Henk Rossouw 
I was the sea-foam kid                bruises on my face
with a school tie                copied from the British
and knotted like a garrote.                    Seamount Primary was segregated then.

Rush hour traffic                        ran over my shadow;
I let an empty hand drag                         against the cyclone fence
along the roadside, the median strip oleanders                   perforated with light

I couldn't keep. The camera                         my father gave me—
with his thumbprint                     on the lens I had left there
and the dent in the body                         from the time the police took it

at the funeral, before                     opening fire on the crowd
the camera with the light meter                     he let me figure out, in silence
on second weekends                        the camera I'd taken

to school, to be like him                         and document the kids
who donnered me                        —the camera broken and clogging
the locker room urinal.

And the cooling towers                         of the distant power station
issued like a sundial                                             as a truck, crowded with black men
standing on the flatbed                         crossed Ascot Road—

men in azure coveralls, picks and shovels at their feet                         faces ashen.
They were holding onto each other                     for balance. I was artless
then. I ran behind the truck                         and I copied the boy

in the Argus photograph                     my father had taken
the boy my age                         at the graves of his friends in the resistance
who raised his fist                         above the stones, as if holding onto

the air, and                         I was seen by the men
in my school uniform, fist aloft,                       and the men copied me.
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image of portrait of William Blake
William Blake, Radical Abolitionist
 

"His abolitionism was a given, but his understanding of emancipation extended in even more radical directions than other Enlightenment thinkers whose rationality Blake found oppressive, intoning that “Prisons are built with stones of law.” Where the Enlightenment promoted rationality, Blake embraced mysticism; if the philosophes celebrated science, then Blake advocated visionary ecstasy."

via JSTOR DAILY 
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Amaud Jamaul Johnson on Gwendolyn Brooks’s
“A Lovely Love”

 

"I was twenty and an undergraduate at Howard University, taking Dr. Jon Woodson’s Survey of African American Poetry. He was suspicious of labels and spent the first weeks of class arguing against his own course title. His first lecture began with a summary dismissal of Maya Angelou, who a year earlier was Bill Clinton’s Inaugural Poet. He would hand out poems with the authors’ names blacked out, and ask: 'What makes this a Black poem, or is this good or bad?' We had to defend our answers. Our shortcomings were immediately evident. This is how I was introduced to Gwendolyn Brooks’ 'A Lovely Love.'"

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