ChickenBones: A Journal
for Literary & Artistic African-American Themes
I want to give Art Blakey’s drumsticks /
to some child without a father / to use
as chopsticks/ to pick the stars from
beards of giraffes/ sitting on milk
crates/ in front of liquor stores
Dancing in a Book’s Arms
A. Rita Gaines Reviews Kamau Daáood’s
City Lights Books (San Francisco, 2005)
In The Language of Saxophones: Selected Poems, Kamau Daáood compellingly broadens my view and experience of American literature written with African specificity.
Daáood swings a linguistic saxophone. Daáood is the saxophonist in James Baldwins Another Country “humping the air, filling his barrel chest, … and screaming through the horn.”
Daáood–writer, word musician, arts institution founder, and ipso facto community arts activist and healerdoes all he does with African and African American specificity to artistically confront this worlds wars against humanity and the ecology. Moved by a poet, compelled by a linguistic saxophone, I am with all that.
There is nothing to do but concur with Daáoods publicists that he “is a powerful artistic and social force, an inspired seer/seeker. Whether collaborating with renowned musicians, heading up a performance group, or inspiring and nurturing new talent, he speaks to and from the urgency of his time.” There is nothing else to do I mean except dance with the book.
Daáoods The Language of Saxophones: Selected Poems is poetry to dance to, with and for. If you can agree with Columbia Encyclopedia that “dance is the art of precise, expressive, and graceful human movement [feeling and action united], traditionally, but not necessarily, performed in accord with musical accompaniment,” then it might also be said Daáoods poems actually dance.
Here in The Language are South Central Los Angeles ballets, woulousodongs, capoiera/calypso/condomble moves. Daáoods poems boogie for wallflower readers stuck on spectating and the dance-ready alike.
These poems move energy multidirectionally and simultaneously as easily as, according to the African Movement Vocabulary presented in When The Spirit Moves: African American Dance in History and Art, “African dance moves all parts of the body, in contrast to many European forms that rely mostly on arm and leg movement.”
Out on Lawrence Ferlinghettis City Lights Books, #57 of the Pocket Poets Series, The Languagea precious-sized 5″x6.25″ bookis 6’5″ Daáoods third, counting two rare now out-of-print collectors item chapbooks.
Long-awaited, this 1970 to 2004 collection, The Language, is a brand of think-on-your-feet haute culture for every man, poetry provocative as the lyrics of Marvin Gaye, that other favored native Angeleno prophet.
Daáood is a prophet with honors. Writers Chris Abani, S. Pearl Sharp, Lynell George, Erin Aubry Kaplan, Merilene Murphy and Michael Datcher have long sung his praises.
“There are prophets among us and Kamau Daáood is one of them,” writes Abani, author of GraceLand and Dog Woman. “His poems are psalms. His language shimmers, raging against injustice and racism, yet held in tender balance. […] His art is an abiding love for the world. His genius is that he believes it.”
Second to fathering and building community arts institutions in Los Angeles (especially the Watts Towers arts programs and World Stage literary series’ Anansi Writers Workshop), Daáood has written and performed for more than 30 years.
Daáoods poetry belongs to a vital tradition of indigenous American art rooted in African techniques; that canon that is the Anansi taletellers, bebops, hip hops and the linguistic saxophonists historically transported and translated easily to forthcoming artistic emanations.
Inarguably perhaps, Rex Butters writes in All About Jazz, Daáood “holds his own, the words building imagistic phrases flashing pictures to the minds eye, journeying back to reinforce the original idea, just like a saxophone solo.”
Take “Blakeys Sticks” (a favored track on the widely acclaimed Leimert Park compact disc release by MAMA Foundation), offered in the Wounded with a Blessing section of The Language:
I want to give Art Blakey’s drumsticks/
to some child without a father/ to use
as chopsticks/ to pick the stars from
beards of giraffes/ sitting on milk
crates/ in front of liquor stores// men
who have swallowed grief/ and
extracted the secret of seasons/ men
who have suffered and/ found the
stillness of a Mali morning/ riding the
red eyeball of/ a hurricane/ on a street
corner in Watts
In “Blakeys Drumsticks,” Daáood swings a kind and strong linguistic axe, not so much against words long-trapped in petrified forests long-deprived of this style of wind and breath, but moreso to invite inside those considered outside the possibilities of these winds, these breaths in to all-inclusive blooming, everlasting springtimes. Bless the poet. Daáoods kind and strong linguistic axe rings proactive, reminds us to breathe against the need to possess and consume without sharing and against holding back from giving back.
Daáood re-introduces in “Blakeys Drumsticks” linguistic intention in jazz implications, encourages humility as a way of speaking, offers the consummate reader/listener a way of seeing Art Blakeys highly cherished drumsticks being given to a nameless (any) child without a father.
The Language is purely Daáoods, his takes on Jimi Hendrix, Billie Holiday, Horace Tapscott, Bob Kaufman, drumbeats rising to clouds returned to earth as trees in Los Angeles Leimert Park where he lives and poets under the moniker of “word musician.”
This poetry of Daáoods, who early fed the poetry bug eating at him as one of the last-wavers of Budd Schulbergs Watts Writers Workshop that started in the 1960s and honed skills with the Pan-Afrikan Peoples Arkestra under the direction of pianist and composer Horace Tapscott (1934-1999) in the 1970s, is bound for world acclaim.
On these precious-sized pages of The Language, Daáood humbly gives us 35 poems which are more than the sum of their parts. These 35 poems are the writers choice at 56 to express, as only a word musician would, 34 years of constant motion, dervishes inspired by upward sound spirals, captured sparks rising off a pad from an ever-ready pen.
An angst-ridden teen back in the 1960s who at 18 could have joined the Last Poets and toured the world, Daáoods ever-ready pen and pad stayed put in Los Angeles where he built a lighthouse for newer writers on Degnan Boulevard at the World Stage, an arts education and performance gallery he co-founded with master drummer Billy Higgins (1936-2001) in 1989.
The Language is an important book. It is more than immoveable type bound by a handsome silver blue cover. There is definitely more to The Language inside at the gut level than superficial wordplay and unmoving cleverness. Daáood is a true word musician whose poems rise off the page when read and become again the pure sonic vibrations of the writers intentions. Consistent with the African art tradition of beauty and purpose wed, Daáoods is not the poetry of idolatry to idle nouns and do-nothing verbs. Daáoods poems are actionable.
The Language is the real deal. Whirling along lights fantastic in the arms of poetry that breathes and belongs to word dancers and wallflowers alike, The Language is poetry for the famous and the nameless–men, women, children and trees.
Some of the poems in The Language are to/about people Daáood wants to make sure we know like his sons, RaSudan and Akhenaton, or people he wishes we knew better like his mother, Delores Keyes.
“Blue Pachuca,” for Daáoods mother, in the Search for the Purest Water on Earth section of The Language, is a pivotal poem in this collection:
Blue Pachuca/ lady of sorrow/ your
father is from the Philippines/ Manila
and Africa in your bloodstream/ and
sailed to me, Negrito// my uncle is my
. . . .
Blue Pachuca/ hair of Manila in blue
light/ bebop and salsa laughter/ you
have taken your mystery with you/
gone like the silent flight/ of birds of
paradise/ from a vase/ of warm tears
It is not easy to re-focus how the world looks at and experiences art through African and African American lenses, but it is time and true to that, Daáood has done well. Straight, no chaser, The Language poems rock. Here is music to dance to. Here are dedications to/for people and concepts the author knows and shares. Here are words that can reconnect the person, any person (you?) to earth mother Africa and to the holistic dynamics of African art.
In ChickenBones: A Journal for Literary & Artistic African-American Themes, Kalamu ya Salaam asserts, “Most literary criticism gives short shrift to, and very little critical understanding of, black speech/black music as a source of black poetry. Most literary criticism does not consider that our [African] ancestral mother tongues were tonal languages, which to some non-Africans sound like singing rather than talking.” Ya Salaam continues, “[A]ll poetry started out as sound rather than text, closer to song than to monotone talking.
“Moreover, even the paragon of English poetry, … even Shakespeare was primarily working in an oral tradition using the vernacular of his day. It is not inappropriate to argue that Shakespeare created the English language as a vehicle for literature. During his day, most literature was written in Latin or French. Shakespeare elevated folk forms and the peasant patois of his era to a literary art form. Shakespeare took the vernacular and created high art.”
In stride with other never-miss-a-beat jazz poetsJayne Cortez, Sekou Sundiata and ya Salaam, Daáood has shown and continues to show us African-influenced literary art as words that do anything but handsomely sit idly on the shelf. The Language is energy moving. Catch it dancing, if you can.
From the title poem, “The Language of Saxophones“:
prana moving through time
signatures/ bop blown through a
wormhole/ aimed at the earlobe of
God/ pondered DNA in saxophone
solos/ rising over the hills of the lips/
whirling wonder/ articulating the
language of bruises and bliss/ in
urban lit fires of spirits/ places and
spaces of being/ if you had been there/
you know there
bibles and juke joints/ slurring the
edge of english/ where speech collides
with guinea/ vocal chords plaited like/
nooses knots and braided whips/ rise
from the throat/ remembrance of cruel
tattoes// collected oratories of
solitude/ sometimes the eyes become
the ears/ sometimes the hands sing of
sacred act/ to vibrate the air/ and
shape meaning/ write on the wind/
with reverence/ the will of a mind/
seasoned in the wanderings of silence/
a language/ common as the song of
water// truth is
Source: Kamau Daáood. The Language of Saxophones: Selected Poems
. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 2005. (pp. 1-4)
a. rita gaines — my credentials? my credentials are my words shaped to deeds. i am a writer. i’ve been at it since age four or five, a published journalist since age 12 or 13, etc., etc. and here i am, publisher and writer from birth who finally sees herself as 150% publisher and writer plus some, yay! i could say wanda coleman sent me, ntozake, uncle ish, quincy, reg e. gaines, kalamu or amiri, but i’m’a just go on my own word and words. http://www.telepoetics.com email@example.com
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By Daniel Yergin
Renowned energy authority Daniel Yergin continues the riveting story begun in his Pulitzer Prize winning book, The Prize, in this gripping account of the quest for the energy the world needsand the power and riches that come with it. A master story teller as well as one of the world’s great experts, Yergin proves that energy is truly the engine of global political and economic change, as well as central to the battle over climate change. From the jammed streets of Beijing, the shores of the Caspian Sea, and the conflicts in the Mideast, to Capitol Hill and Silicon Valley, Yergin takes us inside the decisions and choices that are shaping our future. Without understanding the realities of energy examined in The Quest, we may surrender our place at the helm of history. One of our great narrative writers, Yergin tells the inside storiesof the oil market, the rise of the “petrostate,” the race to control the resources of the former Soviet empire, and the massive corporate mergers that transformed the oil landscape. He shows how the drama of oilthe struggle for access to it, the battle for control, the insecurity of supply, the consequences of its use, its impact on the global economy, and the geopolitics that dominate itwill continue to shape our world. He takes on the toughest questionswill we run out of oil, and are China and the United States destined to conflict over oil? Yergin also reveals the surprising and turbulent history of nuclear, coal, electricity, and natural gas. He investigates the “rebirth of renewables” biofuels and wind, as well as solar energy, which venture capitalists are betting will be “the next big thing” for meeting the needs of a growing world economy. He makes clear why understanding this greening landscape and its future role are crucial.
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A Novel by Jesmyn Ward
On one level, Salvage the Bones is a simple story about a poor black family thats about to be trashed by one of the most deadly hurricanes in U.S. history. What makes the novel so powerful, though, is the way Ward winds private passions with that menace gathering force out in the Gulf of Mexico. Without a hint of pretension, in the simple lives of these poor people living among chickens and abandoned cars, she evokes the tenacious love and desperation of classical tragedy. The force that pushes back against Katrinas inexorable winds is the voice of Wards narrator, a 14-year-old girl named Esch, the only daughter among four siblings. Precocious, passionate and sensitive, she speaks almost entirely in phrases soaked in her familys raw land. Everything here is gritty, loamy and alive, as though the very soil were animated. Her brothers blood smells like wet hot earth after summer rain. . . . His scalp looks like fresh turned dirt. Her fathers hands are like gravel, while her own hand slides through his grip like a wet fish, and a handsome boys muscles jabbered like chickens. Admittedly, Ward can push so hard on this simile-obsessed style that her paragraphs risk sounding like a compost heap, but this isnt usually just metaphor for metaphors sake. She conveys something fundamental about Eschs fluid state of mind: her figurative sense of the world in which all things correspond and connect. She and her brothers live in a ramshackle house steeped in grief since their mother died giving birth to her last child. . . . What remains, whats salvaged, is something indomitable in these tough siblings, the strength of their love, the permanence of their devotion.WashingtonPost
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From The World and Africa, 1965
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posted 24 September 2005