Anthony Anaxagorou: Poet & Writer

I Won't Deny

Thu, 31 May 2012 11:25:00 +0100

I won’t deny the fact that I’ve read/listened to poetry and cried tears at the end. Yep I’m male and I said it. I think you have to be a certain kind of individual to not connect spiritually with art that lives on such a tender frequency. It’s odd how the West equate emotion as a feminine trait and violence as a masculine one. Isn’t violence a total submission to emotion too? See as men we are encouraged by the culture to boast about who we beat up or who we slept with but never who we helped or who we loved.

The Master’s Revenge There will be revenge but it will be...

Sun, 20 May 2012 23:15:50 +0100

The Master’s Revenge

There will be revenge
but it will be different from yours;
it won’t involve blood or murder
or deception
it won’t turn sophisticated people to rubble
then call them
underdeveloped, primitive and backwards
it won’t need military budgets,
fear, prejudice or gender oppression
it will be simple, uncomfortable
and absolute
it will present itself calmly
there will be no screams
there will be no protest
just this

you are the owner of all energy
needed to destroy or create worlds
within you lies the peace of Akhenaton
the vision of Imhotep
we can go further
the first messiah
you are the writer of knowledge
the keeper of truth
it’s looking at you through the stones
the history of the mountains
in the DNA of the earth
you’re there
this wicked narrative is new
it’s evil and unwell
1000 years ago you were teaching them
they were lost, barbaric, never knowing
the evolution of language
of culture the influence you had
you still have, you must have
because you’re far from dead
listen
to the speakers, the knowers,
the ones who tell you to open pages
and find yourself there
reinvent the past
pay the oppressor little mind
little minds fear genius
because it knows your story
it knows about the old Kingdom
and the middle periods
from Moorish Spain to Muslim medicine
it knows about African mathematicians
and the stone calendar circles of Nabta Playa
it knows that’s why it denies
that’s why it tells you to kill yourself
death has many faces
if something is made ill
why swallow it?
Don’t accept it, renounce it and go back
to before the chattel
the division and genocide
before the White Jesus
before the crusades
and the foreign religion that came with priests
and swords
discover the hidden world
because history is self-serving
self-for-filling look in the prisons,
look in the armies,
look in the places filled with the broken,
the destitute, the trampled on
the us but not them,
look and see
what happens when you
become apathetic
when revenge is just for radicals
when you believe the story
they tell you
when your only weapon is a gun
when your only hope is a fantasy
when your knowledge is obsolete
when your woman is a bitch
when your brother is a threat
and your oppressor is your master
your standard, your ideal
don’t ask for mercy
it wont be given
lock it off, leave it there,
its dead its done the damage
consecrated the sickness
it doesn’t work
so start again
with just this:-

When they ask you for a beginning teach them
about the Grimaldi
about Menes and the first dynasty
When they ask you about women
speak to them of Isis of Hatshepsut and Cleopatra
When they ask you about European languages
refer them to Coptic and Western Semitic
tongues, explain how 50% of the Greek lexicon
is comprised of a non-Indo European language
give examples,
When they ridicule you for saying init
claiming the word as being
Jamaican Patois let them know that it’s
a contraction of isn’t it, which is a contraction
of is it not, which is English and not Patois is it not?
When they ask you about war and peace
inform them that the word war comes from the
Old English Wyrre meaning to bring into confusion.
Mention the Golden Age of Egypt,
communicate the fact that civilizations
which have experienced the greatest periods of peace
have been matriarchal - say that twice.
Include the fact that 70% of Native Americans
did not ever wage war with each other, refer them to
Conquest: Sexual Violence and American Indian Genocide
by Andrea Smith
Keep close to mind the Haitian revolution,
Toussaint L’ouverture and Dessaline
if they interject calling you Afrocentric or a conspiracy theorist
reply with these names:-
Volny, Gerald Massy, Martin Bernal, Bouavl and Brophy
continue
discuss human nature, how we remain
products of our environment, how we mirror what we see,
how certain genes are activated or deactivated
in our childhood
determining who we become later
explain what you mean by White Supremacy
as a political tool to divide and undermine those
that don’t fit the aesthetic
discuss Thomas Spence and the making of the English working class
look at denigrate families in the US and Anthony Stokes
speak of Palestine with courage
declare that before the 15th May 1948 Zionists had already
expelled 250,000 Palestinians
emphasize that people are not born bad
that before capitalism and feudalism communalism
was how we lived
not primitive but equal.
Do not negate your women. There is more to feminism
than her physical appearance, you may wish to talk about
Simon De Beauvoir, Bell Hooks and Angela Davis
then poetry, the spoken word that predates the written word
oral tradition, art and storytelling.
Speak until the sun has risen and set 1000 times
wear the crown that doesn’t need a stolen jewel
to shine,
assure them that you are made from love
that you speak from love because that is from where
you were born
play them a song, read them a haiku
teach them how to dance:
many will laugh at you
many will brand you insane
yet when has madness ever really mattered here
some will listen, some will stay
and you will grow into friends,
into solidarity into the forever
we dream about
so treasure your woman
treasure your man
because we’re all we have,
peace is the master’s revenge
so stand in the present, draw for the future
and shoot with all the ammunition of the past.

Surgery

Mon, 14 May 2012 18:24:00 +0100

Dr. Ahmed said
that he loathed poetry
removing his surgical mask
from a face that had been awake
since 5am

he said he didn’t see its purpose
rinsing his hands under a warm tap
so as to put on a fresh gown
and do it all over again

to make his way back into pain
into the tumors, the diseases,
the ailments that burn at
the lives of hapless strangers:
to lend his God to their healing

the theatre lights beamed,
his audience cloaked in sedation
just to feel the touch
of his poetry again.

The Science Borrowed From Stars by Anthony Anaxagorou

Sat, 12 May 2012 13:08:00 +0100

The Science Borrowed From Stars by Anthony Anaxagorou

The Science Borrowed From Stars

Sat, 12 May 2012 12:10:11 +0100

It began
we began
with centuries
of fresh cut water,
open sky,
sun-light painting the wooden deck
where our toes would be still
to be loved;
flowers, plenty flowers
that sprayed the yellow room
with a universe of low aromas,
new days proposed
to each other
alive with insomnia
delicate as birth
leaping forward with high pitched ideas
we rolled like bits from another earth
growing in each others laughter
sinking in each others slumber
we lived only to throw darts at time

                    Everything was adventure
                    Nothing knew how to age

All days gathered
To see what would come next

                    It was the dream reworked
                    It was the long hour coming home

we couldn’t lose
for loving was winning
and games were what happy children
played best;
we would walk arm in arm
sun in moon
catching the sighs
of the unfulfilled,
the arguments of the cracked
or rich bachelors
spending loneliness’s
commission
the world held open our eyes,
ramming its bitter future into our mouths,
we sailed around the hurricane
clinging to transparency, to air,
the world did not know us
but we knew it
as a wounded dog
that needed death

                    I wrote fast, infuriated as if wronged
                    you listened as a leaf does to its season

The lethal enclosure of solitude
A space frigid with echo

                    I dreamt the antithesis of dream
                    biting down on reticent bones

the tone of loveliness
began to starve itself
my skin subverted
heavy around the mouth,
I noticed the sky less
the hours shrinking
unspoken in a malady of disdain
visitors left snails by my door,
letters remained unopened,
abandoned words,
terrifying mirrors,
the religion of decay
creeping into closed rooms
and the impetuous void that
murders a home;
I lost myself to the self
I lacked
in a bitterness of endings
that are forever
being born

                    Your voice like broken water
                    Your eyes baskets of unearthed sorrow

Strength is
A weak man’s forgotten habit
                    Your lips were old stories
                    I once told myself

it made no sense
the applause and inquiry
my words being sought to heal
a collection of secrets
shared with strangers
it made no sense
how beginnings start,
how love starts,
how art starts,
by accident
with the science borrowed from
stars
I chased their cosmic miracle
around my study
out into the coiling city
where all anguish coheres
like two pints of suffering
being raised to the same God
drunkenly
insane

                    Alone I look for you
                    Alone I find you

You love me
Until you see me
                    Your body
                    A wound I write to

deeper became the unreal
two indifferent lovers
harpooned by absence
tormented by the contours of memory,
the smell of damp shirts,
the festering nest of longing
your face changing
insisting on isolation
your walk laden with bags
conquered by thoughts
ominous as prepared death
we speak to each other
through shadows
wash our plates separately
cold water running,
leaving the front door unlocked
at night
I scribble I love you
whilst you giggle like a little girl
in your sleep

                        Madness
                        This whole planet is a founded on madness

In a theater of tragedy
A forest is ablaze

                        All that remains in a fire
                        Are the flames

From the stone of tunnels
I feel the hate you kiss me with
I pick the glass out
from inside my bloody breath
hoping to find a clear reflection
so I can make us up again.
Walking out into the night
the masculine abyss
I search the hospital of dreams
for the shape your body made
when it missed me
I think of all the other beings
and I invent myself in them
away from the loneliness,
away from the sound of love dying.
In everything I touch
I feel the mountains of your bones
hold me like the arms of the world
when the universe whispers every life
is your child
I travel to the summit of your last solstice
parting the troubles and ugly fruits
then I find the best part of a new moon
and I await my turn
a warm rain falls into my mouth
and the stars begin to drown
I grow into the light
the science borrowed from stars
stars that are only ever born
to carry the burden of the sky.

To listen to the poem being read click here

When the circus is full of clowns nobody stops to think about the lion. Anthony Anaxagorou

Wed, 09 May 2012 23:43:00 +0100

When the circus is full of clowns nobody stops to think about the lion.

Anthony Anaxagorou

May 16th at Proud Camden - The return of the forever inspiring...

Thu, 03 May 2012 21:26:12 +0100

May 16th at Proud Camden - The return of the forever inspiring Out-Spoken, London’s finest blend of conscious poetry, hip hop and live music. Doors open at 7pm, tickets £8.

See You There!

Small interview I did with Hands Off Somalia at the Venezuelan...

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 00:21:40 +0100

Small interview I did with Hands Off Somalia at the Venezuelan Embassy

People

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 13:27:49 +0100

People are like gamblers, they only ever tell you how much they’ve won but never how much they’ve lost.

It is our actions that make up the facts of our lives, our words merely stand as theories.

Sat, 14 Apr 2012 15:48:57 +0100

It is our actions that make up the facts of our lives, our words merely stand as theories.

The Paradox Of Man: Every man’s a liberal the moment his privilege is threatened, a...

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 16:17:57 +0100

The Paradox Of Man: Every man’s a liberal the moment his privilege is threatened, a conservative when giving opinions on homosexuality and religion, a chauvinist when a woman tries to express her feelings, a capitalist when he has a new business idea, a philanthropist when he sees a starving African child and a revolutionary the moment his own nation or belief system comes under attack.

Anthony Anaxagorou

Empty Wind

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 11:26:00 +0100

The home is ready. Dainty ornaments
stand supported by their quietude. Scattered books
reveal their authors’ lonely secrets.
The music of space surrendering to incandescent
moments that flutter between each warm insect.
My hands are clean. Tonight’s food perfumes the
body of each room. The sky lowers itself by night
and I await your return

to praise all I made. To notice the space
in your wardrobe where your clothes can hang
like victory flags or ripe fruit or lost birds.
To feel each long hour whisper its devotion to us.
Outside, see how neat the grass looks
like a jealous heart stretching itself upon the earth’s
weary back

back to myself. Old violins, low-lights, silent gardens
and leftovers that make for slow eating. A dog
barks at a fence, a dripping tap finds nothing
to clean, the sequential disaster of the neighbours
results again in violent love making and your voice happens
to assure me that there is still a world out there

waiting to be forgotten.

I’ll be performing poems here this Saturday with the...

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 16:00:44 +0100

I’ll be performing poems here this Saturday with the incredible Linton Kwesi Johnson.

The magic of life is in its discovery, in its accidents and miracles, for we can only live to learn...

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 15:13:49 +0100

The magic of life is in its discovery, in its accidents and miracles, for we can only live to learn more about the very wonder we exist in. With its panoply of people and exhilarating spectacles of nature we must see ourselves in the mirror of life in order to fully feel the rapture of its giant music.

For tickets please visit http://attitudekings1.eventbrite.co.uk/

Mon, 02 Apr 2012 12:24:17 +0100

For tickets please visit http://attitudekings1.eventbrite.co.uk/

Mainstream Poetry

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 13:34:00 +0000

The main reason I shared Niall’s article is because I felt it contained sentiments that I find increasingly prevalent across the British poetry strata. As someone who began writing poems to be read rather than heard I was fully aware that my readers differed frantically to those I write for now (as in when I sit to write a spoken word piece). To say that those people who buy page poetry and those who attend spoken word events are exclusively similar in both class and ethnicity would be erroneous and naive. I’ve read at readings and the audience has been predominately white middle class, then at the turn of the next day I find myself performing at a spoken word event where the audience is far more eclectic in ethnicity, class and income. I also quoted Niall this morning on Twitter, ‘mainstream poetry is mainly white and middle/upper class, no matter how loudly it heralds the occasional exception to the rule’ and the response I received was far more interesting than I could have anticipated.

Many of my followers (who also follow other poets and who are active/established poets themselves) argued that ‘mainstream poetry’ is actually far more embraced, appreciated and consumed by those of the lower classes, specifically the non-white lower classes. Now, what I find compelling are the names people attribute to ‘mainstream poetry’ in particular the likes of Kate Tempest, Polar Bear, Lowkey, Akala, Inua Ellams, Dean Atta, Warsan Shire and myself were all mentioned as falling under the rubric of 21st century mainstream poets. My contention is that it comes back to popularity, marketability, relevance and accessibility. If we were to play with semantics and swap mainstream for popular then we may be able to elucidate some of the coinciding beliefs that hazard the current discourse. I would argue here that many of Britain’s most popular and relevant poets, be they performers, rappers or readers, are supported at a far more sincere level and with a sufficient amount of loyalty and zeal than many of Britain’s ‘mainstream poets‘ that Niall and Jon Sands mentioned, i.e your archetypical high-brow, white middle class male.

If we settle for the fact that hip-hop is just another relative of poetry as Niall correctly stated, as is the spoken word/performance format, plus the page medium then it becomes increasingly obvious that perhaps the poetry mainstream no longer really consists of your T.S Elliot nominees or middle aged white men living in the foliating solace of the Devonshire countryside. Perhaps this subtle panoply of working class writers who stand united as black, brown and white only to go largely unrecognized by the classic literary world are the ones who are in fact preserving the future of both poetry and revolutionary thought.

It’s here in the so called underground of poetry that I find and feel the political impetus that edges our tomorrow forward, the charge that is both polemic and radical but yet so desperately needed and wanted by the masses. I find the conservative overtones of the middle classes to be falsified, sheltered and riddled with a privileged guilt, one that makes it increasingly difficult to absorb a poem about Iraq, Libya or Afghanistan delivered viscerally by an olive skin man with a thick, proud beard. I only say this because I’ve been performing at literature festivals for the past year and the response I receive when I do poems that in London have received standing ovations is frighteningly different. I understand and appreciate the argument about poetic technique which many claim is solely responsible for creating the stylistic difference between rap, spoken word and the written word, either way I think a change in narrative as well as acknowledgment is much needed if we are to reintroduce a lost audience to what was initially written for and by them.

To read the brilliant article that Niall O’ Sullivan’s wrote looking at mainstream poetry please click here.

Performance Dates For March/April 2012

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 11:51:00 +0000

March 2012

Saturday 10th March - Bath Literature Festival

Sunday 11th March - Bath Literature Festival

Friday 16th March - Performance at Warner Bros Studio for Illegal Activity Movie

Sunday 18th March - Performance at S For Sunday, Lower Ground Floor, 56 Shoreditch High Street

Monday 19th March - Out-Spoken at Proud Camden with Godfly

Wednesday 21st March - BAFTA performance for Illegal Activity movie

Friday 23rd March - Guest performance for UCL Young Writers Society at Betsey Trotswood, Farringdon.

Saturday 24th March - Performance at Nowruz No War With Iran Protest at Amnesty International UK The Human Rights Action Centre 17-25 New Inn Yard London EC2A 3EA

Wednesday 28th March - Performance at Music Remedy at B.O.G Gallery In Greenwich Market, 9 Turnpin Lane SE10 9JA (Free Entry)

April 2012

Friday 6th April - Performance at Raven & Bloom fashion show

Saturday 7th April - Performance at Writers Lounge

Sunday 8th April - Performance at Jazz Verses at Ronnie Scotts Jazz Cafe

Sunday 15th April - Performance at Attitude Kings, Archer Street Cocktail Lounge, Soho

Thursday 19th April - Performance at Bang Said The Gun

Happy International Women’s Day. Without you there would be nothing but dust and waste.

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 11:39:09 +0000

Happy International Women’s Day. Without you there would be nothing but dust and waste.

Visible Children: We got trouble.

Wed, 07 Mar 2012 22:08:23 +0000

Visible Children: We got trouble.:

visiblechildren:

For those asking what you can do to help, please link to visiblechildren.tumblr.com wherever you see KONY 2012 posts. And tweet a link to this page to famous people on Twitter who are talking about KONY 2012!

I do not doubt for a second that those involved in KONY 2012 have great intentions, nor…

Fist

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 15:17:15 +0000

You can’t breathe from inside a fist;
wolves patrol wounds,
the night launches itself into you,
everything with a root
begins to tremble
opening itself honestly,
a dreamless vista, a dead window,
nothing speaks, or holds or loves,
thoughts implode,
clarity is a lonely stranger
muttering mad hymns into the cyclic rope
of suicide

fortunate crowds
move towards a foreign sign
the rushed course of the future
happens
so it can repeat,
that singular moment of success, sex,
triumph shared with nude palm trees,
strong alcohol flirting with crying crystals,
beaches married to beaches,
names remembered only by cheap lives
and famished minds,
short death celebrating the victory of long life
-ridiculing the poverty of earth -
the oracle spreading
itself beautifully under a heartbroken sky.

All I can do is watch
having walked upon a life
littered with shivers of dark glass.

I’ve nothing in my hopes
because it’s all in my fist
punishing myself into another day.

2012 © Anthony Anaxagorou
Uncollected Poems