Poetry Lamentation

As part of our monthly exhibition of Poetry Lamentation we\'ve showcased three artist poems.
William blake(1989) and Al young (1938). both of them are great poets. they are in front row of black emancipation in African-American and the world.
the ANTHOLOGY OF A BLACK MANS SPEECH has greatly impact a lot in the new generation writing and has a rice cultural heritage that we as blacks can trace our history and background to our ancestors.

we are using these medium to acknowledge black writers whose poems are device for addressing society issues for blacks youth all over the world. the slavery and redemption of our time. also young writers who are aspiring to transcend their work to the horizon.

ANTHOLOGY OF A BLACK MANS SPEECH

I AM BLACK, AFRICA I AM BLACK MAN

There I was, searing aloof the roof top
gaging myself abot in front of a steal pot
amicably I wallowed and drain into a wretch tree fall
fading into the winds till night stood tall
abase by the rod, I danced to posture
poor like waisted green who'se lost his future

I am black, Africa I am black man

from dust I became
to him I retain
galloping from hills to heed
from trees to reed
I have seen weapon ablaze
to segregate men till date

I am black, Africa I am black man

with passion knowing me not to hold
I feel unjust to my unborn too bold
oh yes! I gazed in front of the window
seeing how cold it is to be a widow
who fall shout and cut
the prime of her throat

I am black, Africa I am black man

soldiers matching by
parading the ground till die
yet no one ears my voice
echoing, trenching its noise
lingering thru the front door
I've conceived in my conscience before

I am black, Africa I am black man

I won't stop until these soar is ill
not on the surface, but inside the hearts I will ill
until the street is turned with justice
and peace abide in every faces
I won't stop until the name of my children
will be sang on every lip, oh yes! till then

I am black, African I am black man

Africa is pose to be degrading
A nonconstructive human beings
who live with other animals
and eat from like mammals
I won't negate my people and become
like those who soled me for coin
who flea because they are weak
blind folded with the trick

I am black, Africa I am black man

I am black man and will always be
a color am so proud of
I am who I am a black man
the glowing shadow that sprout thru the nite
by sun set I shield to be bright
I am black am to me don't change that
I am who I am if you could see

I am black, Africa I am black man

Vincent

"The Little Black Boy"

MY mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O, my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
'Look at the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
'And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice,
Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'
Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

William Blake

From Songs of Innocence (1789)

Loneliness

the poet is the dreamer.
He dreams that the c lock stops
& 100 angels wandering wild
drift into his chamber
where nothing has been settled

should he got himself photographed
seated next to a mountain
like chairman Mao
the real sun flashing golden
off his real eyes
like the light off stones
by ocean?

Give me your perfect hand
& touch me simply with a word,
one distillation of forever

Should he put his white tie on
with his black shirt
& pass himself off as a docile gangster
,for the very last time?

The poet dream is real
down to the very last silver bullet

Should he slip again to Funland
in the city & throw dimes down holes
to watch hungry women flicker
one hair at a time
in kodacolor
from sad civilized boxers?

Should he practice magic
on politicians &
and crack their necks
in a laughing fit?

The poet is the dreamer.
He dreams babies asleep in wombs
& count the waisted sighs
lost in a flake of dusty semen
on a living thigh

Should he dream the end of an order,
the abolition of the slave trade,
the restoration to life
of dead millions
filing daily past time clocks
dutifully gorging themselves
on self-hatred & emptiness?

Should he even dream
an end to loneliness,
the illusion that
we can do without
& have no need
of one another?

It is true that he needs you,
I need you,
I need your pain & magic,
I need you more than ever
in every form & attitude-
gesturing with a rifle in your hand
starving in some earthly sector
or poised in some heavenly meditation
listening to the wind
with the third ear
or staring in forever
with the ever-watchful third eye,
you are needed

The poet is the dreamer &
the poet is himself the dream
&in this dream
he shares your presence

should he smash down walls
& expose the ignorance
beneath our lying nonsense?

No! No!
The gunshots he fires
up in the silent air
is to awaken.....

AL YOUNG (1939)