South African poet Willie Kgositsile posited the necessity of putting aside poetry in the face of looming revolution.
“When the moment hatches in time’s womb there will be no art talk,” he wrote. “The only poem you will hear will be the spearpoint pivoted in the punctured marrow of the villain….Therefore we are the last poets of the world.”
Where does peace start?
In Mahatma Gandhi’s book “The Story of My Experiments With Truth.” Gandhi said: “When every hope is gone, ‘when helpers fail and comforts flee,’ I find that help arrives somehow, from I know not where. Supplication, worship, prayer are no superstition; they are acts more real than the acts of eating, drinking, sitting or walking. It is no exaggeration to say that they alone are real, all else is unreal.”
For me … the unexpected detail is in this man’s expression.
The sadness embedded in his concentration. This is a photograph of my friend “Buzz” writing poetry outside a coffee shop in Brighton, England.
Imagine yourself born with a different skin colour.
Which colour(s) would you superimpose onto your DNA?
Who’s looking at you now?
Do you feel your privileges taken away?
Do you feel enlightened?
On top of the world?
As rich as can be?
Full of promise?
On the A-List?
Treat with care
a still image
that an actor could bring to life.
A black-and-white photograph of a baby
Held at arms-length by a midwife – the girl that nobody wanted –
who had little choice but to re-enact this dream called life.
Is it possible to be born again?
An angel is
brought to Earth
on the wings of her fables
about changing the world.
Begin softly this new rhyme in her body. With the title “Human Parade”.
Her rebirth is the gift of traveling to the corners of the Earth and sharing the news that she’s arrived.
Where do we go when we die on the inside?
Do we rupture our attachment to family? Our daily bread?
Our ability to mimic breath?
Jean-Michel Basquiat died of a heroin overdose at the age of 27 in 1988.