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.
There is nothing mysterious about Trump’s effort to curb legal immigration. White supremacy is the explanation.
“Cuba ... a free and sovereign state with no chains binding it to anyone...with no proconsuls directing its policy, can speak with its head held high.”
Minnesota pushed back against ICE until its visible presence seemed cut in half, but Trump does not forgive or forget, and it’s a time to be organized.
The party that installed its presidential candidate without a primary vote now blames its 2024 loss on everything except its own contempt for its base and allegiance to neo-liberal policies.
"SONNY" is the latest from BAR's Poet-in-Residence.
