Quasi-triple Bronze - A dedication to Heather from Mrz. Badvo

Posted 15 Oct 2004 at 18:18 UTC by badvogato Share This

Inspired by Robert Frost's poem "Triple Bronze", plus a most recent encounter with the writing of Ewuare Osayande "Art at War - Revolutionary art against cultural imperalism" on Black Commentator issue 108, also to commemorate our Big Brother raph's divorcing mass

Quasi-triple Bronze
   - A dedication to Heather from Mrz. Badvogato of Allthings.GO

Professor Heather, Be my confessor for i am having an affair with your once-beloved man.

Forgiveness comes and goes Between Him and me Compassion sways unbound within this crowded virgule hall.

Should you ask us all, Who's the fairest of all? He says my invention and intention is one of the fairest at my best. I say I love its bareness but I AM the fairest. But the crowd roared Obey nature and man's rule only then will thy beauty shine through. So I asked What is nature and man But I AM?

God looks down from above His voice thunders in a hiss If thou seek me AllThings.GO but I in Thee.

ps. Robert Frost's "Triple Bronze" ( with addition of quasi-part/ by brother badvo)

* Triple Bronze
The Infinite's being so wide
Is the reason the Power provide
For inner defense my hide
For next defense outside.

I made myself this time Of wood or granite or lime A wall too hard for crime Either to breach or climb.

Then a number us agree On a national/sexual boundary. And that defense makes three Between too much and me.

'Lowcoup Too' & 'Doin' Time' by Ewuare Osayande, posted 18 Oct 2004 at 19:56 UTC by badvogato » (Master)

Ewuare Osayande's two poems reminds me of the battle we lost on Pedro the Dildo's brown city yet we triumphed with PJ and POT's exodus underground...


*Lowcoup Too <#low>* *Doin' Time

*Lowcoup Too* */for Amiri Baraka who coined the term/*

*we speak* *in sub-verse-ive speech* *lowcoup* *we done overthrew yr language long time ago* *we diction dictators who dominate the national dialogue* *not what you hear on the news* *but what is heard in the streets of America* *where the masses are active* *and alive* *as our language*

*slave legacy lingers* *deep structure is a motherfucker* *fucking up your grammatical structure* *sinful syntax* *we transgress rules that stress* *what is correct or incorrect* *every time we open our mouths* *cant no amount of schooling stop this*

*we slow down the lingo* *with our Southern drawl* *talking bout ya'll instead of you* *bout finnin to instead of going to* *say what needs to be said* *this be our linguistic legacy* *we be lying&signifying* *why you think much of our discussion* *consists of dissing&cussing?* *black boasting* *is burnt toasting* *we dont play wit wat we say* *venomous vernacular* *we spit fire* *got molatov cocktails burning under our tongues* *we'll blow a hole in yo head* *with our oral arsenals* *we use words as weapons* *battling on lyrical terrain* *where most fear to tread* *cuz language is power* *know that once the word is written on the page* *it dies* *all the books you've read* *the words are dead* *only that which is spoken remains alive* *this is how culture thrives* *like the people who speak it* *we need speech to reach the masses* *not those academic asses* *but the masses* *who dont got no BAs, MBAs or PhDs* *these are the people we communicate with* *those who speak their first tongue* *on the workplace* *where CEOs try to control how folk flow* *on the DL*

*paranoid professionals*

*wanna call for one language laws* *to be enforced* *but you cant control* *what rolls off the tongues* *of those who work for you*

*cuz theirs is a lingo of liberation* *always changing inflections and definitions* *anarchy articulations* *syllables laced with cyanide* *murdering you with murmurings* *under our breath* *rebellious rhetoric* *communicating ideas that undermine* *your authority*

*this is lowcoup* *we done overthrew yr language long time ago* *the american dialect is ours* *and we aint gonna be satisfied* *til the rest of country is ours too*

*Doin' Time*

*the downward spiral* *caught in the vortex of a life with a question mark* *the time* *that keeps on tickin* *keeps tickin* *that refuses to be paused* *in spite of the pain* *there is no respite for the weary* *no time-out* *to plan, to strategize* *our way outta this mess* *so the babies keep being born* *begotten and forgotten* *hearts growed colder* *frost-bitten by bitterness* *each day looking Grief in its grill* *its reflection seen on our faces* *our lives been turned into feces* *the waste of this place* *as the slums expand* *our demands -have fallen upon ears deafened* *by the sound of gold cuff-linked hands exchanging* *million dollar deals for the real estate* *that is the land we live on* *our get-out-the-ghetto desires have been blighted* *our existence is a sham* *a crying shame* *each day* *someone new to blame* *holed up in inner-city cement huts* *stressing out a livin?* *that aint easy* *that aint no cristal stair* *we climb on top of each other* *just to get out of the basement of our bitterness* *no accommodations we gots* *barely a cot and pot to piss in* *our lives are survival of the downpressed* *instinct kicks in* *when all rational ends* *have been deaded* *dilapidated determinations* *accommodated dreams* *our labor affords us no luxuries* *lack the means to make our lives meaningful* *just mean* *just mean* *just means that we are* *constantly conjuring up some meager semblance of an existence* *from the junk yard scraps piled high in the industrial waste plants* *of this juggernaut of bars and stars* *where we are locked down in our own demise* *hand-cuffed to our misery* *and there aint no escape* *no there aint no escape* *no getting free from this place* *the whole planet is patrolled* *and we are being caged right in our homes* *where peace is a prayer that never gets answered* *while the wealthiest go to sleep each night* *never worrying over* *what new misery will meet them tomorrow* *but each minute we contemplate* *consciously and unconsciously* *the ever-present possibility of heartache* *in existential anguish* *our pain is perpetual* *and time keeps on tickin* *keeps on tickin* *and tickin* *and* *black life been a crime since Jamestown 1619* *and we still* *doin? time* *still doin? time* *still* *doin? time*

A letter to Prof. Moorey, posted 19 Oct 2004 at 15:34 UTC by sye » (Journeyer)

Dear Prof. Moorey,

It's been a while i have a young son now a walkie and talkie Gregoriy and a terrible two too almost three when next Feburary shall flee.

As for me i've been thinking about how to come forth a definition on a forth language to hang on a Halloween scary tree.

There are the first three mathematics, music and body language and the forth is just a mixing bag of the primal three for donkey, monkey and robo-bee.

if i can't become a master and a slave of the first three it'll never stop me from mixing them up in my cup of tea and offer it to my little Gregoriy.

Together with bits of history from his mother's old and new country lane many broken potty and fresh old poetry to yoyo ma and gogo games along side those letters ABC sung by Robert Frosty.

Trust me there's more about the beauty of language as every new human being must ponder upon it or else he ceases to be a primal being as God has made him to be.

William Blake &quoA poison Tree&quo, posted 29 Oct 2004 at 03:52 UTC by badvogato » (Master)

A poison Tree

I was angry with my friend, I tol my wrath, my wrath did end; I was angry with my foe, I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole When the night had veil'd the pole; In the morning glad I see My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.

HeHeHoHoHaHa Oolala...

'No Platonic Love' - William Cartwright, posted 29 Oct 2004 at 04:03 UTC by badvogato » (Master)

No Platonic Love

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds, And hearts exchange'd for hearts; that spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds, And mix their subt'lest parts; That two unbodied essences may kiss, And then like Angels, twists and feel one Bliss.

I was that silly thing that once was wrought To practice this thin love; I climb'd from sex to soul, from soul to thought; But thinking there to move, Headlong I rolled from thought to soul, and then From soul I lighted at the sex again.

As some strict down-looked men pretend to fast, Who yet in closets eat; So lovers who profess they spirits taste, Feed yet no grosser meat; I know they boast they souls to souls convey, Howeve'r they meet, the body is the way.

Come, I will undeceive thee, they that tread Those vain aerial ways, Are like young heirs and alchemists misled To waste their wealth and days, For searching thus to be for ever rich, They only find a med'cine for the itch.

And God says there ain't no sex and body with M & M playtonic gay.

Andrei Voznesensky 'Nostalgia for the present', posted 31 Oct 2004 at 02:30 UTC by sye » (Journeyer)


I don't know about the rest of you, but I feel the curelest nostalgia - not for the past - but nostalgia for the present.

A novice desires to approach the Lord but is permitted to do so only by her Superior. I beg to be joined, without intermediary to the present.

It's as if I had done something wrong, Not I even - but others. I fall down in a field and feel nostalgia for the living earth.

No one can ever tear you away, and yet when I embrace you again I feel overcome by terrible pain as if you were being stolen from me.

When I hear the nasty tirades of a friend who has taken a false step, I don't look for what he seems to be, I grieve for what he really is.

A window opening on a garden will not redeem loneliness. I long not for art - I c hoke on my craving for the reality.

And when the Mafia laughs in my face idiotically, I say: "Idiots are all in the past. The present calls for fuller understanding."

Black water spurts from the faucet, Blackish water, stale water, rusty water flows from the faucet - I'll wait for the real water to come.

Whatever is past is past. So much the better. But I bite at it as at a mystery, nostalgia for the impending present. And I'll never catch hold of it.

*note: stopped by a local 'half price' bookstore and got back home with these three books. "Nostalgia for the present", poems by Andrei Voznesensky; "The Inferno of Dante" - a new verse translation by Robert Pinsky; "The Robert Frost Reader" - poetry and prose (edited by Edward Connery Lathem, et al). As if by divine intervention, they simply appeared on the shelf for my ownership. darn.

'The Definition of Love' by Andrew Marvell ( 1621 - 1678), posted 2 Nov 2004 at 05:26 UTC by badvogato » (Master)

The Definition of Love

My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis for object strange and high: It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.

Magnanimous Despair alone Could show me so divine a thing, Where febble Hope could ne'er have flown But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.

And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixed, But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.

For Fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close: Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic power depose.

And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant poles have placed, (Though love's whole world on us doth wheel) Not by themselves to be embraced.

Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear, And, us to join, the world should all Be cramped into a planisphere.

As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.

Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.

'Silent Tingling' by Andrei Voznesensky, posted 2 Nov 2004 at 05:40 UTC by sye » (Journeyer)

(translated by Allen Ginsberg)

Must be thousands of sweet gourmets rustling through leaf crowded branches, thrushes cracking seedling shells all over America like crystalline carillon bells, a really strange silent tingling.

Silent carillons, not to celebrate Main Street but rustling up some food their only scene -- No miracle but millions of hungry souls silently tingling.

This tingling silence heralds an orgy of hermit thrushes eating, like thousands of song-men's clapsticks clacking or faraway Moscow's million bells -- some dream collective -- generational vogue.

Thrush communes don't be afraid of the big Broom, your flock continues an ancient tradition, now all over America - collective marriage; though some detractors put down your in-group, not big enough!

A silent Individualist in top hat & tails drest coffinlike denounces your collective struggles in bed -- but his own wife wears rings on every finger, as if she would up in a group marriage.

This gentle gang's only enemy's insects cleaning up bark parasites - silently, silently -- Anybody can crush bones and oink louder but can't beat this silent tingling.

Fast New York Sydney chicks -- thanks Brisbane birds & Chicago thrushes for your own silent tingling - your cities' trees' leaves tremble like golden curlicues on Byzantine crosses

Maybe someday our descendants 'll ask about this poet - What'd he sing about? I didn't ring Halleluiah bells, I didn't clang leg-irons, I was silently tingling.

'TO BE IN LOVE' - Gwendolyn Brooks, posted 4 Nov 2004 at 17:17 UTC by badvogato » (Master)


To be in love Is to touch with a lighter hand. In yourself you stretch, you are well. You look at things Through his eyes. A cardinal is red. A sky is blue. Suddenly you know he knows too. He is not there but You know you are tasting together The winter, or a light spring weather. His hand to take your hand is overmuch. Too much to bear. You cannot look in his eyes Because your pulse must not say What must not be said. When he Shuts a door- Is not there Your arms are water. And you are free With a ghastly freedom. You are the beautiful half Of a golden hurt. You remember and covet his mouth To touch, to whisper on. Oh when to declare Is certain Death! Oh when to apprize Is to mesmerize To see fall down, the Column of Gold, Into the commonest ash.

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