, turning around

high from 78 RPM, growling

a landscape of spaced funk

When I last spoke to him, coming out

the Vanguard, he hipped me to my own secrets, like Nat

he dug th enumbers & letters

blowing through the grass

initials & invocations of the past

All the questions I asked Monk He

answered first

in a beret. Why was a high priest staring

Why were the black keys signifying. And who was

wrapped in common magic

like a street empty of everything

except weird birds

The last time Monk smiled I read

the piano's diary. His fingers

where he collected yr feelings

The Bar he circled to underscore

the anonymous laughter of smoke

& posters.

Monk carried equations he danced at you.

What's happening?" We said, as he dipped &

spun. "What's happening?"

"Everything. All the time.

Every googoplex

of a second.

Like a door, he opened, not disappearing

but remaining a distant profile

of intimate revelation.

Oh, man! Monk was digging Trane now

w/o a chaser he drank himself

in. & Trane reported from

the 6th or 7th planet deep in

the Theloniuscape

Where fire engines screamed the blues

& night had a shiny mouth

& scatted flying things.