Birago Diop -Viaticum

In none of the three jugs
The three jugs where on certain evenings return
the tranquil souls,
the breaths of the ancestors,
the ancestors who were men,
the ancestors who were sages,
Mother has dipped three fingers
three fingers of her left hand:
thumb, forefinger and middle finger

Joseph Ceravolo – Street Wise Romantic

The streets are empty and still,
between the red time,
then start again.
Trucks bouncing by,
cars to work, work.
The farms are disappearing as I noticed
years ago along this old route.
Now the farms lie beneath
hotels, office complexes whose beauty
is beyond the senses
in some economic realm fortified
by the delusions of power and inequity.
But the farms are lying beneath
and large poisonous plants
fusing the electrical circuits beneath.
No there’s no death to evil,
it rises again, now in war, now in bucks
now in land, now in power,
it rises up forever until the end,
when the light may intercede and remain.
Seek refuge from the fantasy
into one other fantasy.
We see violence done on subways on streets
but we don’t see violence done
in a new class system or economic twist.
Does it murder just as well?
Nothing can be done.
It will go on and on
until the intercessions of the sun.
Everything else has failed, and will,
but the innocence of youth
and the momentum of dawn.

 

 

Birago Diop – Vanity

VANITY
If we tell, gently, gently
All that we shall one day have to tell,
Who then will hear our voices without laughter,
Sad complaining voices of beggars
Who indeed will hear them without laughter?
If we roughly of our torments
Ever increasing from the start of things
What eyes will watch our large mouths
Shaped by the laughter of big children
What eyes will watch our large mouth?
What hearts will listen to our clamoring?
What ear to our pitiful anger
Which grows in us like a tumor
In the black depth of our plaintive throats?
When our Dead comes with their Dead
When they have spoken to us in their clumsy voices;
Just as our ears were deaf
To their cries, to their wild appeals
Just as our ears were deaf
They have left on the earth their cries,
In the air, on the water, where they have traced their signs
For us blind deaf and unworthy Sons
Who see nothing of what they have made
In the air, on the water, where they have traced their signs
And since we did not understand the dead
Since we have never listen to their cries
If we weep, gently, gently
If we cry roughly to our torments
What heart will listen to our clamoring,
What ear to our sobbing hearts?

Senegalese folktale poet Birago Diop 1906-1989 educated in Dakar and related tales of the wolof people

As The City Rumbles Underneath – Hearts Expire

 

https://www.facebook.com/AsTheCityRum…
https://itunes.apple.com/ca/album/hea…
https://soundcloud.com/as-the-city-ru…
http://www.reverbnation.com/asthecity…
http://asthecityrumblesunderneath.ban…

“Hearts Expire” is a mix of elemental references (lyrically) , guitars from the heart
and a bright pop beat .
Greatly inspired by Space, the gravity of love and all its facets – It explores the perpetual “need” for freedom within the heart and soul .

Many thanks to the people who worked on this video with us:
Directed by: Hunter Lua
Director of Photography: Jake Vincent
Edited: Roz Gracie

Bio

Cat Forsley and Ashton Price met in September 2012 and decided to start collaborating on a project because of a mutual interest in dreamy, ambient music. They decided to release their music under the band name “As the City Rumbles Underneath”. Ashton Price is an accomplished music producer and writer that has a studio based out of Toronto. Cat Forsley is a poet and artist that enjoys using her talents for animal advocacy.

and check out our links here for more info:
http://catforsley.me
http://www.morphproductions.com

 The wonderful Ashton and Cat

ballad of a stripper and a bookkeeper

he shot a hobo

alas a hobo

my lover shot a hobo

it was love , so love

i was the most insane stripper

lost on a winters eve

he was a bookkeeper with a gun

we wanted to run together

passion and breast in flames

he tried so much to please

with bunched up bloody nose

another fight over me

he started to kill

for pleasure that winters eve

police would call

and i would deny

through a packards windshield

his face a policeman saw

once run down

no going back

mexico and jazz

we where on the run

but my passion waned

with his bloodstained hands

and made a call

to a deputy

our villa surrounded

he felt betrayed

as to the chair

he fried

my lover alas my lover

who shot a hobo

and broke my heart

ballad, poetry , poem

dVersePoets