Archives for posts with tag: art

“…So for me patience is most fitting”

            -Yaqub Father of Yusuf

 

While we wait,

Droning along

Towards world excellence

Towards new order.

 

Policing the heinous crimes of The Others.

So Christian like-

This show of black intelligentsia.

 

Covert. Ignorance. Advocacy.

 

Yes the Dream is real.

The fight won. So

You and I can fight some more

 

And some mo’,

and some mo’.

 

Yes,

I had a Dream

That my big brother was spying on me,

To keep me mo’ safer, make my life mo’ betta.

Ensure my loyalty

 

Les’ I be

Unpatriotic,

A lone wolf wandering amongst the sheep

While the shepherds preach?

 

The reporters ask,

“Would He be here today?”

“Is this the Dream which

Thine eye did seek?”

 

Hell no

 

This dream reeks

Of Orwellian overtones,

Unmanned. Fallacy. Orbits.

So that the children of the world may

One day

 

Be free.

blue green velveteen

Up at the white thread
I seek clarity.
My thoughts on trial do me no justice
Any other time of day.

Only now while the angels
Make their rounds,
I begin to gather the pieces
Delegate the reasons.

Just how smart is this brown-skin girl?
Whose legacy of soft-spoken cunning
Precedes her.
A way with men

She likes projects,
Something broken needing repair
So that I can get in between
Inside his snow globe

Heart. Where I twirl angrily swirling
She sees compassion
Flakes of obvious selfish guile
I see self-preservation.

Up from a dream. A familial place
Nested at the feet of blue green velveteen hills
A mother attached-
A white thread of light

Anything worthwhile is blue.
Patiently kneeling, ankles obtuse
Hands just so
She’ll be guided in this Hour

Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of. -Benjamin Franklin
TIME CAPSULE 2001, SIDE VIEW, show

Thank you Mr. Franklin, I couldn’t have said it better myself.  Since undertaking some new responsibilities in my life, (a.k.a. a new job, a.k.a now I can pay more bills) I find my myself yearning for more hours in the days and for more minutes in the hours.  I fully understand the complaints of those writers who try to balance practicing their craft with putting food on the table.  I guess I should try to look at it from a more creative positive viewpoint; now I have more fodder to give my poems life.  I digress…

The true reason for this post was to share a link to a poem of mine that has been published by the lovely ladies of The Blue Hour Magazine.  Please be sure to head over to their site and show all of the wonderful poets, writers, and artists some love!  I’ll be back to posting poems and random ramblings soon enough.  I just wanted to thank all my followers and even those of you who just happened to fly by and “like” a few of my posts.  I love you guys and wish you well.

-Umm Qamar

In the Purple Rain- A poem by Jasmine Javid

Woman smoking pipe

tender black buttons

dark nights- rising

life and pleasure given and

taken from these

pain and suffrage

guided you

across turbulent seas

molded by a fingertip,

not to be marred by too eager teeth

nor pierced to aesthetically please

but these

raisins in the sun

dimpled supernovae

exploding across the vast sea of my breast

Erected

by the undulations of your tongue,

These feed nations

seduce men

but they say I

am just a woman

objectified, less

*Photo Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Opiate Susmission

The sun-rays my silhouette humbled,

Casting reverent shadows on Turkish artistry.

Here because you denied – the sun,

The moon, the stars primitive artistry.  This

Life is lonely, and then you sacrifice your blessings

That is Grace.

 

I watched

Her footprints soft-spoken, unaware

Of her power from which I was conceived.

Bear no witness to my deeds. I

Listened to their stories,

They washed their hands of me

That was love.

 

My knees kiss this consecrated ground

Redemption beading on my forehead,

Wreaking havoc, it is the storm before the calm.

High on opiate submission

And waiting for the pouring forth,

Now I know why they lean.

The weight of confession cannot stand alone.

 

Faith tastes like complacency

Come again?

I never learned how to swim

But I tread deep waters

Because I knew how to pray.

Ya Sheikh!

That is servility.

Inner Critic(n) a parasitic entity that feeds off of creative beings.

Piero Manzoni Artist's shit

What you know about it?

I’ve been trying to make an upgrade from a wanna-be poet/writer/artist-type chick to an individual that actually is successful in one of these mediums.   I would be able to do this if it wasn’t for this inner critic chick junking up my flow and throwing major shade by making comments like this:

“”Who do you think you are anyways, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, freaking John Keats?”

AND

“Seriously, my great-great-great-grandmother could’ve written better poetry than that and she was a slave (i.e. she couldn’t read or write due to her unfortunate circumstances).”

OR

“Girl you know you can’t draw worth a damn.”

AND

“Paint by number isn’t art.”

So you see what I have to put up with.

I’ve tried all the logical solutions to shut her up.  I’ve done the whole free writing, write-just-for- the-sake-of-writing for ten minutes and don’t worry about grammar or about punctuation or about making sense thing.  I ended up editing my results because they weren’t profound enough (ά la Jack Kerouac).  As for my art practices, I keep an art journal.  I rarely work in it for fear of messing up that expensive ass watercolor paper.  I mean really, how can I ever live up to my full potential if this chick is forever in my ear telling me I’m not good enough?  Oh and don’t get me started on referring to the internet for support.  I’ll get on the web and snoop around for inspiration from fellow artists/writers.  What usually happens is I’ll stumble across a blog or website of someone whose work I really dig.  After about five to ten minutes of enjoying the fruits of their labor, I’m reeling into a self-imposed pity party.  “Boo-hoo, I’ll never be as good as such and such.  Please pass me the lotion infused Kleenex,” I whine aloud to no one in particular.  Actually you know who is present and nodding, “I told you so.” I hate her.

Since none of the conventional methods of quieting my inner critic work, I have to take drastic measures.  I have to kill this bitch.  I invite you to murder yours as well.  We can all go down in history together as the coldest, baddest, inner critic murdering gangsters to ever do it.  Here’s the plan.  Pick up you pen, pencil, crayon, or use your fingers if you’re like me and cannot afford such fancy instruments and stab her ass.  Poke her, slash her, Lorena Bobbitt her, and get her out of your life.

*Trust me you’ll be a better artist for it.

Courtesy of madmikesamerica.com

Oh you just don’t know

*You may need your critic for revising, so you probably shouldn’t murder her.  Maybe you can just stuff her into a closet or something until you’re ready for her.

scribblings of a madman

written through pains of failure.  Committed.  It is a never-ending flow thoughts materialized into the unexpected.  It is rough, undiscovered, still in the beginning stages.  It is the result of never saying no.  It does not care who is watching as it gets undressed, it is not modest.  It is unfamiliar and it cannot be found in the retinas of any man’s eye.  It is sometimes unworthy, often times plain, dull, lack lustre, UGLY.  It is the wrong shade of lipstick on the right girl, it’s the hole in her stockings.  It is a mis-fit.  Archetype.  Unusual.  Rare and common.  Irritating and lovely.  It is paradoxical.  It knows no bounds it is free.  And it is not, I repeat it is not, A DAMN ROSE.

 

Feel free to continue with your definition of beauty below in the comment box.

This poem is in response to a picture prompt posted November 24th, 2012 via Twitter.

Elephant BeachRushing to corrode my memories

tried my damnest to run away

 

The moon works against me

waxing and waning at the membrane

 

The mothers return

release hard hopes of life

 

I’ve buried the remnants

in shallow graves spread-

Along the shore

HAIR COILS UP BUT IT DON’T SPRING BACK

LIKE A MATTRESS MADE LOVE ON

IT DON’T SPRING BACK

 

SKIN IS BLACK LIKE

FINGERS DRAPED ON THE BASE OF A LOVERS NECK

BLACK LIKE, DON’T GET LOST IN THIS NECK

OF THE WOODS

 

THIS MUST BE SPOKEN ALOUD

THE PAIN UNTANGLED

BECAUSE COMPLEXION IS HARD TO EXPLAIN

 

YOU CANT QUITE PICTURE THESE HIPS

ARE FULL LIKE POLITICIANS

ARE FULL OF SHIT

FULL LIKE HOOD BABIES

ARE FULL OF DREAMS

FULL LIKE DISPLACEMENT GENTRIFICATION

 

TO SWIM IN A POOL SO DEEP

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER YOU’LL NEVER REACH

IT’S FUCKED UP, SO GET UP. GET OUT

DON’T WANT YOU IN THE POOL ANYWAYS

YOU ARE FOREVER DISPLACED

 

THIS AIN’T ABOUT RACE

IF IT WAS WE’D NEVER

IN A GAME RIGGED

 

TOO MANY TIMES  BEEN MADE TO CHOOSE

EITHER TO LIVE UP

OR STOOP DOWN

RED SAID IT BEST-ON US PLYMOUTH ROCK LANDED

 

AND SO THIS NEEDED TO BE WRITTEN

THE STORY NEED NOT BE SCRIPTED

WE ARE BLACK

OUR HAIR COILS UP IT

DON’T SPRING BACK LIKE

THE MOVEMENT THAT WAS LOST
Via Google Image

Photo Credit: Flickr

Shed

Liquid petals captured

and discarded, yours are relinquished

Symbolized

How can one grow

If bound by the confines

of definition, I’d rather

Bleed

%d bloggers like this: