By Roger Bonair-Agard
Bury My outfits is a meditation on violence, race, and where in paintings at which they intersect. Art—specifically in oppressed communities—is approximately survival, Roger Bonair-Agard asserts, and developing personhood in an international that claims you have got none. via poetry, we remodel either the area of paintings and the realm itself.
Roger Bonair-Agard is a Cave Canem fellow, two-time nationwide Poetry Slam Champion, and writer of Tarnish and Masquerade and Gully. He has seemed 3 times on HBO's Def Poetry Jam and is Co-founder and creative Director of the LouderARTS venture in ny.
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Extra resources for Bury My Clothes
The rain fell like a parachute on the street, But the civil guard of ash-bins Stood like policemen in a file near their houses. And an old hag went, a rope around her neck, From bin to bin in the rain, and raised each lid, And found them, every coffin, empty. And at the bottom of the road, In the presence of the ravenous ashes there in the café, The ashes that had escaped from the bins, Whitechapel's lard-bellied women, Golders Green Ethiopians, On a handy lamp-post, the hag hanged herself, with her rope.
Surpassing pity is the pure, blazing love that tempers the saints' iron by blow after blow, That scourges the flesh to its fort in the soul, and its home In the heavenly spirit, and its burrow in the most holy, That burns and slashes and tears till the final skirmish, Till it strips and embraces its prey with its claw of steel. She little knew, six days before the Pasch, Pouring the moist precious nard upon him, all of it, That truly 'she kept this for my burial'; She did not imagine, so precious his praise for her task, That she would never, never more touch his feet or his hands; Thomas could place his hand in his side; but she, despite her weeping, Only in the pitiful form of Bread would the broken flesh now come to her.
2 Vanessa Io Empress of butterflies On a peony throne, outspread, Its wings like the peacock's train Or Cleopatra's fan - alive. 3 Peaches Summer's velvet on the tongue, and its fruit's savour A sweet shiver on the palate, Firm-fleshed green and purple pouch, August's blood has filled your hollow. Page 40 Carol On the ancient tree sprung from Adam's grave, Jesse's black and knotted trunk, Was grafted a branch from heaven, and today, Oh hosanna, Oh hosanna, Seehere is God's own rose. In the starless night, no moonlight, The pit of winter, in the year's Senilitybehold, a Baby, The Son of Mary, Oh Sibyl, The king of heaven was born.