Let's have a Maya Angelou Datalounge poem in honor of the life of Nelson Mandela
Rise, Madiba! The goddess beckons!
The queens so bitchy, their souls so witchy, cauldrons full of blood and unwashed hairy asses full of shit. Do not fret, their penis rises at the morning sun, they have fun releasing the toxic cum.
Oh r2 honey. Mandela deserves every sort of poetic elegy, rap song, symphony, coffee table book, documetary, you name it - who else has had a life so extraordinary? And chances are - Dr. Maya will come up with some of her patented silly references to ostrich eggs, dinosaur dung, etc but it will be touching as well. Everything will be sad when he leaves - even well meant, batty poetry.
How high you flew, on clippéd wings.
How sweet you sang, our king of kings.
Oh, R1, if only I had a fraction of your talent...sigh.
OP is a racixt
From the land to which we are all called, the horns blow! Listen.
Yes, you, the farm labourer toiling on another's field. The mother with her heart of steel save tenderness for her brood of jubilation. The politician with his clean suit and filthy hands. The disease-riddled, yet noble, whores of the township. Listen! They call to you.
Everyone, from the deserts of the north to the cape, the whore,
The black, the colored, Asian, the non, the poor: Soar!
I rise and eat garlic, you see?
Never, never HIV in me!
so serious, so severe,
so devout with pride
(Madiba. A nation saved
by the gentleness
of your touch.)
that amid such passing
I could stop myself
from my own glory.
BRIGHT MAN -
Your proud lioness
(And we know why
the caged bird
When he falls, we all rise to shoulder the burden he has long shouldered for us. Shoulders and flanks march not boulders of death and tanks. Hallelujah!
Mammy's little baby likes shortening, shortening,
Mammy's little baby likes shortening bread!
Thank you, thank you. I love this town and you are beautiful, beautiful people!
This dark this leg, this mud and tearing. Forward to the past, this freedom won again. Tearing. No home but here, history spits. Tearing. Again.
Determined with a life full of spirit, and yet shackled. Too long. Too long.
And I. An American woman who has appeared on Oprah, Goddess yet she is so simple.
I question. I question. Did I have a caged bird?
What kind of bird was it? Who are you?
Oh! Great Lion
You know as I do
The bright lights of being an
Interviewed for wisdom
Like me, so wise
You leap on the back of the wind!
The chains of apartheid.
The powers of the world lied.
They died. Died!
You, Madiba, de-fied!
Sanctions. Elections. Redemptions!
From the cells of Robben to the crowds sobbin'.
You were released. We were all pleased without being appeased. Praise be!
Cape of Good Hope. You are our pope!
A black pope. Not Desmund Tutu. He is cuckoo! He acts white, doesn't understand the black plight.
Reconciliation for the nation while we cease our own creation.
The white settle for the mettle. Gold and diamonds. Those are their bonds. Our were chains and pains!
Freedom is now ours. No more prison bars.
Bump for Madiba
I enjoy the exposure of the racists trolls celebrating the death of Nelson Mandela.
This gives us a good indication of where the national 22 percent of Gay Republican/Mitt Romney voters are present.
Is Miss Dionne Warwick planning to sing at Nelson's funeral?
Do you think she's already plotting her flight to south Africa?
Please Dionne, don't let us down! I hope you and Winnie spark up a bone together.
The un-caged bird sings no more.
He be dead.
Dionne Warwick Funeral Services, Inc. has been hired for the memorial service. Dionne, herself, will be the master of ceremonies, just as she was for Whitney Houston's memorial service.
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
applies to everybody, everywhere.
Love this poem
This thread is not full if racists, R18, just people mocking Maya Angelou's grandiose, overblown and distinctive style.
True R23. Not all of us black folk are crazy about Maya's pompous prose. I can't stand "Phenomenal Woman".
I hate the racism on the DL, but I love those lampooning Dr Angelou's Poetry!
What is this deal with always referring to him as "Madiba"? Isn't that an aristocratic honorific? It's like constantly referring to Kate Middleton, even when she's not present and you're not employed by the Palace, as "Her Royal Highness."
From capitals the world over and townships suffering their hardships. They came!
Obama, Carter, Clinton, Bush,
Each made the journey to the stadium to sit on his tush!
Nelson and Barack, joined by history,
But Hillary, pantsuited in glory, also there to tell her story.
Oh Holy men among men: We packed some fried chicken and waffles for your trip to the after life. BE SWEET!
Madiba! Gadiba! Badiba!
That's all folks!
Ditto to R23. LMAO at some of the posts.
Yeah R22, but what about that goiter on your neck?
Who put the bop in the bop-shu-bop-shu-bop?
A flutter of hands for those who can't hear.
That whackdoodle left the deaf signing, "Oh, dear."
He said he's a schizo, and spewed a detraction.
But we know it's all just Affirmative Blacktion.
[quote]This thread is not full if racists, [R18], just people mocking Maya Angelou's grandiose, overblown and distinctive style.
I speak your NAME, r23!
No No No Yes
Black man!! Black Man, where have you gone to?
Black Man!! Black Man... where did you go?
Never realized what a hack she is. I bet she writes this while sitting on the john.
I didn't realize until now that the Maya's inaugural poem actually does talk about dinosaur shit. Nice!
God, Maya is just so precious and overrated. Yet she's probably the only one that most Americans know by name. I wonder what real poets think of this hack. To me she's the Thomas Kincaid of the poetry world.
Man, did it rain. I climbded down out of the plane's wheel well and hit the mud they call a runway, and hitched over to the stadium. Thank Jebus I was wearing my Queen of Sheba sweatshirt with the sparkles and they thought I was Gold Coast royalty, so I got into the covered stands. That place was rocking. Billy C was speeding and passed me a doob. My stash had blew out of my purse somewhere over the Azores, so I owe him one. Barry and Michelle tried to act dignified but once his speech was over he relaxed and started selfying. I'm in one of them if you look hard. Best part was when I started making gestures at some loon up there and he copied me like Harpo and Lucy in the mirror. I figured the show needed a boost. Nelson didn't look too bad but he was quieter than usual. Pretends to be sleeping but I know that smile of his. Winnie the Poo must have been off murdering gay teens somewhere because I didn't see her fat ass no where. No, I did not sing. No one offered me a lousy rand, and I do NOT give it up for free.
Anyshit, I'm heading to the big house party they're having Sunday. I'm stowing in Nelson's little travel shack (It's tight, but it's dry.) because I don't hitchhike in the bush. Snakes. Nelson still is real quiet, but at least I don't notice that famous bad breath of his being an issue no more. Maybe they got his dentures fixed.
I'm happy to say that my psychic gifts tell me Nelson will be around for his 100th birthday and beyond. But this party is almost as good. I figure some soccer team won a match, so I guess that's why they're doing all this. LIke I give a fuck. I just needed a break from the collection calls. For some reason my last royalty check was for $3.57, and that's not enough paper to wipe my ass with.
Oh. Car's moving. Guess we're heading for the compound!
Mogambo! Toejambo! Black Sambo!
The proud buttocks
Cleft my milk
and honey naked
Of Jasmine and
Pussy willows, dirty pillows
a Silent noise- rejoice, seed
Me breed me
Mandingo! Bojangle! Archangel!
I'm SO glad that Miss Warwick is still among us.
Awww shucks, R39. Thank you.
You're sweet, R47. Considering that I have been informed I am a tiresome, unfunny, disgusting, thread-hijacking shithead here at this Daddy Lounge thing, it's nice to know that my responding to a fucking invocation isn't inevitably gonna get me a beating.
But if you love me you will buy a motherfucking record. The Dollar Store has got some good ones - or Am-A-Zone has got some. In fact, you need to buy my "Dionne Goes Gospel" album, if you love me. Since I'm paying on a storage locker holding about 150,000 of those shitting thangs.
Or mail me a little sniffle powder. I'm out, and this little oak cabana with Nelson is starting to give me the willies. Thank God his eyes are like night lights behind his lids. Maybe a little spooky. Just send the shit to Queen Dee of the Gold Coast, in care of "Beloved Father of His Country, South Africa."
Do it now, baby. NOW!
I close with the Zulu translation of the title of Maya Angelou's most beautiful poem about Mandingo Madiba: "Umkhumbi wami ugcwele ngenyoka zemanzini." Meaning, of course, "My hovercraft is full of eels."
God, I hate that smug, trog-mouthed old whore.
On Sunday, Madiba is buried with stately rites,
The sting of apartheid no longer bites.
Reconciliation is the hope of that nation.
Deeper in the ground he is now that he dies.
The deeper truth is once buried he will rise!
The funeral commences,
with solemnity and tears,
But Madiba's life makes us smile like Senor Wences.
We laugh, we cry as noon nears.
Soon to be buried, but forever above.
He will soar like the white-winged dove.
Ooo, ooo, ooo.
It's starting to smell musty in here, and it's awful fucking dark. Nelson needs a bath or something, and he's still sleeping. I can't hear music anymore. I'm wondering if I have got me into some kind of fix, as opposed to what I really need - getting some kind of fix into ME.