When Didn't You Know It, Poet? -- A Black Poet Answers Amiri Baraka

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By Raymond Nathaniel Turner

Lots of people noticed when poet Amiri Baraka finally awoke from his Obamaphilic trance last week to issue “The New Invasion of Africa.” Raymond Nathaniel Turner, impresario of Oakland's Upsrurge jazz Ensemble offer's this poetic answer to Baraka's question, “...When will you learn, poet, and remember so you know it...”?

 

When Didn't You Know It, Poet?

By Raymond Nathaniel Turner

 

Wordmaster, AB, Gregory Hines once

Went on stage and kissed Sammy Davis’

Taps. If ever I get there, I’ll perform the

Poetic equivalent, because in my pantheon

Of Mingus, Miles, Max, Bird, Trane,

Wayne, Nina, Sass, Abbey, Jimmy

Baldwin, Richard Wright — You, AB,

Are the father, son and holy-ghost

Of us post-Langston, Sterling poets,

 

The syn-tactical surgeon who sutured

Our severed tongues, with precision

Pen and atomic tenor, real smart

Bombs we dropped in our war on

Black bourgeois, corporate-controlled,

Government-guided, attack-Negroes like

Uncle Roy, The Men of Steele, Shelby and

Michael, Long Dong Silver, AKA, Thom-Ass,

Clarence, Clarence Pendelton, Ward Connerly,

Colin Powell and them imperialist Rice wenches…

 

But, Poet, how’d you slip on Iceberg Slim?

How’d you start snarling, growling, guarding

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue like a junkyard dog,

Muzzling the “movement” and protecting the

Bagman transferring trillions to Wall Street,

War Profiteer, Pharma, Agribiz, Oil-igarch,

Insurance mobs, uh, Reagan redux on ‘roids?

Was it his cool “middle”-class mantra?

Or, ‘cause Slim didn’t come Superfly—

Gold-plated cane, fur coat, big hat, talkin’

Slick, like Tony and Goldie, ‘bout making his

Handlers so much money that their pockets

Would look like they have the mumps?

 

Poet, when didn’t you know it?

From the git, it smelled like a pack of

Senators wind-surfing on raw sewage,

With Candidate Slim huddling for bailout

Hanky-panky with Hank Paulson,

McCain and Osama Ben Bernanke…

 

Poet, when didn’t you know it?

No wait for a gate, when Slim kept

Warlord, Bomb Gates, on from W’s crew—

But, then there was Skippy-Gate,

Harvard Professor arrested in his

Home, then invited by Slim to the

Big House for beer with the arresting

Officer. We waited with bated breath,

Figurin’ as slick as Slim is, he jus’ might

Invite families of Sean Bell and Oscar

Grant for a Big House keg and concert:

Newt Gingrich Sings Gershwin, A cappella.

 

Poet, when didn’t you know it?

Iceberg made his bones first day on the job,

Whackin’ a couple Somalis—called them pirates.

 

Poet, when didn’t you know it?

Iceberg’s brass-balled triangulation, juggling

Three wars, picking up a peace prize, torpedoing

Copenhagen with “clean coal” and nukes: priceless.

 

Poet, when didn’t you know it?

Neon signs in Guantanamo’s windows flashing OPEN,

As Slim’s “surges,” and more drone strikes than eight

W years seem to scream, “Hey, Poet, judge me not by

The color of my skin, but by content of my character!”

 

Poet, when didn’t you know it?

Amerikkka’s a crime scene—

Yellow tape stretching Maine to Florida,

San Diego to Seattle, Great Lakes to Gulf,

Would a Warlock’s incantations one January

Morning, abracadabra, magically CHANGE it?

 

Poet, when didn’t you know it?

Reckon two decades of glorious struggle,

Mastering marches, mass meetings, sit-ins

Teach-ins, boycotts, picket lines, voter

Registration and armed self-defense, taught us

“If there is no struggle, there is no progress?”

 

Poet, you know it: criticism and self-criticism

From back in the day, when some of us toted

The Origin Of The Family, Private Property And The State

Like valuable vinyl, Sketches Of Spain, Kind Of Blue and

John Coltrane And Johnny Hartman, while waiting as you

Went through that kooky, Kawaida-Karengatang-thang,

Attacking Panthers and the revolutionary trend…

But, you came back!

Making Maoist mumbo-jumbo of the united front,

Confusing the revolutionary struggle for democracy,

But, you came back!

Yeah, Poet, I hoped, prayed and wished for a wet, cold

Wikileak, waking you from the Warlock’s spell, wrenching

You, snatching you from Iceberg Slim’s grip…

In his Prison Poems, Ho Chi Minh said, the

Poet must also know how to lead an attack—

Hurry, Poet, hurry, I’ve been waiting… for you!

 

Raymond Nat Turner © 2011 All Rights Reserved


More of Raymond Nat Turner on BAR here and here, and on YouTube here and here.