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Be-Side

The Home of Hakm's B-Side e-alter ego...his auxiliary brain or external hard drive...

Hakim Bellamy – Albuquerque Poet Laureate | The Tavis Smiley Show

It’s been a week and then some. I plan on being sleep before the sun goes down. I’m going to leave you with the Tavis Smiley Radio Show that aired today. Thank you Amanda & West End Press for making that happen for me. I feel mo’ blessed, especially because my son was able to listen to daddy on the radio in South Jersey with my parents. I hope he is proud of me. Link:http://bit.ly/1rG9sqo 

Local iQ - Poetry from abroad

BIG THANK YOU to the Local iQ for running an article on my trip to Turkey, complete with one of the poems I wrote while I was there (That was my poem a day exercise…I like to up the ante NaPoWriMo ;). You can check out the article here http://bit.ly/1r6tqMl and listen to the poem here http://bit.ly/1m4mqrs

Watch now: Colores | ¡COLORES! July 11, 2014 | KNME-TV/Channel 5 Video

Me and mi hermana Jessica Helen Lopez on New Mexico PBS’s ¡COLORES! Aired Friday, you can check it out anytime here

New York State Literary Center

Some poems I wrote with some prisoners…

Thank you John and The New York State Literary Center Center.

Heading out west this week. I’ll be putting in work from L.A. to The Bay and back.  Here’s a little taste of things to come.  Check out www.flypoet.com

Heading out west this week. I’ll be putting in work from L.A. to The Bay and back.  Here’s a little taste of things to come.  Check out www.flypoet.com

#SFAI140

Any balloon can tell you,

if you breathe enough life into you,

you will fly.

A bouquet of strings attached

that lead to happiness or heaven,

anywhere but down.

Some of my best friends

are full of hot air,

but they say the nicest things.

Like “The vast majority of us will land on our feet

hopscotch power lines

and peons of people, and some

never land again.

Hellbent on that hand basket in the sky.

This rapture is running behind schedule.

There’s a floating queue of flame throwing, 

parade-goers forming a line

where the horizon used to be.

Marching their bright idea 

somewhere over my head,

like a light switch

at dawn.

Hear me reading this poem (and see the proper line breaks) HERE.

Chora

On this side of heaven
houses are humble,
gods…
 …are born,
and the walls of empire
are gateways to heaven.

Chora,
They will confuse you
with the daughter of Zeus,

as though every sanctuary,
a womb.

Vestibule a vagina.
Your narthex,
an immaculate birth canal
where cross marks the spot
between your legs.

Just like your matron saint,
you were born in the boondocks too.
But when your newborn is marked for death,
that bullseye on that baby’s back
is no Calvary.

Chora,
We crawl up inside you
like the only way back to heaven
is through your abdomen.
Like your pelvis
was the cradle of humanity.

We bend at the waist,
sometimes five times a day,
to open your hips
and see the light.

But you were once
just a wall.
A portion of a fortress, confused
as to whether you are keeping the divine
out,
or whether you are keeping the divine
in.

Whether you are
Constanti-pated
or regular.

Like me,
and every gentile, jew,
and god fearing muslim.

Chora,
you weren’t trying
to make a name for yourself
like Constantine the Great
‘cause somedays
you didn’t wake up feeling too good.

Somedays,
you were no Suleiman the Magnificent.
Those days
you locked yourself in the room,
looked yourself in the mirror
and said, “I’m not going anywhere
with this foundation looking like an earthquake!”

Those days,
you felt a lot like a foot
at the bottom of the Ottoman,
and on those days
It didn’t matter whether you were
a church
or a mosque.

Because what was going on
inside of you
could peel the plaster
off the walls
of the Virgin Mary’s stomach.

But Chora,
gods are people too.
And sometimes,
other people get them confused
just like you.

Sometimes they die
too young.
Sometimes people call them names,
say their mother
is a whore…
a holy, holy whore.

But not you.
You never put them down.
You put them on your ceilings,
remembered them as they were.

So that whenever
we couldn’t remember,
all we had to do
was look up.


(c) Hakim Bellamy, 18 June 2014 Istanbul, Turkey

Hear me reading this poem (and see the proper line breaks) HERE.

Chora

On this side of heaven

houses are humble,

gods…

…are born,

and the walls of empire

are gateways to heaven.

Chora,

They will confuse you

with the daughter of Zeus,

as though every sanctuary,

a womb.

Vestibule a vagina.

Your narthex,

an immaculate birth canal

where cross marks the spot

between your legs.

Just like your matron saint,

you were born in the boondocks too.

But when your newborn is marked for death,

that bullseye on that baby’s back

is no Calvary.

Chora,

We crawl up inside you

like the only way back to heaven

is through your abdomen.

Like your pelvis

was the cradle of humanity.

We bend at the waist,

sometimes five times a day,

to open your hips

and see the light.

But you were once

just a wall.

A portion of a fortress, confused

as to whether you are keeping the divine

out,

or whether you are keeping the divine

in.

Whether you are

Constanti-pated

or regular.

Like me,

and every gentile, jew,

and god fearing muslim.

Chora,

you weren’t trying

to make a name for yourself

like Constantine the Great

‘cause somedays

you didn’t wake up feeling too good.

Somedays,

you were no Suleiman the Magnificent.

Those days

you locked yourself in the room,

looked yourself in the mirror

and said, “I’m not going anywhere

with this foundation looking like an earthquake!”

Those days,

you felt a lot like a foot

at the bottom of the Ottoman,

and on those days

It didn’t matter whether you were

a church

or a mosque.

Because what was going on

inside of you

could peel the plaster

off the walls

of the Virgin Mary’s stomach.

But Chora,

gods are people too.

And sometimes,

other people get them confused

just like you.

Sometimes they die

too young.

Sometimes people call them names,

say their mother

is a whore…

a holy, holy whore.

But not you.

You never put them down.

You put them on your ceilings,

remembered them as they were.

So that whenever

we couldn’t remember,

all we had to do

was look up.

(c) Hakim Bellamy, 18 June 2014 Istanbul, Turkey

If you happen to be in the Racine, WI area in mid-July…. 

If you happen to be in the Racine, WI area in mid-July…. 

"I still love her heart
though she must follow it a-
way from me for now"
- A recent Hak-ku… Most times, my life writes these for me.

Inaugural class of WKKF Community Leadership Network convenes in Battle Creek - W.K. Kellogg Foundation