ETHERIDGE KNIGHT & FERNANDO PESSOA
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FERNANDO PESSOA
XVIII. (from 35 Sonnets)

Indefinite space, which, by co-substance night,
In one black mystery two void mysteries blends;
The stray stars, whose innumerable light
Repeats one mystery till conjecture ends;
The stream of time, known by birth-bursting bubbles;
The gulf of silence, empty even of nought;
Thought’s high-walled maze, which the outed owner troubles
Because the string’s lost and the plan forgot:
When I think on this and that here I stand,
The thinker of these thoughts, emptily wise,
Holding up to my thinking my thing-hand
And looking at it with thought-alien eyes,
The prayer of my wonder looketh past
The universal darkness lone and vast.

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TPB's notes: find the entire sonnets here: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/19978/19978-pdf.pdf

ETHERIDGE KNIGHT
Feeling Fucked Up

Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs—
Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing

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TPB's notes: Etheridge Knight began writing poetry while an inmate at the Indiana State Prison. When Knight entered prison, he was already an accomplished reciter of "toasts"—long, memorized, narrative poems, often in rhymed couplets, in which "sexual exploits, drug activities, and violent aggressive conflicts involving a cast of familiar folk, street slang, drug and other specialized argot, and often obscenities" are related and/or used in the 'toast'. Toast-reciting at Indiana State Prison not only refined Knight's expertise in this traditional Afro-American art form but also gave him a sense of identity and an understanding of the possibilities of poetry. Through 'toast', he began to believe that poetry could simultaneously show him who he was and connect him with other people.

Knight had his 'prison break', so to speak, when Dudley Randall, the founder of Broadside Press, became interested in his work and began to visit Knight regularly in prison, giving Knight hope beyond prison toast.  - culled from https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/48752#about

THE AMERICAN SONG: BILLIE HOLIDAY, NINA SIMONE

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BILLIE HOLIDAY
Strange Fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

Pastoral scene of the gallant south
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop

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TPB's note: FOUND NOTES: Songwriters: FROST, DAMON / PHIRI, AARON

NINA SIMONE
Feeling Good

Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Breeze driftin' on by you know how I feel.

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life for me yeah

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me
ouh
And I'm feeling good

Fish in the sea you know how I feel
River running free you know how I feel
Blossom on the tree you know how I feel

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don't you know
Butterflies all havin' fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done that's what I mean
And this old world is a new world
And a bold world for me

Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me

And I'm feeling good

________________

TPB's notes: found notes: Songwriters: LESLIE BRICUSSE, ANTHONY NEWLEY 

GWENDOLYN BROOKS & CURTIS MAYFIELD
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GWENDOLYN BROOKS
Kitchenette Building

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”
But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms
Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?
We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.

__________ 

TPB's notes: n/a

CURTIS MAYFIELD
New World Order

Darkness no longer, a child is born
Mother shed tears of joy as baby test his lungs
My daddy's not there where he ought to be
Somewhere in Georgia, skinning and shooting craps on his knees

Another victim born out here in the hood
And based on statistics it really ain't all good
Welfare takes the tab and daddy can't sign
And it can't be seen, the family becomes a crime

The hunt is on and brother you're the prey
Serving time in jail, it just ain't the way
I'm living so hard, baby, that my hair is gray
We got to make a change, it's a brand new day

A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race
A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race

Operation influx and it's on the way
We've just marched a million plus the other day
Look we all witnessed the sweat rolling down Ms Liberty's head
She knows the sleeping giant is no longer sleeping dead

Oh, what a fulfillment of prophecy
Let us teach the children freedom's never been free
It's okay to cry, go ahead and cry
'Cause Jesus wept but hope and faith he kept
It's a new day

A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race
A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race

The die has been cast and there's no need to fear
'Cause people, the answer to your prayers are here
Sister Mary don't you weep, tell Martha not to moan
We need the love and daddy's coming home

There's no need to worry, the times dictate a plan
Mother Earth's given birth to a brand new man
Sister I know you're misunderstood
But hold on to your man 'cause the future looks good
It's a new day

A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race
A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race

Beware of the lies and false prophecies
We are many with eyes but don't all really see
You must be merciful my friend to obtain the same
So if you break the chain don't pass the blame

We should say unto all and I'll say it again
It's not just to win, shake a hand, make a friend
We who are pure at heart somehow might see
There's still light in the world, come rejoice with me
It's a new day

A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race
A new world order, a brand new day
A change of mind for the human race

It's a new day, it's a new day
It's a new day, it's a new day
It's a new day
Yes, Lord, it's a brand new day

__________________ 

TPB's notes: Songwriters MAYFIELD, CURTIS L. / FLEMING, BRIAN KEITH / THOMAS, RAIMUNDO. Published by Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., ACORN PUBLISHING. Curtis Mayfield - New World Order

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE & LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI
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CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Anywhere Out of The World

This life is a hospital in which each patient is possessed by the desire to change beds. One wants to suffer in front of the stove and another believes that he will get well near the window.

It always seems to me that I will be better off there where I am not, and this question of moving about is one that I discuss endlessly with my soul

"Tell me, my soul, my poor chilled soul, what would you think about going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you'll be able to soak up the sun like a lizard there. That city is on the shore; they say that it is built all out of marble, and that the people there have such a hatred of the vegetable, that they tear down all the trees. There's a country after your own heart -- a landscape made out of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!"

My soul does not reply.

"Because you love rest so much, combined with the spectacle of movement, do you want to come and live in Holland, that beatifying land? Perhaps you will be entertained in that country whose image you have so often admired in museums. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts and ships anchored at the foot of houses?"

My soul remains mute.

"Does Batavia please you more, perhaps? There we would find, after all, the European spirit married to tropical beauty."

Not a word. -- Is my soul dead?

Have you then reached such a degree of torpor that you are only happy with your illness? If that's the case, let us flee toward lands that are the analogies of Death. -- I've got it, poor soul! We'll pack our bags for Torneo. Let's go even further, to the far end of the Baltic. Even further from life if that is possible: let's go live at the pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and augments monotony, that half of nothingness. There we could take long baths in the shadows, while, to entertain us, the aurora borealis send us from time to time its pink sheaf of sparkling light, like the reflection of fireworks in Hell!"

Finally, my soul explodes, and wisely she shrieks at me: "It doesn't matter where! It doesn't matter where! As long as it's out of this world!"

THE ORIGINAL FRENCH VERSION:

CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
N'importe où hors du monde

Cette vie est un hôpital où chaque malade est possédé du désir de changer de lit. Celui-ci voudrait souffrir en face du poële, et celui-là croit qu'il guérirait à côté de la fenêtre.

Il me semble que je serais toujours bien là où je ne suis pas, et cette question de déménagement en est une que je discute sans cesse avec mon âme.

«Dis-moi, mon âme, pauvre âme refroidie, que penserais-tu d'aller d'habiter Lisbonne? Il doit y faire chaud, et tu t'y ragaillardirais comme un lézard. Cette ville est au bord de l'eau; on dit qu'elle est bâtie en marbre, et que le peuple y a une telle haine du végétal, qu'il arrache tous les arbres. Voilà un paysage selon ton goût; un paysage fait avec la lumière et le minéral, et le liquide pour les réfléchir!»

Mon âme ne répond pas.

«Puisque tu aimes tant le repos, avec le spectacle du mouvement, veux-tu venir habiter la Hollande, cette terre béatifiante? Peut-être te divertiras-tu dans cette contrée dont tu as souvent admiré l'image dans les musées. Que penserais-tu de Rotterdam, toi qui aimes les forêts de mâts, et les navires amarrés au pied des maisons?»

Mon âme reste muette.

«Batavia te sourirait peut-être davantage? Nous y trouverions d'ailleurs l'esprit de l'Europe marié à la beauté tropicale.»

Pas un mot. -- Mon âme serait-elle morte?

En es-tu donc venue à ce point d'engourdissement que tu ne te plaises que dans ton mal? S'il en est ainsi, fuyons vers les pays qui sont les analogies de la Mort. -- Je tiens notre affaire, pauvre âme! Nous ferons nos malles pour Tornéo. Allons plus loin encore, à l'extrême bout de la Baltique; encore plus loin de la vie, si c'est possible; installons-nous au pôle. Là le soleil ne frise qu'obliquement la terre, et les lentes alternatives de la lumière et de la nuit suppriment la variété et augmentent la monotonie, cette moitié du néant. Là, nous pourrons prendre de longs bains de ténèbres, cependant que, pour nous divertir, les aurores boréales nous enverront de temps en temps leurs gerbes roses, comme des reflets d'un feu d'artifice de l'Enfer!»

Enfin, mon âme fait explosion, et sagement elle me crie: «N'importe où! n'importe où! pourvu que ce soit hors de ce monde!»

__________
TPB's notes: n/a

______________________

LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI
Dog

The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn’t hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit’s Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He’s afraid of Coit’s Tower
but he’s not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog’s life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
barking
democratic dog
engaged in real
free enterprise
with something to say
about ontology
something to say
about reality
and how to see it
and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
his picture taken
for Victor Records
listening for
His Master’s Voice
and looking
like a living questionmark
into the
great gramophone
of puzzling existence
with its wondrous hollow horn
which always seems
just about to spout forth
some Victorious answer
to everything

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TPB's notes: The Lawrence Ferlinghetti Fellowship for graduate studies is open to application starting this year. Google it. 

PS: the poem above does not end in the format we have put here. we just can't get the format. . see how ferlinghetti resort back to spatial preciousness at the end of the poem: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/238100