It is good to receive kind words, from those who write through Afriboy, from those who write on this blog. These matter more than the racist comments that appear on my YouTube site. A White man writes on my video, “Great, more N******!” and links my art to his own enslaved mind.
This week a man from the USA wrote to me. He wished to buy some of my work. I was honoured by his wish and his words. I asked him what man of the imagination he might like. His words were so lovely that I trusted a friend to turn them into words. Malcom, your pure words were water to me.
Entrance (to the body).
(After Cavafy).
I listened and his words caught me.
Turned towards the screen where he spoke,
I saw an African body of beauty
Which appeared as if rivers and mountains had formed it—
Not European, not marble, not made by Eros,
But a form made by a painter
Who had drawn the very essence of man.
He was a body greater than the little thing,
A man of strength, yet vulnerable,
A man whose sexuality was a clean light
That warmed from inside
The glow of his very dark skin.
He possessed hands that might gently touch a forehead
And run downwards, against the flesh,
Be bold in their touch upon the secret boulders of love.
In his eyes, he held a peace
That might lull a man to sleep.
This week a man from the USA wrote to me. He wished to buy some of my work. I was honoured by his wish and his words. I asked him what man of the imagination he might like. His words were so lovely that I trusted a friend to turn them into words. Malcom, your pure words were water to me.
Entrance (to the body).
(After Cavafy).
I listened and his words caught me.
Turned towards the screen where he spoke,
I saw an African body of beauty
Which appeared as if rivers and mountains had formed it—
Not European, not marble, not made by Eros,
But a form made by a painter
Who had drawn the very essence of man.
He was a body greater than the little thing,
A man of strength, yet vulnerable,
A man whose sexuality was a clean light
That warmed from inside
The glow of his very dark skin.
He possessed hands that might gently touch a forehead
And run downwards, against the flesh,
Be bold in their touch upon the secret boulders of love.
In his eyes, he held a peace
That might lull a man to sleep.
5 comments:
Hello Orokie the one that you explain is horrible. The badness is incredible whereupon the human being can act, independently of the the color of the skin. I specially feel much by your brothers and your family.
The bad men and coverall the bad governors are deserving of not living, so single serve to bring the misfortune to the people.
Fortunately in the world there are more good persons that bad people.
Give you thanks? Thanks to you, by your good heart and your sensitivity of whole man of the feet at the top. The Africa Mother is the mother of all the human beings, is incredible the martyrdom that has been suffering for centuries.
That the good spirits help to that the alive ones can be better and to live peacefully.
I am going to visit your Web now. I hug You, with a very hard hug.
You put all my worries and hopes together.
Lovely poem.
gug
That was lovely. And, the spirit of art here was captured so fully in that poem.
gayuganda and bronzebuckaroo...hi...and sweet greetings.
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