Tshombe's Kai | Poetry & Ruminations

Conciousness

2009-10-28T01:27:00.000-07:00

As the sun rises
There are new blooms
Blooms of Morning Glories
a reminder that although things
appear unchanged
Today they are older
more beautiful
much fuller
and wide open
Trees are that much closer to heaven
Than they were yesterday
Caterpillars are much closer
To becoming butterflies
Than ever before
So as I say hello to a new dawn
I embrace the change
Knowing that I am that much closer...
To where I need be

©2009 Tshombe (the Poet), Kai Poetry

What Are We Doing?

2009-10-27T15:51:00.003-07:00

Even today many poets are trying to find themselves or their voice as they write their poetry, says renowned poet and author Nikki Giovanni in her interview with BlogtalkradioTM host Joy Keys. Poets of the newer generation are definitely discovering new ways of expressing the way they see life and all of its tragic anomalies, they are exercising their personnel strife, and giving their inner-self a voice. Today there is an incredible need to be heard, a need to feel like we are the center, that our words are the truth and all that matters, but as we all know not all that speak need be heard. Imagine the analogy of two people, victims of a hit and run, both will indicate pain. However, depending upon each victim’s pain receptors and threshold one will be sure to exclaim that he/she are in far more pain than the other, but the others pain is truly no less, yet this is our way of making the world understand us. It is only when we forget ourselves, unlearn ourselves of being the center of focus and pay attention to the cosmos that surround us that makes us who we are, only then is when poetry will matter, and the experience (life) will connect and be understood as the sweet sounds of a well conducted orchestra.

What are we to do with the disposable poems? Yes, I said disposable due to a lack luster attitude that exists in the development of poems. There is a rapidly growing community of illiterate poets today that is filled with self-indulgence, egotism, and the worst of all patronage for the sake of fan accumulation and a myriad of reasons, but that is another matter and blog post. Today, with all of the venues like blogs and twitter apps have made it possible for one to expose their raw feelings before they have had a chance to process them, or even a chance to seek resolve prior to writing them into a poem or dirge if you will. Author and poet Dana Gioia wrote in his essay “Can Poetry Matter” that American poetry now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life. The divorce of poetry from the educated reader has had another, more pernicious result. Seeing so much mediocre verse not only published but praised, slogging through so many dull anthologies and small magazines has created a riff between poets and would be readers—to paraphrase. In his essay he speaks a great deal on how we as poets can develop to improve our place in the literary verse, but of course it has to be read for you to understand how to improve.

But I guess that leads me to the point of what I meant by “illiteracy” in the poetry. What I hear/read from many poets, are personal and sometimes fictional (fantasy) works that lack investigation into the purpose of the write. For example: if a poet sits down to write a poem regarding 9-11 and only uses news media (television reports) as the source and basis of the material without reading—let’s say the “9/11 Commission Report”; how deep and valuable will this poem be for an intellectual reader? This is just a small example of the importance of reading to develop the skills and increased substance for ones works and verse, but this is only relative to the purpose of ones’ poetry. Where have all of the critics gone, poetry without its critics can really deminish what we call art. What are we afraid of when it come to hearing and providing feedback to the author...

Now let’s hear your thoughts… agree or disagree, all opinions are as important as the poetry we all write.

This post was incited by the words of Amiri Baraka in his poem “Against Bourgeois Art”, Buffalo 1978. In this piece I am reminded that history repeats itself, let's be the change!

What Is Your Purpose in Art?

2009-10-27T15:51:00.001-07:00

In a weekend relaxation I took sometime to reflect on on the artform of spoken-word poetry and what my view of how an artists might define themselves; I came up with four basic yet complex questions that should encompass the definition by which one presents their art.

These questions are meant rhetorically or non; however, they must be answered to defines one's true purpose in art. Why do I say in art? Well, art is revolutionary (define) in nature, therefore needs a purpose of cause. Before we get to the four questions let's lay down a baseline for rational response.

Let's start with purpose. Whether you have an idea of a poem or guided by spirit to deliver a message, it must be driven by a purpose (reason if you will), otherwise there is no need for the creation—the creation is a reaction of purpose. Now, understand that the purpose is not defined by its side effects (responses by readers/listeners), but by its reason for creation. Note, this is not to be confused with what one perceives from the work, for that is another uncontrollable factor. If the purpose is strictly to entertain, then that is its purpose; if it is to educate, then of course the artist must know the purpose of the lesson before delivery. No matter the purpose understand the premise and prepare for the results.

Cause and Effect. Once the purpose is defined, one must then define the methodology and vehicle/medium for delivery and the desired outcome. If the effect does not meet the satisfaction of cause, then one must solicit insight of purpose, and re-examine the methodology. Know this, there must be a cause and effect to all things no matter the defined purpose; for your words permeate and are subservient to your thoughts.

Impact. This is by far the most rewarding if the cause and effect are met with satisfaction. The impact of your work is defined by the receivers; however, if not carefully examined it can be the most poisonous. If one is driven by praise delivered sycophantically as a measure of impact there will be no growth or true impact. This type of purpose creates a facade and is deadly in nature to growth in art. However, if one can measure the impact of his/her works based on the change they create within those they reach, then they have indeed mastered the purpose of their creation.

Incited Revolution. In the beginning I mention that all art is revolutionary. This is a true statement no matter the way one defines revolution; I define revolution, for the purpose of my creations of art, as the "transformational change" of the mind, body, and spirit. When you can speak in a way that causes change in another's existence, it reformats the tabula rasa, and the transformation is reciprocated and multiplied in a contagious manner to incite further change beyond your expectations; you have truly sparked a revolution. This should be present in all purpose of art.

Relevance. There is nothing worse than spoon-feeding someone something that is not necessary to them. Yes, I know that one man's trash is another's treasure, but what happens when trash is just that...trash? Not every discourse has value to the general populous, and this is something that must be considered when one prepares. Not every idea is a great one and we can't always hope that someone will eventually connect with the discourse simply because we said it. Considering the relevance is as important as the purpose, so one must take careful consideration when it comes to content and its cause, effect, impact, incitement, and relevance to all who will patron their creations.

These are my views and understanding of Art and how one defines them as artist.

Answer the following four questions:

1. What is the cause and effect of your "spoken-word"?
2. What impact are you striving for when one takes in your words/life?
3. What revolution (define) are you inciting?
4. How relevant are your words to someone who doesn't know you?

Note. I find these questions to be the apogee of defining yourself in this artform.

How Long Must She Be Sold

2009-10-26T18:36:00.001-07:00

Women have been victims of more than a decade of constant verbal abuse, degradation, and disrespect through a billion dollar industry called hip-hop. She has been peddled and pimped to line pockets. My question to you is how long before your mother, wife, sister, and grandmother will be put on the auction blocks for sale for the pleasures of whoremongers? Are you perpetuating or eliminating?

Furthermore, where are all the enraged sisters, mothers, wives, and grandmothers who have grown tired of such abuse? If you are afraid to speak; worry not for this is a brother ready to stand against the sexism and injustices that denigrating hip-hop pushes to make money at your expense. You can dance to the rhythm, pop your fingers, and even ignore the heckles of street corner pimps, but tell me can your son or daughter ignore them?

True Onyx Woman

2009-10-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

Determination is what drives her to be a strong,
independent, and a loving onyx woman
Enlightened I stand in her radiance,
drinking of her wisdom from which she is elegantly woven
Divinity flows through her like the Queens of the Nile;
Leaving all genuflecting in her presence
Reflections of her intelligence and strength
keeps me uxorious and loving her essence
Eternal is her love like an admiration for jasmine in my mind.
I will love her 'til the end of time.

©2006 Tshombe (the Poet), Kai|Poetry

Changing Faces

2009-10-24T18:03:00.000-07:00

I don't think you are ready
Ready to hear what I have to say

What my face has to say
I want to say what is on my face

Will you listen...

For my barren soul stands facing the heavens
In search of salvation
My soul walks across desert plains
Listening to the sound of the wind
In stereo effect surround sounds
Of splashing pain that stings like freezing rain
Reigning over the two sides of my life
One, my flesh that betrays my mind at times.
It tries to define the thin line between
Truth and lie in this world that lives to get by
On reality-TV where real life is fake
And living in the real is escaped.
Two, is my soul...
In this world of false faces, and false prophets
Who are only interested in your paper
Running capers by passing the plate
And if you don't drop a dollar
You might not make it into the gate
I must stay awake
I must… stay... awake
I must stay alive...strive to survive
In a face off between gladiators
Trying to endure the blows of everyday
Beat downs in this arena called life
Which is played like a cheated card game
So I keep my eyes on how it's played
Swimming with sharks
I make due with what I am dealt
Masterfully I spread 'em and change my face to look smart
Because I know already that this isn't fair

So, I man up, assess the dealing and act like I got a pair
Let's see, I got seven hearts, no diamonds, five clubs for luck
Because with my one spade I am expected to give up

But if I play this right
I might come out tight
Tightly this cat got my game in what I call the "choker"
Because he tried to get me by playing his "Joker"
Man, my face was like what the heck…
That ain't even supposed to be in the deck
So I do what I must and renege on the third book
By throwing out my luck hoping it'll get me off the hook
Off the hook enough so that I can make board
To avoiding being set,
Being set by those looking to hoard my soul

So, to change the game, I put on my poker face
Just to throw the man off my game in this race
Where race is nothing and...yet it's everything

I mean try walking in my shoe and you'll see what I mean…

You might see fathers being shot and blood spilt on foreign sands and...
Young men killed and filled with lead for having a gun,
Oops! I meant a wallet in their hands
Mothers working four jobs just to make ends meet
While daddy has to works six because he screws every end he meets
He's got young faces all over town
More than the sands that cover this ground
Who grow up wondering why he was never around

Now this face I call it the black face
The face that has been filled with hate
That I have learn to carry like the weight
Of the world on my shoulders
Weighing me down like boulders
Tied around my ankles, where every step forward
Feels like five steps backward
Moving and striving to stay on the right track
I never look back
Back at the faces I leave lying in the sand keeping
All things facing forward
While Surviving this gravitational spin
Of this planet above my throat
Remembering the time where I was brought here on a boat
From freedom to slavery
From Kingdoms to penitentiary
I remove my face to keep them from lying to me
In this twisted world where nothing is ordinary
A place where freedom requires enslavement
And you have to be a slave to be free
But I know differently so
I throw my face down just so that I can
Kiss the ground that I walk on and
At the same time I can watch my own back
Because not even my brother has that
It leaves me wiping away my face to hide my tears
To tuck away my fears because for years
They have flowed for those with swollen bellies
While food and gold is outsourced
Outsourced is the new synonym for "You're screwed"
You only survive if you're shrewd
Otherwise you get shown the door
And jobs are given to those who work to be poor
Babies left sleeping on floors
For the motherland they show their faces
Saying lets help the black faces by ending starvation
With contraceptives to stop their creation
Because if they don't have them
Then there is no need to feed them
If only I didn't have to wear this face
I wouldn't have to say the things that I say
But the fact is…it is my face.

So I hold it out in front of me
Just so I can see what everyone else see
When they look at my face
You see changing places is easy
Try changing faces and see what I see.

© 2007 Tshombe (the Poet) Kai|Poetry

Mulatto Blues

2009-10-24T11:59:00.000-07:00

She sang with the sweetest taboos
Her Mulatto Blues
In her lyrics you could hear a struggle
Screams even, but you couldn't understand
If you didn't live there

She wasn't quite all black

Well mostly black
with a little white
But if you got to know her
You'd find that she's quite alright
She had caramel skin that glowed in the dark of night

See I took the time to get to know her
And her life was nothing like you'd think
She wasn't just a pretty young thing and smile
If you get pass the aesthetics you'd find
A dark lit alley
Littered with spit and piss

But you could hear the jazz of her soul
Linger on the night air like faint trumpets,
a little drums splashed with some flare
I mean you could move your toes
if you even dared to listen to her life

you could hear
Backs pressed against brick stones
Heat exchanged like bass tones
Ridin' to the ticks of metronomes
Licks and kisses shared in stolen moonlight
You could feel... her night moods
Hanging on crescent moons
While moans take flight deep into the night
And
By day you could hear her cry with pain
From the stains of blood
That soak her window panes
and her children who starve and thirst
Cry out to be returned to the earth
Because her breast no longer feed
You see for beads
She would show you her tits
and the more she showed the more she'd get

On a good day she dress it with a kiss
Laced in her Mulatto Blues

Hmph! Let me tell you
One kiss will make you flip your wig
Empty your pockets
and lose your shoes

Watch it before beggin' for another swig
You'll end up hittin' snooze
as you cruise inside that thing that she do
Like voodoo
But if you listen closely
to her Mulatto blues

You'd hear her gaspin'
Gasping for air as if she is drowning
Drowning in tears
Because although she's fine like silk
Her breast don't produce
To feed her children
As they scream for help
Lost in the blues

No one...hears her screams
as she struggles to breath

No one wants...to listens to her screams
they just want to toss more beads

They just want to toss more beads
To mute her screams

Because no one cares...to hear her SCREAMS
they just want to get lost in the melodies
As they toss more beads

And no matter if you know her name
She could always ease your pain
Just turn down the screams of this pretty young thing
As she hums her blues

If only I could sing her blues
Walk a mile in her shoes
Light the darkness of her alleys
I could understand the lyrics
Of her "Mulatto Blues"
and if you listen, you could hear them too!

©2007 Tshombe the Poet, Kai|Poetry