Moving onto Amari

Jumbled Thoughts

“I am inside someone who hates me,”  This first stanza of the poem, I cannot help but feel someone who is seething in their own hatred.

“In the second stanza Slits in the metal, for sun. Where my eyes… a woman, a man.”  In the second stanza, I wonder if the sun represents knowledge.

In the second stanza mentions a woman, a man where in the third stanza it speaks of innocent loss, I cannot help but think of Adam and Eve.

“I was blind, and dead.”  Reflects his turning from god?  Blind from the sun?

Pain.

“Inside his books…”

“Cool air becomes cold.”

I cannot help but feel that this poem starts of with a voice, one that is seething with anger.  One that cannot stand his “fouled tunes.”  Perhaps the, “Slits in the metal,” represent an armor of hatred wrapped around him.  The cool air, the glance of light are…

I’m not sure how to put my thoughts in to words…  I can feel a man so consumed by hatred, that he has buried himself within it’s calloused walls.  I’m not saying his hatred isn’t justified, but it is “without shadow, or voice, or meaning.”

No that’s not it perhaps his hatred is the enclosure.  The “abandoned soul”, reeks of why hast thou forsaken me

I need to elaborate on what I said in class when I say “Black Power” became the very thing they hated.  Let’s look at this train of thought with a modern day example.  One of the current issues we face today is terrorism.  It’s hard for us in such a peaceful environment to consider how they act.  But their methods are quite simple, and easy to discern.  Our military is superior, so any acts of aggression must operate clandestinely.  Without going so far to draw an inaccurate conclusion, lets think about in the manner of pain.  Terrorists claim to be acting in either, the will of their god, the will of their people, or acting in the vengeance of those slain.  They will claim American Ideals are devilish, or that America is corrupt.  They will claim that the evil war machine of America has pillaged their land, raped their people.

So they attack America, they pillage the land and rape the people.

Let’s look at another example.  In the world today it is said, “Sex sells.”  Just look at the world around us, billboards of scantily clad women.  Commercials for burgers, with women on the beach, hell just look at the GoDaddy commercials with Danica Patrick.  Now the feminist movement, will decry that these women have been objectified.  Their sex symbol has become their empowerment.  In their disgust the extremists will claim that, men’s only purpose is to provide the seed for birth.  In this sense they will objectify men.  In essences becoming the very thing the hated.

In any group, especially within the militant “Black Power” movement there will arise an extremist faction.  Often these organizations will form out of being wronged.  Their anger is understandable.  They have faced atrocities I have never faced, have never seen, and hope to never see.  That is what I mean when they have become what they hate.  Amiri Baraka has been praised as a revolutionary poet.  But I’m not sure I can agree.

I understand that in many ways these outlets of hate, this “black art” might be their world.  Might be the only place they can find relieve from a hostile world.  I cannot feel their pain of “separate but equal”, feel the pain of Jim Crow, the lynching’s, the beatings, or their the second class status.  The pain of being born into pain.  In pain one can find the birth of anger, in anger disgust, in disgust, the divide.  In the divide, we can rationalize. One or the other… Perhaps I cannot hear the voice you hear in this man’s words.

And that makes me wonder, did I walk into this room with preconceived notions, thoughts of …Is that what Amiri wanted me to think?  To fall into the trap of his anger.  To point the finger, to see his words and draw on their seething anger.  I wonder if, if he is man full of anger.  I wonder if he flourishes in the controversy, of saying something stupid, saying something we will hear.  Who cannot help but listen… Who?

Who is this man?

Who spreads his hate?

Who judges his fate

Who misrepresents his hate

Who? Who…

Who am I to judge his work

Who here can cast the first stone?

Who can think of his lies…

Who can speak of the past lies?

Who am I to deny his voice, to deny his words of choice…  Why can’t I hear his voice.

Who here can feel his pain?

Who can place his blame?

Who will speak of his claim to fame…

Who is this man…   Who can inspire hate with just words, like the poet.

Who? Who?

Pardon that… Have I misjudged this man?  In his works I find nothing but anger and hate.  I cannot help but wonder if that’s what he wants us to feel, is that what he feels?  Is that all he can express?  Is that all he wants to express?  Is that all he knows how to express?