NYU Black Renaissance Noire NYU Black Renaissance Noire V. 16.1 - Page 81

Griot Notes I. we speak of this day’s magic we speak of sky we speak of asphalt and spirit that flies musical libations poured over siren pierced ears endless breath woven through tapestry of time this hip-hop child of bebop parents scatting new sunrises in the face of tyranny this bass strung with seaweed this constant pulsation of glory this tone of purple funk we speak of joy and rainbow of notes this fat breeze bouncing from speakers these drums soaked in dew these blue articulations, this jitterbug, this boogie chants of old souls flexing in new light this elongated African song this new world common ground we are this day’s new language these orchestra of tin cans and sticks III. what the tongue-less would say with a perfect voice a tree full of alto saxophone players playing birds songs breaking the chains and point us inward towards our richness story seeds planted in mind soil s prouting colors drops of paint on eardrums pictures blossoming now speaking in tongues an image nation rising coded with journey markings imprinted with the blue textures of time our bodies holding us, in space, freedom in this sound melting in light outside the box is. BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE II. the echoes of the masters this torch passed, this message of love sanctified these beings clutching their instruments like lovers sing of secrets and wonder this horn spitting alphabets this bowl of majestic rhythms this avant-garde boutique 79 freedom in this sound spinning and turning at the edge of possibilities quivering in some naked spec of time a straight line liquefied dripping earth tones and quantum rhythms joy split open and poured against the night on a piano open twenty-four hours or prayer a bed of drum sticks or laughter peeling at its ends a flock of birds, jailbreak from a throat and fade into the image of some child holding a toy saxophone this moment improvised, a theme of passion silence broken up into little pieces and sprinkled like seeds in the tone here where history makes love to the future give birth to new words in a plate of rice and curry pepper dressed in the clothes of song and moves through the air like a spore or imprints the mind like a kiss or pass like a virus