I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library- Jorge Borges

Saturday, 28 May 2011

Gil Scott-Heron. April 1, 1949 – May 27, 2011

I heard about Heron's death today and I am truly sad. He was an exceptional poet, musician, and activist. I included him in the opening paragraph of my poetry assignment only two weeks ago. Here I speak about his influence:

''Leaving a democracy to live in a Communist country serves as an unlikely introduction to poetry, but that is how it began for me. I was teaching English in China and quickly became shocked at how aspects of the country operated; in a nutshell Mao was considered a God, global empire was pushed at the expense of its people and horrific injustices like Tiananmen Square were swept under the carpet. This is when my appreciation for poets like Allen Ginsberg and Gil Scott-Heron began to grow. Living in a country for eight months where popular networking sites like Youtube, Facebook and Twitter were banned along with many Google pages, Heron’s 1970s poem The Revolution Will Not Be Televised became relevant to me then, as it had been to others in the generation it was written. I began to appreciate how poetry can be used to dismantle personal prejudice and how it can initiate new ways of thinking [...].''

Few people contributed to performance poetry in the way that he did. The only light in this loss is that his lyrical talents will be more appreciated and enjoyed now more than ever. RIP.

Thursday, 26 May 2011

The Importance of Pausing

my tongue is too small for my mouth
it has to stretch for dental consonants.
the roof of my mouth wishes it could kneel down
before my tongue and bridge the gap,
washing over this vertiginous feeling
that all this extra work is causing

i need to breath properly when i talk
separate each word with an invisible knot
make a sentence
and pause [known as tying the knot]
pause again if i’m emphasising a

             [pause for three seconds]
                   i'm scared to kiss
             [pause for three seconds]

sentences begin to run smoothly again
but as soon as i lose myself in excitement, frustration, importance;
when words matter the most, everyone goes,
''Come again''

Monday, 23 May 2011


It was a good day
when I met Bukowski.
He held my hand.
Real tight.
Then he carried me over his shoulder
from the post office to his place.
His door was marked ''Hank's House''.
The walls were stained yellow.
He sat me down on his drawers and
untied my rabbit fur boots and
placed them on his windowsill.
He stroked them for a while,
as though they were one of his beloved cats.

Then he laid down on the floor next to his bed.
He told me to think of his chest as
a spring board.
''Imagine you’re trying to touch the ceiling and
I thought this was strange so I asked why.
''Because I want to feel the weight of you on my
heart.'' he replied.
So I stepped on his chest
(his skin felt loose beneath my feet) and jumped.
As I did he caught my ankles
And my arms went thrashing through the air.