THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT; A CHAPTER FROM MY MASTER'S THESIS IN ENGLISH, 'SAY IT LOUD' (NORWEGIAN UNIVERSITY OF SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY (NTNU), TRONDHEIM, 2012.) I JUST INTERVIEWED MR SALAAM IN NEW ORLEANS, AND THAT CONVERSATION WILL BE THE BASIS OF A WRITTEN PIECE TO BE PUBLISHED IN EARLY 2017.
Kalamu ya Salaam; The Pen of Peace
‘What does not change / is the will to change’ - Charles Olson
The African American artist, whether a musician, dancer, actor, writer or visual artist, has always been a person faced by an important choice: how to be part of an art or entertainment world controlled by white executives, and still retain one’s integrity and dignity as an African American. The picture of black musicians as entirely happy creatures, playing their banjos and singing their funny little songs, was an image almost entirely created by white entertainment moguls of the late 1800s and early parts of the next century. The practice of minstrelsy – racist beyond compare – in which white performers put on black make-up and mimicked African American speech, songs and manners, built up an image of what black people were supposed to be like; an image that is still vaguely present in the back of many people’s minds. Through minstrelsy, African American artistic contribution, like for instance the playing of banjos, was mocked and ridiculed to such an extent that the instrument is all but non-existent among young black people today. That is sad, considering that the instrument remains one clear link back to Africa, where banjo-like instruments have been made and played, probably for thousands of years. (In 2008, the guitarist and banjoist Otis Taylor released RECAPTURING THE BANJO, a cd celebrating black banjo music, along with several young black musicians who have taken up the instrument, on Telarc Records. The aim was to show how the instrument is a major contribution to all American music, and that it is an African American creation, rather than a white country and western invention.)
Early jazz artists soon experienced the extent to which the music business was run by white opportunists and money-grabbers. To this day, there are disputes about royalties for songs dating back to the 1920s or earlier. Relatives of black songwriters and composers – who never received dollar one, or even songwriting credits, for songs that later became popular - are claiming the rights to the music, and to back payments. Much has been written about this, and with that in mind, it would indeed be interesting to examine the overall treatment of black artists in other fields as well. There is an apparent need for a thorough history of African American visual arts, examining the business surrounding it, in addition to the actual art. (One such study is AFRICAN AMERICAN VISUAL ARTS: FROM SLAVERY TO THE PRESENT, by Celeste-Marie Bernier, North Carolina, 2008. Likewise, a look into the history of African American publishing would also appear to be interesting.)
Due to such stereotyping, black artists have often had to walk a tight rope, with the risk of being seen as ‘bad niggers’, ungrateful for the possibilities ‘kindly given to them’ by the white society as a whole. One of the most famous examples of this is the story of Paul Robeson (1898-1976), the great singer, actor, athlete, lawyer and activist, who refused to accept that his pigment should hinder him in doing whatever a white person would take for granted. Robeson’s radical political views, outspoken activism and support for the Soviet Union, made him a pariah in large parts of the American public view. His passport was revoked, he was accused of Communist sympathies, and he even suspected that the FBI, CIA and others were trying to control his mind by chemically manipulating the food he ate. Due to his unflinching activist stance, Robeson was excluded, banned and blacklisted, and went from a brilliant career to almost total oblivion towards the end of his life. Other black artists have had similar experiences, including Amiri Baraka, whose position as Poet Laureate of New Jersey provoked a great many people after Baraka’s publication of ‘Somebody Blew Up America’, as mentioned earlier. The position was abolished, with Baraka still in it, and court cases in the wake of it led to nothing. The bottom line is; an African American public figure had better be grateful for white society’s hand-me-downs; smile, jump and dance on cue, and be glad about whatever he or she has been given. If not, it will be taken away again.
The artist – poet, musician, actor, dancer – as activist is an issue which is ever relevant to the study of African American writing. Once again, the notion of writing as political in itself for African Americans must be considered important. A writer is something more than ‘just’ a poet or a storyteller – in many cases, rather a voice talking to, or on behalf of, a community. The New Orleans-based writer Kalamu ya Salaam is one such figure within contemporary African American literature. Born Vallery Ferdinand III on March 24, 1947, (changing his name to Kalamu ya Salaam, Swahili for ‘pen of peace’, in 1970) he is still a very active and prolific writer, whose work is not limited to traditional outlets such as books and printed texts; it also includes film, performance, recordings and internet publishing. His output is large, especially through his various blogs (http://wordup.posterous.com/ and http://kalamu.posterous.com/ among them), which cover general, political/ideological issues, as well as music criticism, poetry and fiction. In addition, he has been an organizer of writers’ workshops, such as the NOMMO Literary Center (a weekly workshop for black writers) and Students at the Center, a writing program for students in New Orleans’ public schools. Kalamu ya Salaam often refers to himself as a ‘neo-griot’, engaged in an artistic practice rooted in the work and function of the traditional African griots. The griots had an important artistic role in traditional West African life, a role which is seen as worth reviving in modern day America, or other places in the world where people of African descent reside:
The griot is a West African storyteller/historian/musician. In traditional societies the griot's status covered a spectrum of possibilities depending on the particular ethnic group. The griot ranged from an honored member of the king's court to a marginalized commentator on the society. The neo-griot concept, starts from the prospective of writers who are grounded in their particular community and who deal with both the history of their community and critical commentary on the contemporary conditions of their community. Additionally, the neo-griot employs the latest technology in their writing. Indeed, the neo-griot concept is one of writing with text, sound and light. Writing with text includes using the internet and the latest developments in publishing, which include "pdf" formats and publishing on demand. Writing with sound produces audio by using desktop editing and the burning of cds as well as recent developments in radio production. Writing with light focuses on using mini-digital cameras and desktop computer editing for the production of videos for distribution as vhs tapes, on cd rom, and streaming on the internet. (Kalamu ya Salaam, 2002, http://www.nathanielturner.com/kalamuneogriot.htm)
This quote, taken from the mentioned internet site, can be said to offer an accurate description of what his work is all about. The embrace of all kinds of modern publishing possibilities, the wish to work with, within and for one’s community, and the interest in history as well as contemporary conditions, define the work of Kalamu ya Salaam, and make it easier to approach his large output from an analytical starting point. To limit the amount of texts, I have chosen to focus on poetry (and a little on some essays) from his book WHAT IS LIFE? (Chicago, 1994). I will also have a look at a few selected haikus published on the internet.
Kalamu ya Salaam was a part of the so-called Black Arts Movement in the 1960s and 70s, a movement closely associated with the struggle for ‘Black Power’ in the wake of the assassinations of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King. Stressing the need for an African American art that supported black people’s continuing fight for acceptance, respect and self-respect, writers such as Amiri Baraka, Sonia Sanchez and Nikki Giovanni, wrote poetry, drama, fiction and non-fiction that was overtly political and radical in its approach to the various difficult issues facing African Americans on a daily basis. Kalamu ya Salaam sums it up himself in the essay ‘Historical Overviews of the Black Arts Movement’:
‘Both inherently and overtly political in content, the Black Arts movement was the only American literary movement to advance "social engagement" as a sine qua non of its aesthetic. The movement broke from the immediate past of protest and petition (civil rights) literature and dashed forward toward an alternative that initially seemed unthinkable and unobtainable: Black Power.’
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/blackarts/historical.htm (From The Oxford Companion to African American Literature. New York: Oxford UP, 1997.)
Feelings of anger, powerlessness and desperation were widespread in African American communities after the killing of leaders such as Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr, and many big cities experienced riots in poor black areas. The notion that there really was not any place for African Americans in the larger American society, led to a strong need to reassess the reality (including the history from which contemporary reality had developed) in which the majority of black people found themselves. Traditional college education, for years seen as a way for African Americans to gain acceptance and ‘advance in society’, was no longer trusted as presenting black students with the knowledge they needed. In 1969, student leader and Black Panther H. Rap Brown wrote; ‘Sometimes I wonder why I even bothered to go to school. Practically everything I know I learned on the corner’ (H. Rap Brown, 1969, 2002, p. 30). He continues, in many ways preceding some of the ideas put forward by Gil Scott-Heron – yet another ‘intellectual, street dude’ - in ‘Black History’:
‘You must begin to define for yourself; you must begin to define your Black heritage. You must begin to investigate and learn on your own. (…) Every time you open a book here in America, they gonna show you Uncle Tom’s cabin or they gonna show you Double-O Soul with a piece of watermelon. It becomes the responsibility of the Black college student to combat this sort of thing. The education that a Black college student gets will be irrelevant, fruitless and worthless unless he uses it to define and articulate positions that are relevant to Black people.’ (ibid. p. 68)
The struggle to ‘take back’ one’s history, to regain control of the information rendered, became a crucial element in the Black Arts Movement. Many artists – and others, such as the boxer Muhammad Ali - did like ya Salaam, and took African or Muslim names instead of European ‘slave’ names. Wishing to establish beyond doubt the creative, cultural and social identity of the African American in society, the artists frequently saw the formerly accepted fight for ‘integration’ as damaging to the building of such an identity. Many radical black writers, leaders and organizers cried out for ‘black power’ – literally untied from the overriding rule of white America. In order to achieve the strength of identity required to implement such a revolutionary change of power, several African American artists saw the need to start in the local communities, the ghettoes and other black neighborhoods in larger cities. One way to do this is described by Kalamu ya Salaam (quote taken from the web site cited above):
‘The two hallmarks of Black Arts activity were the development of Black theater groups and Black poetry performances and journals, and both had close ties to community organizations and issues. Black theaters served as the focus of poetry, dance, and music performances in addition to formal and ritual drama. Black theaters were also venues for community meetings, lectures, study groups, and film screenings.’
The whole point of such activity, is to create an artistic practice outside the traditional, institutionalized areas of publishing and/or performance. Community theatre is a large field in itself, always worthy of scrutiny and analysis from a variety of angles, but the interesting aspect in this context is the way in which poetry came to be part of a larger segment of performance-related activities; directed at the people living in the communities, addressing their particular problems, and aiming to make marginalized groups visible to the larger American society. Kalamu ya Salaam is concerned with the way in which such ideological and politically charged art existed outside the mainstream; to such an extent that it became important for this mainstream to regain some control of what was going on. The way to regain such control, he says, was to publically endorse some part of the activity, to the exclusion of others – presumably the most ‘radical’:
‘Corporate America (both the commercial sector and the academic sector) once again selected and propagated one or two handpicked Black writers. During the height of Black Arts activity, each community had a coterie of writers and there were publishing outlets for hundreds, but once the mainstream regained control, Black artists were tokenized. Although Black Arts activity continued into the early 1980s, by 1976, the year of what Gil Scott-Heron called the "Buy-Centennial," the movement was without any sustainable and effective political or economic bases in an economically strapped Black community. An additional complicating factor was the economic recession, resulting from the oil crisis, which the Black community experienced as a depression. Simultaneously, philanthropic foundations only funded non-threatening, "arts oriented" groups. Neither the Black Arts nor the Black Power movements ever recovered.’ (ibid.)
Seen from this angle, the Black Arts Movement dissolved as a result of general financial straits, various forms of political pressure, and inability or unwillingness on part of the political and literary establishment to see or accept the movement as a whole. Through selective funding, a strategy of ‘divide and conquer’ appears to have effectively put an end to the movement as a force to be reckoned with.
Haiku
However, Kalamu ya Salaam has continued to work in the spirit of the Black Arts Movement in his native New Orleans, creating his own material, as well as editing anthologies of local poetry. After the devastating destruction of Hurricane Katrina, and the subsequent lack of federal government initiative, he published ‘You Can’t Survive On Salt Water – Seven Haiku For Old Orleans’ on the internet (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21831) (exact date uncertain). The poem is a strong entry in the catalog of post-Katrina artistic expression. In seven short haiku-inspired verses, the aftermath of the disaster is summed up with brutal simplicity:
1.
dead dogs hang from trees
bloated barges sit on the
wrong side of levees
2.
dumb pigeons have flown
now it's people's turn to perch
roasting atop roofs
3.
a caravan of
yellow busses drowns because
the mayor can't drive
4.
official death counts
exclude so-called looters shot
on sight of their skin
5.
dry folk uptown hold
their noses, rejecting wet
people's funky stank
6.
things that go bump in
the night: your boat against a
dead baby's body
7.
a son returns, finds
four month old bones wearing his
missing mother's dress
Whether or not these lines always adhere to the general definition of a haiku (‘seventeen syllables distributed over three lines in the pattern of 5-7-5; Wainwright, 2004, p. 22) is not all that interesting, the form is an obvious inspiration, and the standards appear to be met most of the time. According to THE BEDFORD GLOSSARY OF CRITICAL AND LITERARY TERMS (edited by Ross murfin and Supryia Ray, Bedford, St.Martin, 2009), a haiku poem ‘typically presents images of nature’ (p.214). Further; as noted by Robert Hass in the introduction to his translations of Japanese haiku poetry from the 17th and 18th century (THE ESSENTIAL HAIKU, New York, 1994, p.xiii), a haiku poem contains an ‘implicit Buddhist reflection on nature.’ Kalamu ya Salaam uses the ancient Japanese form for his own purposes, which is to tell the story of a disaster and its aftermath, as concisely and readily understandable as possible. This is Gates’ idea of ‘signifying’ put into poetic practice. A known semantic form is emptied of original content and function, and given new meaning, aesthetically as well as semantically. The poem is an excellent reminder of what the Black Arts Movement held as aesthetic and ideological guidelines; speaking to, and on behalf of, a community. In this case, it was a community which had experienced extremely destructive upheaval, and an apparent abandonment by the larger society. Many of the images created in these verses are unpleasant, perhaps most of all through their simplicity. There are no vague symbols or hidden meaning to be explored in the poem, only an accurate description of several situations occurring after the disaster. Still, a total picture of devastation and havoc is presented. Dead babies, old people and animals , survivors on rooftops, desperate looters (mostly African Americans) shot without mercy, incompetent aid attempts, the class line between flooded poor areas and the richer, still-dry ‘uptown’ – it is all there, creating a poignant summary of the whole situation. Poetry as activism, or as social commentary, could hardly be more effective. The lack of presented solutions contributes to this effectiveness; it is entirely up to the reader to draw conclusions as to what is supposed to be done to solve the problems.
Since Kalamu ya Salaam is often preoccupied with haiku verse, it would seem only fair to mention one more, also published on the internet. The haiku describes Nelson Mandela’s release from prison, once again in very simple, yet effective, terms:
#112 (for Mandela)
emerging from jail
their dragon/our butterfly
his smile is so huge
The picture of Mandela as dangerous and ugly to some, and as colorful and vibrant to others, being released from prison with a disarming smile on his face, is beautiful in all its simplicity. The dragon and the butterfly are obvious opposites, one being a huge monster, the other being a tiny, whimsical, playful and pretty creature. The fact that some are able to mistake the butterfly for a dragon – and consequently try to keep it locked up - comes across as totally absurd. For anyone alive when Mandela’s release was shown on television for the first time, the fact that there had not been a new photo of him in public circulation for almost thirty years, contributed to the feeling that he was indeed ‘emerging from jail’. His absence had made him larger than life, and seeing him in the flesh for the first time, sporting that big smile, was an eye-opener to the entire world. Kalamu ya Salaam’s short little poem captures the essence of this experience, at the same time showcasing how human beings are always in danger of making the most horrendous mistakes, with grave consequences for the individual - and the community - as the immediate, unfortunate result.
(The haiku form is nothing new for African American writers. To add just one example, and a little perspective, it might be mentioned that a writer like Richard Wright, more famous for his bitter novels about Southern racism and bigotry, was a master of the form. Towards the end of his life, he wrote quite a few, which have been collected and published posthumously. A particular study of African American haiku poetry may indeed be a good idea.)
Essays and ‘Sun Songs’
Kalamu ya Salaam is a very active blogger, and it is hard to keep up with all his internet work. At present (March 2012), through his blogs, and through social media such as Facebook and Twitter, he puts out several entries a day – everything from self-written poetry and prose to internet links to other people’s writing and music. He has also published books, both as editor and writer. For the purposes of this thesis, selections from his collection of essays and poetry, WHAT IS LIFE? RECLAIMING THE BLACK BLUES SELF (Chicago, 1994), will be examined. Even if poetry is the main focus of my work, there is a lot to be learned from his other texts; often ideas concerning – or being reflected in – his poetry. His essays here all deal with the question of African American identity; how to arrive at one, and then how to keep and retain it. He is also concerned with gender; what is black manhood, fatherhood and general African American masculinity in the American society of the 1980s? Many of problems he addresses would seem to be similar today; especially those concerning the ways in which African Americans still struggle to understand how to be black in a white society.
The poetry included in the book is defined by ya Salaam as ‘sun songs’, and he specifically cites the oratory of African American preachers as one of his main sources of inspiration for writing these particular texts. In the introduction to the book, he calls the poems
‘(…)sermon-like, performance pieces that wrestle with hard facts of life and hope to inspire deeds. The two main stylistic inspirations are: (1) great Black music, especially jazz; and (2) the oratory of Baptist preachers’. (p. ii)
(To obtain some understanding of African American church practices, the two Youtube videos cited below may be useful. The Elder Michaux sermon was filmed in 1935, while the video involving the Florida Mass Choir is fairly recent. They will not be analyzed in detail, but the call/response, as well as the rhythmical, exuberantly charismatic ways of presenting the gospel will not be difficult to spot, even at a casual glance.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtkU5glPQ_4 (Elder Michaux, sermon)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0r1X0Qh38I&feature=related (Florida Mass Choir, He’s a Battle Axe)
Like Bob Kaufman, Kalamu ya Salaam looks to jazz music for inspiration, but he is also preoccupied with the concept of the blues – not only as music, but as an almost omnipresent aspect of African American cultural identity. This is an idea worth looking into, in order to shed light on much African American poetry, not necessarily limited to the work of Kalamu ya Salaam. The first essay in WHAT IS LIFE?, ‘the blues aesthetic’, examines the blues as a particular sensibility, ‘a post-reconstruction expression of peoplehood culturally codified into an aesthetic’. (p.7) A dense, rich text, the essay discusses the manners in which blues is everywhere in black culture, even though it may not be accepted by every black individual. His two main starting points are:
‘(1)not all african americans are blues people, and (2)the blues aesthetic is an ethos of blues people that manifests itself in everything done, not just in the music. (ibid., p.7)
These points suggest that while the blues is indeed everywhere, there are still black people who for some reason find themselves outside the blues realm, especially, he later claims, those who seek to ‘advance’ in society by succeeding on white America’s terms. Kalamu ya Salaam goes on to define the blues as post-slavery, specifically American music. Noting that West Africa ‘simply did not have the social basis to give rise to a blues vision’, (ibid, p.8) he describes how the blues and its sensibility grew from social conditions that arose after the civil war, when the ‘formerly possessed’ in the South were ‘dispossessed’ and scattered throughout the land in various deplorable states of employment, non-employment or general alienation. The blues, he says, was singularly created by black people in America, and has no apparent parallels in any of the other areas where black slavery was implemented.
The idea that the blues is inherent in all levels of African American life – and consequently, in the arts – is often neglected by critics adhering to what he calls ‘euro-centric’ ways of approaching the culture:
‘(…)it is mainly in the musical form that the blues aesthetic has most often been recognized by non-blues people. (…) however, the mere thought that the blues is mainly music is a grossly euro-centric misconception.’ (ibid, p.10)
Music remains at the very core of the aesthetic, but other elements of the culture are almost equally relevant. Kalamu ya Salaam lists six ‘chief cultural manifestations of a blues aesthetic’:
(1)country & city blues, (2) jazz, (3) african american fashion, (4) the oral tradition, (5) popular black dance, and (6) african american cuisine.’ (ibid., p. 18)
It is interesting to note that religion, or gospel music, is not specifically listed as manifestations of a ‘blues aesthetic’, even though the ‘oral tradition’ would in all likelihood include the oratory of African American preachers, alongside the performance of verse, and the telling of myths, stories and folk tales. ya Salaam acknowledges that the above definition is not all-encompassing, which indicates that he is aware of a multitude of other manifestations – probably including religion and religious practices of many kinds. Another interesting observation may be his apparent separation of ‘blues’ (the music) and ‘jazz’. This division does not seem to be substantiated, but it may possibly indicate that jazz is seen as more of an elevated ‘art’ form than the blues of the folk performer. Yet another representation of a ‘blues aesthetic’ may be found in the world of sports, especially in heavyweight boxing, which often comes across as a mix of African American performance practice, violence and athletics. Boxers such as Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson may be seen as performers; their attitude, verbal self-promotion and style of clothing are just as important as the sport itself. (Such pondering may be speculation, but not altogether futile, since there is always room to inspect and examine categorical listings of elements ‘required’ to constitute a wanted value.)
However, the most useful part of Kalamu ya Salaam’s essay, in connection with approaching his poetry, is what he calls ‘a condensed and simplified codification of the blues aesthetic’.(pp. 12-14). This ‘simplified codification’ is put down in six points. Firstly, he talks about the ‘stylization of process’, discussing the development from ‘communal’ to ‘collective’ forms of expression, as a result of mass urbanization. Secondly, and perhaps a little more relevant to this study, he mentions ‘the deliberate use of exaggeration’ and the various uses of ‘wit’ and ‘humor’ as key elements in this. Thirdly, the codification includes a ‘brutal honesty clothed in metaphorical grace’, meaning the artist’s will to recognize the harsh social conditions in which his or her immediate audience is likely to be living, and the artist’s ability to address these matters ‘rather than cover up weaknesses’. Point four concerns an ‘acceptance of the contradictory nature of life’, indicating that the blues is able to express both the ‘sweet and sour’ things in life, and realize that life is made up of both. Kalamu ya Salaam points out that ‘life is not about good vs. evil, but about good and evil being eaten off the same plate’. The fifth point describes ‘an optimistic faith in the ultimate triumph of justice, in the form of karma. The need for balance in life will be met; if not in the formal organization of society, then in the afterworld, or in other ways here and now. According to ya Salaam, this is ‘essential even to the most down-trodden of blues songs’. Last, but not least, the ‘celebration of the sensual and erotic elements of life’ is crucial to a blues aesthetic, most notably represented in countless blues songs, from the very beginning of the history of recording. Somehow, black blues artists managed to avoid censorship rules concerning ‘obscenity’, by writing songs in which the ‘double-entendre’ became an elevated art form. In the 1920s, when Bessie Smith sang that she needed some ‘sugar in her bowl’, or when Clara Smith ‘whipped it to a jelly’, there was not a listener in sight who honestly believed that they were singing about food or pastries. Likewise, a great number of male singers celebrated ‘sea food’, complained that their ‘pencils won’t write no more’, or sang about ‘a black snake crawling in my room’. The vast number of risqué, semi-pornographic blues songs make up a treasure trove of African American poetic practice, a veritable goldmine of humorous, life-celebrating eroticism. Seen against the backdrop of random lynching, blatant racism, oppression and hardship, the songs become even more remarkable. (This is something which may be discussed at length, especially in light of Henry Louis Gates Jr’s ideas of ‘signifying’ – the need and ability to create new meaning, and change the semantic content of words and phrases. (Gates, 1989))
According to Kalamu ya Salaam, these points are more or less present in all representations of the ‘blues aesthetic’. This would seem to indicate that all African American art might include one or more of these elements. The element of call/response (discussed earlier in connection with Gil Scott-Heron’s ‘Whitey On The Moon’) is another such element. The importance of the call/response is summed up as follows:
‘the blues process, afro-centric to the core, simultaneously emphasizes the collective tastes of the community while at the same time encourages, indeed often demands, individual variations on the collective statement. as stated above, this pattern is clearly seen as call/response, but is more accurately understood as theme/variation.’ (ibid., p. 14)
The call/response, then, becomes far more than an isolated ‘artistic technique’, it becomes a permeating manifestation of a total outlook on life; a manifestation which makes itself visible in all art forms, at all times, to a larger or lesser degree. Kalamu ya Salaam’s poetry and other writings fall easily into this category, especially because of his role as neo-griot. He recognizes and records the situation of his community (the collective), and then responds to it (individually) through his artistic contributions. The collective is then enriched, allowing other voices to come forward and comment further. In this way, the call/response develops into a form of ‘aesthetic philosophy’ – a philosophy in which the individual is seen to be a part of the collective. One cannot really reach maximum potential without the other.
Since call/response is so closely associated with African American religious practice, it is interesting to note Kalamu ya Salaam’s linking of his own poetry to the sermons and oratory of black preachers. In his ‘sun songs’, several techniques and elements of the black church are easily traced. Like with Bob Kaufman in his ‘ Ancient Rain’, repetition is important. In the first poem of WHAT IS LIFE?, ‘Sun Song I - blues zephyr’, (ya Salaam, 1994, pp.5-6) he describes a bum, a street person and outsider, who lives by his own rule:
‘that man with the wrinkled khaki trousers/no cleaners will ever see & the odor/of no job in the morning clinging like sweaty/shirt, that/man’
The poem describes the man as a loner, and in possible need of psychiatric care. He has the ‘whole of doo-wop/in his head’, indicating that he hears multiple voices, he is ‘wild-heared’ and ‘manages without a haircut’, in his head ‘pain has a permanent box/&receives mail every day’, he ‘wolf-whistles’ at women, he shows his independence by staring down ‘an approaching cop car without flinching a facial muscle’ and he sings, screams and yells in the street, ‘enthralling our decaying neighborhood with an arcing/improvised shoo-bee-do which momentarily/suspended the march of time, that/man’. The man is depicted as independent, unruly, and well-respected by the community. He is a man who will not – or cannot – play by the rules, and his ‘freedom’ has come at a high cost – the apparent loss of his mind. The poem ends with a stanza involving religious terminology:
‘when that man finished singing to the newly/risen moon, all any of the enviously staring/others of us could do was amen in chorus/when walter admiringly shouted out to that/man//”go on, cool breeze/you know you bad”
The character ‘Walter’ (who may well be the musician Walter ‘Wolfman’ Washington’, with whom Kalamu ya Salaam has collaborated on several occasions), calls out to the man in the poem in an appreciative manner, which is echoed by the rest of the people present in an ‘amen in chorus’. In these few lines, there is an inherent description of Kalamu ya Salaam’s way of working. The celebration of the local community, with its heroes, heroines, regular inhabitants and outsiders, is a key element; initiating response from those who experience the celebratory approach he takes.
The poem’s title, ‘blues zephyr’, is reflected in the last two lines. The words ‘cool breeze’ seem to point back to the fact that Zephyrus was the ancient Greek god of the west wind, often credited with bringing spring and milder seasons. The man in the street almost becomes a ghetto version of deity – one part bum, one part man, with a touch of divinity on top of it all. The words ‘that man’ are repeated ten times throughout the poem, beginning and ending each stanza, except for the last two lines, which are set apart from the rest of the poem as being uttered by the ‘Walter’ character. The repetition of these words does create a sermon-like sense; a beat which will be quite insistently rhythmical in performance. It also makes the man stand apart from the others in the community; he is that man – someone to be noticed easily, and to be clearly pointed out to others.
Another, much longer, poem is ‘Sun Song II; my name is kalamu’ (ya Salaam, 1994, pp.21-27). This poem is concerned with the question of African American identity and history, presented in a form which resembles church oratory in a number of ways. Due to the poem’s length, only selected parts will be quoted as basis for discussion. The poem starts off with a long sequence in which just about every line starts with the words ‘I am’ or ‘I have’. The need to establish an identity is apparent from the very beginning of the poem:
‘I am African-Diaspora/I am ancient and new/I am African-American/I am resistance and assimilation/I am a proud and pure cultural mulatto/I am well-used labor unemployed/I am illiterate intelligence/I am beauty deformed/I am the fuel of Pan-American cultures/I am freedom without wealth/in my world of constant war/I am a country with no army/I am everyone’s love song/and even though no one wants to be me/ - sometimes not even I - /with the tender touch of my calloused hand/I continue tending the fruit and flower garden of me’ (ya Salaam, 1994, p.21)
Each line contains a sense of paradox; each part of the speaker’s identity is self-contradictory. The outer limits of the speaker’s various identities are so different as to constitute complete opposites, in this way creating an almost schizophrenic image of what being African American is all about. Still, as put forward in the last lines of this quote, the need to go on – the need to keep on tending the ‘fruit and flower garden’ – wins out. Moving from ‘I am’ to ‘I have’, the poem goes into a description of strategies needed to survive in hostile surroundings:
‘I have killed my children to save them from slavery/(…)/I have sold myself to save my daughters/and sons from the defilement of poverty/I have denied myself and extinguished/my dream candles to light a chance for my children/I have chewed the centuries-old flag of degradation every/morning and miraculously somehow managed to suck/small droplets of hope from the warp and woof of filth/which I transformed into warm milk and/breastfed to my babies’ (ibid, p.22)
The result of these elements of an identity crisis, combined with the constant need for an active survival strategy, leads to an unpredictable behavioral pattern in the individual:
‘Sometimes I kill my master and love my brother/Sometimes I kill my brother and love my master/Sometimes I just kill everything/Sometimes I kill nothing/Sometimes I love no one/Sometimes I love everyone/Even I cannot predict how I will feel/what I will think/what day is this?/what is happening?/ (…)/ sometimes I look in the mirror and I am not there/but that invisible self-negation is also me, sometimes’(ibid, pp.22-23-24)
Further, the poem moves into a conclusion where one person’s identity is seen as the result of another’s. White people have contributed in no small part to the creation of black people, while the process also is partly reversible. This mutual process of creating one another’s identities comes in spite of, rather than as a result of, the differences between people:
‘no matter the year of our abolition/no matter when we first voted/or who was our first rich man/no matter how many sports games we win/or how much we are paid to shake our ass/(…)/no matter in what way each of us twists their tongue in order to articulate/our sounds/none of that matters/(…)/if I love what you see in me/and you love what I see in you(…)if this, what does a name matter?’ (ibid, p. 26)
More than other Americans, who had – and, in many cases, still have - their national and ethnic identities as clearly defined entities in their everyday lives, African Americans have had to redefine and re-invent themselves at every crossroad; always with a cautious mind, always with the very real possibility of rejection, prosecution and execution dangling before them like some deadly carrot, urging them to keep on moving, no matter what. With an African identity that has been consciously attempted erased by white America since the arrival of slaves in 1619, African Americans’ constant reminder of their uniqueness has been the color of their skin, a uniqueness more often than not seen as a liability by blacks and whites alike, due to prejudice, bigotry, hatred and oppression. The need to define oneself through the understanding of others is masterfully formulated in the last lines of the poem:
‘when I learn to pronounce your name/I am simply discovering/another me//my name is kalamu//now,/what is yours?/tell me how to speak my name’(ibid, p.27)
As ‘secular sermon’, the poem is hard to beat. It is a celebratory text, in which African American identity, as well as African American contribution to the larger society, is held forward as an essence of what America as a whole is supposed to be about. The constant interaction with others, the willingness to learn and seek the best in fellow citizens, the need and ability to improvise – collectively and individually; it is all hailed in this poem, which sums up much of what Kalamu ya Salaam’s writing is seeking to convey. The rhythm and the repetitive use of words in the beginning of each line seem to place the poem squarely in an African American ‘preachment’ tradition. A performance of the poem would definitely profit from such a build-up, with or without musical accompaniment. The intense first-person speaking voice reflects the ideas put forward by Fahamisha Patricia Brown:
‘…language is a way of asserting oneself in the presence of another culture(…)The preeminence of the first-person speaking voice in much of African American poetry is central to its orality and performativity or drama.(…)This speaking/singing voice claims authorship of the text. In a narrative of personal experience or testimony, the poet uses a “hear me talking to you” mode of discourse common in the folk tale and sermon, embedding a call-and-response pattern into the written text.’ (Brown, 1999, p. 42)
Kalamu ya Salaam’s poem illustrates this point clearly and concisely.
To end this discussion of works by Kalamu ya Salaam, it might be a good idea to have a look at one of his ‘lighter’ poems, a text celebrating poetry itself. ‘The Call Of The Wild’, printed on pages 188-191 in FROM A BEND IN THE RIVER; 100 NEW ORLEANS POETS (Runagate Press, New Orleans, 1998), an anthology edited by ya Salaam himself, is a poem in which the unconditional praise of poetry is sung in no uncertain terms. ‘Poetry’ almost becomes a character in the poem, an unpredictable one at that, always seeking to find new ways, or to challenge the established or the stale. The word ‘poetry’ is repeated as the introductory word to each stanza, and sometimes stands alone between two stanzas; in that way being repeated yet once more. Part of the poem goes:
‘Poetry is not an answer/Poetry is a calling/(…)/Poetry is not a right/Poetry is a demand/to be left alone/or joined together or whatever/we need to live/Poetry is not an ideology/poets choose life/over ideas, love people/more than theories, and really would/prefer a kiss to a lecture/(…)/Poetry is always hungry/for all that is/forbidden/poetry never stops drinking/not even after the last drop, if we/run out of wine poets will/figure a way to ferment rain’
Poetry not only challenges taboos, it wears them ‘like perfume with a red shirt’; poetry goes against ‘foul-breathed censors/with torches in their hands’, and it ‘smells like a fart/in every single court of law and smells/like fresh mountain air/in every dank jail cell/Poetry is unreliable’
Poetry breaks all rules, it is ‘not mature’, nor does it have manners:
‘it will undress in public every day of the week/go shamelessly naked at high noon on holidays/and play with itself, smiling//Poetry is not just sexual/not just monosexual/not just homosexual/not just heterosexual/nor bisexual/or asexual/poetry is erotic and is willing/any way you want to try it’
The final stanzas go on to celebrate the way in which poetry does not have any fixed solutions to anything, and the fact that there is no fixed way of writing or reading it:
‘Poetry has no god/there is no church of poetry/no ministers and certainly no priests/no catechisms nor sacred texts/and no devils either/or sin, for that matter, original/synthetic, cloned or otherwise, no sin//Poetry//In the beginning was the word/and from then until the end/let there always be//Poetry’
Once again, the repetition of a single word – ‘poetry’ – creates a rhythmic drive which makes the poem a great vehicle for performance. Other repetitions, such as the word ‘sexual’, do the same. The poem becomes its own little ‘apology for poetry’, and may be seen as a picture of all three poets in this little thesis. Kaufman’s playfulness, Scott-Heron’s irreverence and socio-political criticism, as well as Kalamu ya Salaam’s own quest for identity: it’s all here in a few little lines. That is the true beauty of poetry, from all places and all epochs in time – a beauty to be cherished, and carried close to the heart, through that chain of moments that make up a lifetime.
As of this writing, Kalamu ya Salaam is still alive and active as poet, lecturer, film maker, radio personality and activist. May he continue his work for years to come. The need to inhabit one’s language does not seem likely to decrease as the future approaches, faster than most of us have the capacity to fathom.
(Foto: Anny Marethe Vollan)
