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A DAY WITH THE LAST POETS Go to The Last poets on the web! Masterclass: 'Poets have the right to redifine things' Things I wrote - This Is You - In Chambers - Existence In This Country |
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They are by no means the 'last' poets. The bare room, high ceiling, broken windows, in Hofgeest activity center in the southeast of Amsterdam is filled with young people, eager to speak up and eager to learn. Poets, rappers with names such as Kamikazi, Pay Tax, and Ghetto Saints. The three men from New York are pleased to see so many strong and outspoken people here today. People with lives of both struggle and joy. I feel priviliged to be here amongst them and take part in this unique experience, a workshop by three of the Last Poets. Tables, chairs, there is nothing else there, the focus is on pen and papers on the square white formica. 'Does anyone know anybody in prison?' is one of the first questions Abiodun asks. 'People in prison have one thing that we don't have,' he continues, and we all wonder what that might be, 'Time...' he says. Yes, time, ofcourse. ' Keep visiting them, tell them to use that time, to grow, to learn. Outside our agenda's are so filled with activity, we never get round to it,' This already sums up the general feel of this afternoon's workshop. The only one responsible for you are you. You can do something about it. That's revolution. A revolution inside. Make a change. Poets have a right to redifine things. 'I bet they all tought ye Colombus discovered America,' We all laugh. So they did. But America didn't need discovering. And 'You learn nothing at school, not about your own history,' One by one, we all read some stuff we have written earlier and we can feel the connection, even though we're all different people, with different backgrounds. Maroccan, Antillian, Dutch. All colours are there. It doesn't matter. The emphasis is on thought and on how to put it into words. And we all have in common that we've got something to say. Our voices resound alone, loud or hesitant, or to the beat of the drums. 'Do you know where the Djembe comes from?' Don asks. We all give it a try but nobody guesses right. Guinea it turns out to be. Ha. What do we know, eh? Umar has asked us earlier on to write something about 'Existence In This Country'. By the end of the afternoon the group of individuals has turned into a group of together we are strong people. We all wrote something. 'You can't do it alone. Work together' is the motto by that time, and we share adresses and phonenumbers all around. We'll meet again. |
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| This Is You This is you A scratch in your face skin screaming words bleeding with a cry A taste of today's pain burning screetching words with nails in your face, sharp You don't run You come winning Love again beginning with my kiss on the scratch on your cheek Lace The mark that is the price of pride Lightning in your eyes sets fire to you and me sets on fire those words burning overturning She's afraid the fat woman in front of you she might be like you and me Don't see it Don't feel it the likes of us Dykes Imagine that! 'You be better off raped!' Words in her fingers like gunpowder Words in the hands of a lady shooting another hole in your heart And you Sick of it Don't take that shit Not putting down the bags in your hands you went harmless You spelled 'What's y'r beef?' Then Polished nails The scratch in your face This is you Standing up and we walk once again We live once again We talk once again Why the fight once again for love once again Joke Kaviaar, may 11, 2004 More english poetry |
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| In Chambers
In chambers we speak In chambers we rest, poets of the low lands, where life is good like a sip of wine Where tongues just root They do not climb They only sigh They don't ask why in chambers where there is no trying to change, change is last thing on our mind A waste of time to seek to find a higher ground where the eye can reach beyond the streets of our inspiration A nation asleep where dreams never weep They just lay there and when we wake up We don't wake up We just sit and hide in chambers where we speak where words remain weak 'cause to be strong It is terror to the heart Joke Kaviaar, may 11, 2004 More english poetry |
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| Existence In This Country
This land It's the world on a platter but it's not It's a piece of old bread and me, I speak and make it sound I eat from it and taste it's salt Breaking it up Walls of glass crashing the fences of this land Smell the burning of the old fresh wheat Joke Kaviaar, may 11, 2004 More english poetry |
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