In Love and War...

Our Quiet Conflict
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The opening salvo was a quiet one.

There were no warning signs, no open declarations,
or speeches, just the sound of nothing;
Ours is a civil war of wordlessness,
you play the north, and I play a southern fool
enslaved by my roots, unwilling to abolish my antiquated ways,
waiting, pensively for you to free me;

The boundaries, clearly marked, grow faded;
each passing day a new skirmish,
casualties add up; wounds are made,
then heal, then are made again-
a cycle of hostility in words and glances;

Politics seem pointless, conversation becomes banter;
fortified walls penetrable
collateral damage incalculable;
we never talk, we just sit
staring across a vacuum
that has consumed our will to make peace;

We spent years forging a war,
both knowing that a victor would claim no glory,
just a realized understanding of human hearts,
how they hurt, bleed;
our negotiations less than courteous,
our conferences, brutal;
no parade marched in cadence,
rockets did not explode in celebration,
only silence when you breached my last defense.

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Coming Soon in Fall 2005 [ADVERTISMENT]

A collection of poems written by poet, actor,
spoken word artist, and teacher Larry Knight.

Rocking the Vote '70

Birthright
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

This is for Thomas Mundy Peterson,
for 1870,
the genesis of sovereignty;
this is for the moment,
a lifetime spent in anticipation,
hands raw from pensive waiting,
sweat beads forming at the corner of brows
burned by high noon sun,
nostrils opening to bring more air to lungs
choking in silent nervousness;
the air smelling sweeter than the day before,
like freedom,
like a great expanse of space, opened
for no one else,
and at the edge, is the thing so longed for,
spent sleepless nights pining for,
went days in starvation and
left the confines of enchainment
to head North for
because the sustenance from what
was truly craved was more promising than a few
granules of nutrients that burn away
days after they are consumed;

this is for the recognition
that life was connected to this,
everything ever loved depending
on this very moment;
for deliverance,
its flavor,
a sweet ripened taste
born from desire,
cultivated by longing,
harvested in one singular action
that will define,
shape,
matter to the ages,
encapsulate the very essence of being an American
in voices speaking in absolute terms;

this is for the boycotter
and the slave,
their resistance emboldening,
their spirits, speaking through history’s misery,
summoning lessons of self-determination
within a choice;
this is for the future which lies ahead,
each splinter of time
connected to what has been
and what will ultimately be
a legacy to the world
born in the acquisition of liberty,
flowing through veins
through communities
through us;

this is for the revolution
within the vote;
for that first scribbled ‘X’
that signified new beginnings,
for promise and hope,
things to come…
this is for ‘54 and ‘64,
the lives of unborn men and women;
for little southern girls
not yet conceived
killed
in the basement of an Alabama church;
this is for Mississippi’s past and future;

for unwritten history,
souls still stirring
in the depths of the sea,
lost in transportation
never to return home;
for breaking free
the sought glimmer of Eden
in the eyes of a few who escaped
years before;
this is for scarred backs
unhealed welts,
for diasporas,
lost children,
families divided;

this is the symbol
of a culmination of things-
the coalescence of thoughts
born in societal ostracism
enacted in this moment
when bronze hands touch quill
and make a mark;
a custodian’s ballot
affecting an embittered nation,
rocking New Jersey to its core;
when a slave’s son
sought firmament
in the power of an action;
this is for 135 years of possibilities
birthed from legislation
granting rights;
this is for that moment
when an inconceivable idea
manifested itself
on a spring day,
beneath sun and sky
and heaven;
contemplations of tomorrow
bearing change;
this is for Thomas Mundy Peterson,
for 1870,
for us.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Griot Ad #1

designed by Larry Knight

Gods and Legends (Part 1)

photo by Francis Wolff (courtesy of Blue Note Records)

God's Acknowledgement
by Larry Knight

What was it like to listen to Trane?
The Village Vanguard, New York, 1965;
it was a rainy night,
the smoke trails from burning cigarettes
formed grey spiral columns in the air,
the delicate flicker of votive candles
created shadows on eager faces,
and the quiet chatter of voices
mixed with the sound of ice cubes
striking the insides of drinking glasses in the semi-darkness,
when suddenly
and without preface
Jimmy began to play
this sonic boom in four chord progression:
boom boom boom boom,
boom boom boom boom,
boom boom boom boom,
then Elvin added percussive soul,
and McCoy added gentle serenity,
and then the sound of God's acknowledgement
slowly drifted in,
melodious chords of poly-rhythmic intensity,
the sheer absolutism of love-
it was glorious, pure, and perfect in its own simplicity
because it was all emanating from the inner depths of one man,
a saint, master of spirituality,
architect of the hierarchy of jazz,
also known as ‘the new thing’,
the messenger of universality,
the philosopher of impressionism-
he was the emperor of the blue note-
a saxophone deity pulling atoms from the farthest corners of the galaxy
to form a raging comet of intense freedom
streaking through the cosmos
crossing the ocean of our dreams
to arrive on the soft shores of our most tender moments-
he was a super colossus standing among the planets
reaching far into interstellar space
to capture the sound of God in each note
formed by breath pushed from lungs,
pushed through teeth,
pushed into the consciousness of humanity-
moving in sentimental moods
guiding us on wild exploits through love movements
while chanting softly in four syllables,
'a love supreme,
a love supreme,
a love supreme'
finally delivering us
like cradled children in infancy
into a rebirth-
and then, like a deafening explosion,
the piercing shriek of a howling whirlwind
plays soundtrack to the dissolving sun
melting into the earth
casting an effusion of brilliant shades of purple
on a canvas only he and God can see
while three apostles,
with drums, with bass, with piano,
all explode in unison as he, Coltrane, stands center stage
reaches out, seizes us,
and pulls us into his soul,
as he nurtures us
as he carries us on his seraphic wings
as he guides us towards heaven
to kneel in reverence
to the universe
to the sky
to the oceans
to the four winds of the earth
to the rock and the tree
to Buddha
to Allah
and to God...
...and the Vanguard became our heaven,
our sanctuary for resolutions-
he was the messenger,
and to listen to him
to explore with him,
to venture to the beyond with him
simply meant
that you had to be willing to die with him.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.