Art is open for interpretation; room for accurate definition of how one particular poem or written material which has memorialize thoughts and connotation. Thus to accuse one being racist after reading certain material is to assume one understands and has properly identify the dictionary definition as stated:
racism definition
The belief that some races are inherently superior (physically, intellectually, or culturally) to others and therefore have a right to dominate them. In the United States, racism, particularly by whites against blacks, has created profound racial tension and conflict in virtually all aspects of American society. Until the breakthroughs achieved by thecivil rights movement in the 1950s and 1960s, white domination over blacks was institutionalized and supported in all branches and levels of government, by denying blacks their civil rights and opportunities to participate in political, economic, and social communities.
I am an opinionated Artist whose works are sometimes embellished, concocted, inspired to stimulate minds and encourage the curious to keep reading with a totally open perspective on humankind and life. A product of slavery I fail to understand how one could be consider such when i.e., a African American man/woman history which endured brutal beginnings. The passage/voyage to America unspeakable and has certainly impacted our lives. Removing one from their origin, stifling their language and enforcing ideologies of other beliefs.
Please reference Timothy Wise "Colorblind: The Rise of Post-Racial Politics and the Retreat from Racial Equity."
Dr. Joy DeGruy Leary "Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome."
Peace and love to all one world
Lepadah
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Frederick Douglass July 4th Speech
Independence Day Speech at Rochester, 1841
Frederick Douglass (A former slave himself, Frederick Douglass became a leader in the 19th Century Abolitionist Movement) Fellow citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, hy am I called upon to speak here today? What have 1, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am 1, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us? Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold that a nation's sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation's jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that the dumb might eloquently speak and the "lame man leap as an hart." But such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence bequeathed by your fathers is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought light and healing to you has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me by asking me to speak today? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn that it is dangerous to copy the example of nation whose crimes, towering up to heaven,
were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrevocable ruin! I can today take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people. "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! We wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth." Fellow citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! Whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, today, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorry this day, "may my right hand cleave to the roof of my mouth"! To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then, fellow citizens, is American slavery. I shall see this day and its popular characteristics from the slave's point of view. Standing there identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine. I do not hesitate to declare with all my soul that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this Fourth of July! Whether we turn to the declarations of the past or to
the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the Constitution and the Bible which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery-the great sin and shame of America! "I will not equivocate, I will not excuse"; I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, shall not confess to be right and just.... For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not as astonishing that, while we are plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, and secretaries, having among us lawyers doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teachers; and that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives, and children, and above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian's God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave, we are called upon to prove that we are men!... What, am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system thus marked with blood, and stained with pollution, is wrong? No! I will not. I have better employment for my time and strength than such arguments would imply.... What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are, to Him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy-a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States at this very hour. Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms- of the Old World, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.
Frederick Douglass (A former slave himself, Frederick Douglass became a leader in the 19th Century Abolitionist Movement) Fellow citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, hy am I called upon to speak here today? What have 1, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? and am 1, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us? Would to God, both for your sakes and ours, that an affirmative answer could be truthfully returned to these questions! Then would my task be light, and my burden easy and delightful. For who is there so cold that a nation's sympathy could not warm him? Who so obdurate and dead to the claims of gratitude that would not thankfully acknowledge such priceless benefits? Who so stolid and selfish that would not give his voice to swell the hallelujahs of a nation's jubilee, when the chains of servitude had been torn from his limbs? I am not that man. In a case like that the dumb might eloquently speak and the "lame man leap as an hart." But such is not the state of the case. I say it with a sad sense of the disparity between us. am not included within the pale of this glorious anniversary! Your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us. The blessings in which you, this day, rejoice are not enjoyed in common. The rich inheritance of justice, liberty, prosperity, and independence bequeathed by your fathers is shared by you, not by me. The sunlight that brought light and healing to you has brought stripes and death to me. This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me by asking me to speak today? If so, there is a parallel to your conduct. And let me warn that it is dangerous to copy the example of nation whose crimes, towering up to heaven,
were thrown down by the breath of the Almighty, burying that nation in irrevocable ruin! I can today take up the plaintive lament of a peeled and woe-smitten people. "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down. Yea! We wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there, they that carried us away captive, required of us a song; and they who wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. How can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land? If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth." Fellow citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! Whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, today, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorry this day, "may my right hand cleave to the roof of my mouth"! To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then, fellow citizens, is American slavery. I shall see this day and its popular characteristics from the slave's point of view. Standing there identified with the American bondman, making his wrongs mine. I do not hesitate to declare with all my soul that the character and conduct of this nation never looked blacker to me than on this Fourth of July! Whether we turn to the declarations of the past or to
the professions of the present, the conduct of the nation seems equally hideous and revolting. America is false to the past, false to the present, and solemnly binds herself to be false to the future. Standing with God and the crushed and bleeding slave on this occasion, I will, in the name of humanity which is outraged, in the name of liberty which is fettered, in the name of the Constitution and the Bible which are disregarded and trampled upon, dare to call in question and to denounce, with all the emphasis I can command, everything that serves to perpetuate slavery-the great sin and shame of America! "I will not equivocate, I will not excuse"; I will use the severest language I can command; and yet not one word shall escape me that any man, whose judgment is not blinded by prejudice, shall not confess to be right and just.... For the present, it is enough to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race. Is it not as astonishing that, while we are plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, and secretaries, having among us lawyers doctors, ministers, poets, authors, editors, orators, and teachers; and that, while we are engaged in all manner of enterprises common to other men, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving, acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives, and children, and above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian's God, and looking hopefully for life and immortality beyond the grave, we are called upon to prove that we are men!... What, am I to argue that it is wrong to make men brutes, to rob them of their liberty, to work them without wages, to keep them ignorant of their relations to their fellow men, to beat them with sticks, to flay their flesh with the lash, to load their limbs with irons, to hunt them with dogs, to sell them at auction, to sunder their families, to knock out their teeth, to burn their flesh, to starve them into obedience and submission to their masters? Must I argue that a system thus marked with blood, and stained with pollution, is wrong? No! I will not. I have better employment for my time and strength than such arguments would imply.... What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are, to Him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy-a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States at this very hour. Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms- of the Old World, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Update and Inquiry Cousin Lloyd Patterson Portrait
Re: Lloyd Patterson Portrait and Article
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
From:
"Andy Leddy"
To:
"Lydia Percy"
Thanks for your note. You can see how often I check this e-mail address! Sorry for the delay in responding.
Lots going on with my portrait of Lloyd Patterson - the Smithsonian is interested, but I'm still interested in getting an article published first. I am actually trying to find James to see if he would loan me a photograph he said he has - one of his father, Lloyd, and Langston Hughes together. That photo would really help my presentation quite a bit.
I have an old address for him. On I St, SE in DC. Do you happen to have a current address? Believe me, I know he's hard to find and connect with, so I'm not holding out great hopes. Still, I have to try. Any thoughts would be most welcome.
Thanks,
Andy
Hi Andy,
I will be awaiting the article on my Cousin LLoyd Patterson. With reference to James he has not been well for sometime now and is pretty much in seclusion. He resides with our family in Washington presently (Kenneth Hamilton). I have some pictures James sent me from Russia years ago of his father but none with Langston Hughes I do have articles of Paul Robeson with Lloyd when they all went to Russia. Please forward your article when you are done we would love to see it. Any further information I will be happy to provide at best.
Also our family has the Encyclopedia of the Harlem Renaissance you can google this book by
Cary D. Wintz, Paul Finkelman - 2004 - Art - 1341 pages
The first was Lloyd Patterson, a graduate of Hampton Institute (1931) who had ... He preceded Paul Robeson in the role of Othello (which was then rarely ...
Thanks,
Lydia
FYI
Brief Biography on James Lloydovich Patterson (Russian: Джеймс Ллойдович Паттерсон; born 17 July 1933) is a Russian writer and child actor of African American descent.
James Lloydovich Patterson was born in Moscow on July 17, 1933, the eldest of three children born to an African American immigrant to the Soviet Union and his Russian wife. Having arrived in the USSR as an unemployed actor looking for work during the Great Depression in 1932, James Patterson's father Lloyd Patterson, just twenty-two, decided to remain permanently after meeting and falling in love with James' mother, the theater artist Vera Ippolitovna Aralova.
James Patterson appeared in the Soviet cinema as a baby in the 1936 hit Soviet film Circus – where, parallel to his own life, he played the role of the dark-skinned child of an interracial couple being brought up in the manner of the politically egalitarian ideals officially embraced by the Soviet system.
Following Nazi Germany's attack on the Soviet Union, James and his mother were evacuated to the east, while his father, who had obtained a position with Soviet radio as a presenter for English-speaking listeners abroad, remained on the job in Moscow. He died during the war after suffering serious wounds in the bombardment of the city in 1942.[1]
James was a member of the Komsomol and graduated from the Riga Nakhimov Naval School, a prestigious military academy for boys of high-school age, in 1951.[1] Lauded as a model cadet, he proceeded to receive further training as a submariner in Leningrad. Commissioned as an officer in the Soviet Navy, Patterson began serving with the Black Sea Fleet in 1955.[1]
By the 1960s, Patterson's professional ambitions had turned to writing. Still serving in the navy, he published his first literary debut, the poetry collection Russia. Africa in 1963. Leaving the Soviet Navy, Patterson graduated from the Maxim Gorky Literature Institute in 1964, drawing inspiration from subjects as diverse as the sea, the beginning of the Space Age, and the racial tension around the time of the desegregation efforts of the American civil rights movement. Having authored a number of works by the late 1960s, he was admitted as a member of the USSR Union of Writers in 1967.
The sweeping political and economic changes during the breakdown of the Soviet Union were also accompanied by profound difficulties for the new Russian society; a frequent visitor to his father's homeland, James Patterson and his mother immigrated to the United States from the Russian Federation in the 1990s.[1]
Selected works by James Lloyd Patterson
• «Россия. Африка» (Russia. Africa, poems 1963)
• «Хроника левой руки: Новеллы.» М., 1964 (Chronicles of the Left Hand: Novellas, 1964)
• «Рождение ливня» (Birth of the Rain, poems, 1973)
• «Взаимодействие» (Interaction, poems, 1978)
• «Зимние ласточки» (Winter Swallows, poems, 1980)
• «Красная лилия» (The Red Lily, poems, 1984)
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
From:
"Andy Leddy"
To:
"Lydia Percy"
Thanks for your note. You can see how often I check this e-mail address! Sorry for the delay in responding.
Lots going on with my portrait of Lloyd Patterson - the Smithsonian is interested, but I'm still interested in getting an article published first. I am actually trying to find James to see if he would loan me a photograph he said he has - one of his father, Lloyd, and Langston Hughes together. That photo would really help my presentation quite a bit.
I have an old address for him. On I St, SE in DC. Do you happen to have a current address? Believe me, I know he's hard to find and connect with, so I'm not holding out great hopes. Still, I have to try. Any thoughts would be most welcome.
Thanks,
Andy
Hi Andy,
I will be awaiting the article on my Cousin LLoyd Patterson. With reference to James he has not been well for sometime now and is pretty much in seclusion. He resides with our family in Washington presently (Kenneth Hamilton). I have some pictures James sent me from Russia years ago of his father but none with Langston Hughes I do have articles of Paul Robeson with Lloyd when they all went to Russia. Please forward your article when you are done we would love to see it. Any further information I will be happy to provide at best.
Also our family has the Encyclopedia of the Harlem Renaissance you can google this book by
Cary D. Wintz, Paul Finkelman - 2004 - Art - 1341 pages
The first was Lloyd Patterson, a graduate of Hampton Institute (1931) who had ... He preceded Paul Robeson in the role of Othello (which was then rarely ...
Thanks,
Lydia
FYI
Brief Biography on James Lloydovich Patterson (Russian: Джеймс Ллойдович Паттерсон; born 17 July 1933) is a Russian writer and child actor of African American descent.
James Lloydovich Patterson was born in Moscow on July 17, 1933, the eldest of three children born to an African American immigrant to the Soviet Union and his Russian wife. Having arrived in the USSR as an unemployed actor looking for work during the Great Depression in 1932, James Patterson's father Lloyd Patterson, just twenty-two, decided to remain permanently after meeting and falling in love with James' mother, the theater artist Vera Ippolitovna Aralova.
James Patterson appeared in the Soviet cinema as a baby in the 1936 hit Soviet film Circus – where, parallel to his own life, he played the role of the dark-skinned child of an interracial couple being brought up in the manner of the politically egalitarian ideals officially embraced by the Soviet system.
Following Nazi Germany's attack on the Soviet Union, James and his mother were evacuated to the east, while his father, who had obtained a position with Soviet radio as a presenter for English-speaking listeners abroad, remained on the job in Moscow. He died during the war after suffering serious wounds in the bombardment of the city in 1942.[1]
James was a member of the Komsomol and graduated from the Riga Nakhimov Naval School, a prestigious military academy for boys of high-school age, in 1951.[1] Lauded as a model cadet, he proceeded to receive further training as a submariner in Leningrad. Commissioned as an officer in the Soviet Navy, Patterson began serving with the Black Sea Fleet in 1955.[1]
By the 1960s, Patterson's professional ambitions had turned to writing. Still serving in the navy, he published his first literary debut, the poetry collection Russia. Africa in 1963. Leaving the Soviet Navy, Patterson graduated from the Maxim Gorky Literature Institute in 1964, drawing inspiration from subjects as diverse as the sea, the beginning of the Space Age, and the racial tension around the time of the desegregation efforts of the American civil rights movement. Having authored a number of works by the late 1960s, he was admitted as a member of the USSR Union of Writers in 1967.
The sweeping political and economic changes during the breakdown of the Soviet Union were also accompanied by profound difficulties for the new Russian society; a frequent visitor to his father's homeland, James Patterson and his mother immigrated to the United States from the Russian Federation in the 1990s.[1]
Selected works by James Lloyd Patterson
• «Россия. Африка» (Russia. Africa, poems 1963)
• «Хроника левой руки: Новеллы.» М., 1964 (Chronicles of the Left Hand: Novellas, 1964)
• «Рождение ливня» (Birth of the Rain, poems, 1973)
• «Взаимодействие» (Interaction, poems, 1978)
• «Зимние ласточки» (Winter Swallows, poems, 1980)
• «Красная лилия» (The Red Lily, poems, 1984)
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Revisiting Richard Wright's Black Boy
Eric Millerjohn commented on your post in The Black Poets Circle.
Eric Millerjohn 6:59pm Jun 23
SOUNDS REAL HOT
Lydia Elizabeth 6:41pm Jun 23
Black Boy raw richness is literary magic Wright's writing has always fascinated me such imagery lush truth of ones own humanity. Revisiting Black Boy with a renewed hunger and love for the intense writing. In love all over again. Page 8 of the revised edition is ultimate poetry.
Eric Millerjohn 6:59pm Jun 23
SOUNDS REAL HOT
Lydia Elizabeth 6:41pm Jun 23
Black Boy raw richness is literary magic Wright's writing has always fascinated me such imagery lush truth of ones own humanity. Revisiting Black Boy with a renewed hunger and love for the intense writing. In love all over again. Page 8 of the revised edition is ultimate poetry.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Eve's Women
The cords pulling
cat gut guitars
string song pong . . . ping . . .
unzipping a tied chest
arrested her air way
stealing half a minute from life
aloft her sanctuary spoiled
by forgotten padding allow blood
wane into the ticking
impregnate horse hair, oiling bonnel springs
light fresh pearls of purity
betray the vulnerable side of Eve
© 2011 Lepadah
cat gut guitars
string song pong . . . ping . . .
unzipping a tied chest
arrested her air way
stealing half a minute from life
aloft her sanctuary spoiled
by forgotten padding allow blood
wane into the ticking
impregnate horse hair, oiling bonnel springs
light fresh pearls of purity
betray the vulnerable side of Eve
© 2011 Lepadah
Conversation with Mwalimu W. Kabaila
Mwalimu W. Kabaila sent you a message
From:
Sent:
Jun 20, 2011 07:47:24 PM
To:
lydia
Mwalimu W. Kabaila
I agree that we need to invest in our own products, but that requires our own marketing also. I would offer a model where we work up a Proposal and submit to some of our Nation Builder bankers and/or Developers.Then we allow Marketing Blitzes to alter our peoples buying power in their own interests.
Conversation History
Lydia Elizabeth
11:57am Jun 20
With reference to Dutch ownership I'm sure they might have an monopoly on such as the case with most corporate industry which we don't have ownership in most. I feel we should resume all possible endeavors to recapture and regain ownership. Which means to me investing in our own products.
Lydia Elizabeth
11:46am Jun 20
Hello Brother
Initially I would present a proposal with a full layout of concept, expenses and summarization of all products/management and budgetary etc. A full research analysis from bottom ground, network, resourcing and sourcing fabric. Examining production of fabric, contacts of various textile mills for our specific market/interest. Develop price points including initial start up cost. Gathering all data with respect to domestic/international, import/export and considering factor must include yarn production, distribution/distributors. Another important element is environment for operation/location.
Peace Lepadah
Mwalimu W. Kabaila
3:54pm Jun 18
What are some steps which could be taken to initiate such a move. I am being told now, that most African textiles are owned by the Dutch. Is that close to the truth? And how do we reverse that in practical ways?
Lydia Elizabeth
8:04am Jun 18
The concept of owning is prominent. Working from the innards and the finality of something bountiful is a challenge I welcome. Ownership is no longer an option it is our goal.
Mwalimu W. Kabaila
5:39pm Jun 17
Would love your thoughts on owning an industry from bottom to top. Do you know anyone making those kind of moves? Meaning from farm, processing,manufacturing, distribution, retail?
From:
Sent:
Jun 20, 2011 07:47:24 PM
To:
lydia
Mwalimu W. Kabaila
I agree that we need to invest in our own products, but that requires our own marketing also. I would offer a model where we work up a Proposal and submit to some of our Nation Builder bankers and/or Developers.Then we allow Marketing Blitzes to alter our peoples buying power in their own interests.
Conversation History
Lydia Elizabeth
11:57am Jun 20
With reference to Dutch ownership I'm sure they might have an monopoly on such as the case with most corporate industry which we don't have ownership in most. I feel we should resume all possible endeavors to recapture and regain ownership. Which means to me investing in our own products.
Lydia Elizabeth
11:46am Jun 20
Hello Brother
Initially I would present a proposal with a full layout of concept, expenses and summarization of all products/management and budgetary etc. A full research analysis from bottom ground, network, resourcing and sourcing fabric. Examining production of fabric, contacts of various textile mills for our specific market/interest. Develop price points including initial start up cost. Gathering all data with respect to domestic/international, import/export and considering factor must include yarn production, distribution/distributors. Another important element is environment for operation/location.
Peace Lepadah
Mwalimu W. Kabaila
3:54pm Jun 18
What are some steps which could be taken to initiate such a move. I am being told now, that most African textiles are owned by the Dutch. Is that close to the truth? And how do we reverse that in practical ways?
Lydia Elizabeth
8:04am Jun 18
The concept of owning is prominent. Working from the innards and the finality of something bountiful is a challenge I welcome. Ownership is no longer an option it is our goal.
Mwalimu W. Kabaila
5:39pm Jun 17
Would love your thoughts on owning an industry from bottom to top. Do you know anyone making those kind of moves? Meaning from farm, processing,manufacturing, distribution, retail?
Monday, June 20, 2011
Re: Spoken Word Poem "GIL SCOTT."
Subject Apostle Truth added a comment to Black Writers Connect
From: Black Writers Connect
Sent: Jun 18, 2011 05:56:31 PM
To: Lydia
Apostle Truth added a comment to you profile on Black Writers Connect
Would like to speak with you more about having your work at the summit.
From: Black Writers Connect
Sent: Jun 18, 2011 05:56:31 PM
To: Lydia
Apostle Truth added a comment to you profile on Black Writers Connect
Would like to speak with you more about having your work at the summit.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Juliette Akinyi Ochieng comment . . .
Juliette Akinyi Ochieng posted in The Black Poets Circle.
Juliette Akinyi Ochieng 11:21am Jun 16
Good stuff!
Sleeping With A Legend - The Black Poets Circle
blackpoetscircle.ning.com
by Lydia Percy
Juliette Akinyi Ochieng 11:21am Jun 16
Good stuff!
Sleeping With A Legend - The Black Poets Circle
blackpoetscircle.ning.com
by Lydia Percy
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Moving Out Of Death
Moving out death
sweeping out cinders
relegate old relics
mystical, magical fixtures and figurines
collected keys with no locks
celtic crosses, rosary beads
cooked candles, aroma of dark cellars
slowly airing shoulders
the curious nature of an attic
a loop chain hanging apart a crooked hook
solid in the floor
mesmerize wonderment
where to begin
ten cans of turpentine
clorox, gloves and several buckets of white paint
mutate dark into light
after years circled depths
how long will the stay?
haunting shadow dragging his image to face
clear water drip
off a fingertip
so let us begin
refuse left over TV dinners
unused toilet paper
passing of the clothing
folded into corrugated boxes
numbered and place to side
next day Goodwill
when would one dare sleep?
at peace without waking
knowing the history of this space
once occupied . . .
emptying someone else life to live yours
and begin again alone
somewhere new
strangeness will inspire prophecies and tales
© 2011 Lepadah
Poems for Comment
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The Moving Out Of Death
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Posted: Jun 09 11 07:14 AM
Message:
57208.2 (2 of 2)
Reply to 57208.1
Splendid poem lepadah...I so especially found I connected with these lines...
emptying someone else life to live yours
and begin again alone
somewhere new
strangeness will inspire prophecies and tales"
Just wonderful....thanks for the pleasure of reading it.
Subject poem
From: MICHAEL ANGEL
Sent: Jun 16, 2011 06:02:03 PM
To: lydia
Love your poem, more everytime I read it. Never had a serious poem witten about me. Everyone I show it to are very impressed. You are very talented & are blessed with the gift of putting emotions to words. I am jealous. I wish the best for you & your family, hoping the apt brings you the peace & happiness it brought me.Hello to your son, mother & nephew.
Best Regards,
MICHAEL
sweeping out cinders
relegate old relics
mystical, magical fixtures and figurines
collected keys with no locks
celtic crosses, rosary beads
cooked candles, aroma of dark cellars
slowly airing shoulders
the curious nature of an attic
a loop chain hanging apart a crooked hook
solid in the floor
mesmerize wonderment
where to begin
ten cans of turpentine
clorox, gloves and several buckets of white paint
mutate dark into light
after years circled depths
how long will the stay?
haunting shadow dragging his image to face
clear water drip
off a fingertip
so let us begin
refuse left over TV dinners
unused toilet paper
passing of the clothing
folded into corrugated boxes
numbered and place to side
next day Goodwill
when would one dare sleep?
at peace without waking
knowing the history of this space
once occupied . . .
emptying someone else life to live yours
and begin again alone
somewhere new
strangeness will inspire prophecies and tales
© 2011 Lepadah
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The Moving Out Of Death
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To: lepadahxxx
Unread
Posted: Jun 09 11 07:14 AM
Message:
57208.2 (2 of 2)
Reply to 57208.1
Splendid poem lepadah...I so especially found I connected with these lines...
emptying someone else life to live yours
and begin again alone
somewhere new
strangeness will inspire prophecies and tales"
Just wonderful....thanks for the pleasure of reading it.
Subject poem
From: MICHAEL ANGEL
Sent: Jun 16, 2011 06:02:03 PM
To: lydia
Love your poem, more everytime I read it. Never had a serious poem witten about me. Everyone I show it to are very impressed. You are very talented & are blessed with the gift of putting emotions to words. I am jealous. I wish the best for you & your family, hoping the apt brings you the peace & happiness it brought me.Hello to your son, mother & nephew.
Best Regards,
MICHAEL
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
MORE LOVE FOR BROTHER GIL SCOTT HERON . . .
Lydia,
It saddened me to hear of his death. The only others I know who wrote so many important songs were Bob Dylan and John Lennon, Lennon of course not having the lifespan of the other two--maybe Woodie Guthrie in his time. I'm not talking love songs necessarily, or I would add others to the list, but for important content, Gil Scott Heron was . . .
He was a leader. The first time I heard him was about 1973 or 1974. I know the LP for sure was Pieces of a Man. I loved every song. Friends came over to listen to music on my massive Cerwin Vega speaker system. I was one of few who played every kind of music: country, folk, blues, rock--both heavy and soft, big band, celtic, western swing--you name it, it got played--turn it up, no problem. Jazz. It was poetry without words, or sometimes with. I can remember the same time period also playing Pharaoh Sanders, who took the jazz listener to the edge of destruction, then brought them safely back home. Though most of my friends understood and appreciated the '60s songs with significant content (and maybe used me to expose them to such things), Sanders challenged them with just his music. Gil Scott Heron. He did it with music and words. I would invite friends over and when the evening rolled around to jazz, start them out with some soft Gil Scott Heron--Save the Children, I Think I'll Call it Morning, Your Daddy Loves You...slowly slipping into stuff like Pieces of a Man, then...The Revolution Will Not be Televised--friends listened, white friends. I probably had somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen LPs at one time, then CDs came. Transition. Tuskegee 626, We Almost Lost Detroit, The Bottle, B Movie---you tell me--yeah, you know what I mean. Spoken word put to music.
"A rat done bit my sister Nell, but Whitey's on the Moon," my oldest son called from California and recited these words after hearing of his death. He remembered just a couple of weeks ago when I visited him how I played Pieces of a Man on the guitar, and how he wanted to learn how to play the song--we sang it together. Last night, after hearing the news, I slipped into the living room, through the darkness--no light, picked up my guitar, and played the song again...
I listened to several of my old favorites while writing this letter,
It was my way of saying, peace go with you brother.
Larry Mayfield
Editor
Re: idea
Thursday, June 9, 2011 8:34 PM
From:"Larry Mayfield"
To:"Lydia Percy"
Lydia,
Idea brewing. Gil Scott Heron. Unknown/unpublished poets. The Lost Poets. Tributes spoken word recorded.
bigger idea. Documentary. Established authors, musicians, poets, all recording tributes of spoken word
Larry
It saddened me to hear of his death. The only others I know who wrote so many important songs were Bob Dylan and John Lennon, Lennon of course not having the lifespan of the other two--maybe Woodie Guthrie in his time. I'm not talking love songs necessarily, or I would add others to the list, but for important content, Gil Scott Heron was . . .
He was a leader. The first time I heard him was about 1973 or 1974. I know the LP for sure was Pieces of a Man. I loved every song. Friends came over to listen to music on my massive Cerwin Vega speaker system. I was one of few who played every kind of music: country, folk, blues, rock--both heavy and soft, big band, celtic, western swing--you name it, it got played--turn it up, no problem. Jazz. It was poetry without words, or sometimes with. I can remember the same time period also playing Pharaoh Sanders, who took the jazz listener to the edge of destruction, then brought them safely back home. Though most of my friends understood and appreciated the '60s songs with significant content (and maybe used me to expose them to such things), Sanders challenged them with just his music. Gil Scott Heron. He did it with music and words. I would invite friends over and when the evening rolled around to jazz, start them out with some soft Gil Scott Heron--Save the Children, I Think I'll Call it Morning, Your Daddy Loves You...slowly slipping into stuff like Pieces of a Man, then...The Revolution Will Not be Televised--friends listened, white friends. I probably had somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen LPs at one time, then CDs came. Transition. Tuskegee 626, We Almost Lost Detroit, The Bottle, B Movie---you tell me--yeah, you know what I mean. Spoken word put to music.
"A rat done bit my sister Nell, but Whitey's on the Moon," my oldest son called from California and recited these words after hearing of his death. He remembered just a couple of weeks ago when I visited him how I played Pieces of a Man on the guitar, and how he wanted to learn how to play the song--we sang it together. Last night, after hearing the news, I slipped into the living room, through the darkness--no light, picked up my guitar, and played the song again...
I listened to several of my old favorites while writing this letter,
It was my way of saying, peace go with you brother.
Larry Mayfield
Editor
Re: idea
Thursday, June 9, 2011 8:34 PM
From:"Larry Mayfield"
To:"Lydia Percy"
Lydia,
Idea brewing. Gil Scott Heron. Unknown/unpublished poets. The Lost Poets. Tributes spoken word recorded.
bigger idea. Documentary. Established authors, musicians, poets, all recording tributes of spoken word
Larry
OPEN LETTER FROM THE EDITOR . . . SCREENPLAY!
From: "Larry Mayfield, Editor"
To:
"Lydia Percy"
Re: Discussion for screenplay. . .
Lydia
As per our discussion for the screenplay I'm excited!
. . . and one of the peaks of the screenplay idea would be when two characters, either lovers or close relatives, would have one heck of an interactive spoken word/dialogue piece, where each speaks to the other, back and forth they go, the dialogue, shall I say, starts with something of a paragraph, followed by the second characters equal paragraph, and each time they speak to the other, the phrases shorten, into finally one word, followed by character two saying one word, as in an equal interchange of words, symbolically equalness of a partnership, argue, soften to a calm, whispers of love, nudges, silence. the thoughts continue one to the other, and returned thoughts balance the other's feelings.
what do you mean you dont know what I am talking about?
i can follow you , i think i can do it, maybe
can you do it?
i can do it
you can?
yes, certainly
yeah?
yeah
(satisfied thought)
(nodding satisfaction)
Forwarding information to you we'll talk further.
Regards,
Larry Mayfield
Editor
To:
"Lydia Percy"
Re: Discussion for screenplay. . .
Lydia
As per our discussion for the screenplay I'm excited!
. . . and one of the peaks of the screenplay idea would be when two characters, either lovers or close relatives, would have one heck of an interactive spoken word/dialogue piece, where each speaks to the other, back and forth they go, the dialogue, shall I say, starts with something of a paragraph, followed by the second characters equal paragraph, and each time they speak to the other, the phrases shorten, into finally one word, followed by character two saying one word, as in an equal interchange of words, symbolically equalness of a partnership, argue, soften to a calm, whispers of love, nudges, silence. the thoughts continue one to the other, and returned thoughts balance the other's feelings.
what do you mean you dont know what I am talking about?
i can follow you , i think i can do it, maybe
can you do it?
i can do it
you can?
yes, certainly
yeah?
yeah
(satisfied thought)
(nodding satisfaction)
Forwarding information to you we'll talk further.
Regards,
Larry Mayfield
Editor
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Spoken Word Version - Poetic Prince Brother Gil Scott Heron
Leps House
Tuesday, May 1, 2011
Poetic Prince Brother Gil Scott Heron
Found language in the microphone last night
belonging to you brother
aspire to libretto brow
profess patois
my intro to Gil "In The Bottle"
meant more than just being in the wine bottle
it meant that in 1974 everybody was breaking out
like Gil . . . breaking out Billie, Nina, Coltrane, Hughes, Huey, X
he was not just "Pieces of a Man"
he was a man
he was our brother man
let's beat the congas and play the saxophone in the street
for our brother man
stumbling across dominance
spotlight a shone
upon your throne
East Village our home
to Baldwin's rainy days
a crowded Synagogue occupied
gathering Haven, Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti
mirrored Bohemian men threaded skin
the dead end
near Christopher Streets lonely bar
I too stumbling down doomed alleys
burden consciousness; seeking answers
toting burnt glass pipes
chiming baggy interior of a suit jacket
chasing you brother
chasing you brother
chasing you Gil into a new nightmare
alone and scared
no place left to hide pain
crack rat poisoning eating your membrane
you continue to protest
through the thruway of a boiled soul
spewing out necessary testimonies
I hear you
I hear you . . . our Poetic Prince lost
like us all
knowing you in stages
knowing you in stages
like black ink on white pages
your undeniable truth
shattering apprentice minds
we continue to protest
we protest with you
protest for you
protest before and now
through our microphones
we all speak . . . spoken utterances
Troupe, Last Poets, Baraka, Corso and Sanchez . . .
we all speak for you brother
we all walk with you brother
we speak
we speak
we speak . . . for you brother
© 2011 Lepadah
Poetic Prince Brother Gil Scot...
NEW COMMENT!
Wow breath taking poem here. Enjoyed the strength displayed here. I wish I could really sum up what I thought and felt while reading this poem in a single word, but that word does not exist. Very very mature and profound piece, and instant fav, I look forward to reading more of your works Bravo Poet
-Kenz
love peace and poetry
Tuesday, May 1, 2011
Poetic Prince Brother Gil Scott Heron
Found language in the microphone last night
belonging to you brother
aspire to libretto brow
profess patois
my intro to Gil "In The Bottle"
meant more than just being in the wine bottle
it meant that in 1974 everybody was breaking out
like Gil . . . breaking out Billie, Nina, Coltrane, Hughes, Huey, X
he was not just "Pieces of a Man"
he was a man
he was our brother man
let's beat the congas and play the saxophone in the street
for our brother man
stumbling across dominance
spotlight a shone
upon your throne
East Village our home
to Baldwin's rainy days
a crowded Synagogue occupied
gathering Haven, Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti
mirrored Bohemian men threaded skin
the dead end
near Christopher Streets lonely bar
I too stumbling down doomed alleys
burden consciousness; seeking answers
toting burnt glass pipes
chiming baggy interior of a suit jacket
chasing you brother
chasing you brother
chasing you Gil into a new nightmare
alone and scared
no place left to hide pain
crack rat poisoning eating your membrane
you continue to protest
through the thruway of a boiled soul
spewing out necessary testimonies
I hear you
I hear you . . . our Poetic Prince lost
like us all
knowing you in stages
knowing you in stages
like black ink on white pages
your undeniable truth
shattering apprentice minds
we continue to protest
we protest with you
protest for you
protest before and now
through our microphones
we all speak . . . spoken utterances
Troupe, Last Poets, Baraka, Corso and Sanchez . . .
we all speak for you brother
we all walk with you brother
we speak
we speak
we speak . . . for you brother
© 2011 Lepadah
Poetic Prince Brother Gil Scot...
NEW COMMENT!
Wow breath taking poem here. Enjoyed the strength displayed here. I wish I could really sum up what I thought and felt while reading this poem in a single word, but that word does not exist. Very very mature and profound piece, and instant fav, I look forward to reading more of your works Bravo Poet
-Kenz
love peace and poetry
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