Wednz Scene: London Fashion Week 2018 Update

Wednz Scene: London Fashion Week 2018 Update

February 28 / 18

Hello again…London Fashion Week 2018 has come and gone ( February 16-20, 2018 ash), we may have missed it, but you can see what was hot on the runways of London. Here are several designs that made the runway.








Come back for Saturday as we catch up with Milan and Paris Fashion Week! Enjoy your Wednesday, be blessed.


Image source:

Reflections: Love One Another

Reflections: Love One Another

February 27 / 18

Morning everybody! Last day of February and what a fitting way to end this month with a reflective poem by Kahlil Gibran.


Love One Another – Poem by Khalil Gibran

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.


Really loved this. This is exactly what we all need after so much going on in the world.



Image source: Wallpapers Wide

Creative Close-Up: Presents 12 Poems for Black History Month

Creative Close-Up: Presents 12 Poems for Black History Month

February 26 /18

Good Morning all! The last weekend of this month has passed. Before this month is out, I still have some creative works for Black History Month. Found twelve poems by African-American poets from the website They asked twelve contemporary black poets from Tyehlmba Jess, Rowan Ricardo Phillips, to Toi Derricotte to choose one poem to read in the month of February and why. Here are those twelve poems from Gwendolyn Brooks to Langston Hughes.

Credit source:



We Real Cool

Gwendolyn Brooks

1917 – 2000

THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

From The Bean Eaters by Gwendolyn Brooks, published by Harpers. © 1960 by Gwendolyn Brooks. Used with permission. All rights reserved.



won’t you celebrate with me

Lucille Clifton,

1936 – 2010

won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.

Lucille Clifton, “won’t you celebrate with me” from Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton. Copyright © 1991 by Lucille Clifton. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of BOA Editions, Ltd.,




Melvin Dixon,

1950 – 1992

Work out. Ten laps.
Chin ups. Look good.

Steam room. Dress warm.
Call home. Fresh air.

Eat right. Rest well.
Sweetheart. Safe sex.

Sore throat. Long flu.
Hard nodes. Beware.

Test blood. Count cells.
Reds thin. Whites low.

Dress warm. Eat well.
Short breath. Fatigue.

Night sweats. Dry cough.
Loose stools. Weight loss.

Get mad. Fight back.
Call home. Rest well.

Don’t cry. Take charge.
No sex. Eat right.

Call home. Talk slow.
Chin up. No air.

Arms wide. Nodes hard.
Cough dry. Hold on.

Mouth wide. Drink this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.

No air. Breathe in.
Breathe in. No air.

Black out. White rooms.
Head hot. Feet cold.

No work. Eat right.
CAT scan. Chin up.

Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. No air.

Thin blood. Sore lungs.
Mouth dry. Mind gone.

Six months? Three weeks?
Can’t eat. No air.

Today? Tonight?
It waits. For me.

Sweet heart. Don’t stop.
Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Heartbeats” from Love’s Instruments (Tia Chucha Press, 1995). Copyright © 1995 by Melvin Dixon. Used with the permission of the Estate of Melvin Dixon.



American History

Michael S. Harper,

1938 – 2016

Those four black girls blown up in that Alabama church remind me of five hundred middle passage blacks, in a net, under water in Charleston harbor so redcoats wouldn’t find them. Can’t find what you can’t see can you?

From Images of Kin by Michael S. Harper, published by University of Illinois Press. © 1970 by Michael S. Harper. Used with the permission of the University of Illinois Press. All rights reserved.




Four tickets left, I let her go—
Firstborn into a hurricane.

I thought she escaped
The floodwaters. No—but her

Head is empty of the drowned
For now—though she took

Her first breath below sea level.
Ahhh       awe       &       aw
Mama, let me go—she speaks

What every smart child knows—
To get grown you unlatch

Your hands from the grown

& up & up & up & up

She turns—latched in the seat

Of a hurricane. You let
Your girl what? You let

Your girl what?
I did so she do I did
so she do so—

Girl, you can ride
A hurricane & she do
& she do & she do & she do

She do make my river
An ocean. Memorial,
Baptist, Protestant birth—my girl

Walked away from a hurricane.
& she do & she do & she do & she do
She do take my hand a while longer.

The haunts in my pocket
I’ll keep to a hum: Katrina was
a woman I knew. When you were

an infant she rained on you & she

do & she do & she do & she do

From Hemming the Water. Copyright © 2013 by Yona Harvey. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc. on behalf of Four Way Books,



Middle Passage

Robert Hayden,

1913 – 1980


Jesús, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy:

       Sails flashing to the wind like weapons,
sharks following the moans the fever and the dying;
horror the corposant and compass rose.

Middle Passage:
voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

       “10 April 1800—
Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says
their moaning is a prayer for death,
ours and their own. Some try to starve themselves.
Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter
to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under.”

Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann:

       Standing to America, bringing home
black gold, black ivory, black seed.

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,   
               of his bones New England pews are made,   
               those are altar lights that were his eyes.

Jesus    Saviour    Pilot    Me
Over    Life’s    Tempestuous    Sea

We pray that Thou wilt grant, O Lord,
safe passage to our vessels bringing
heathen souls unto Thy chastening.

Jesus    Saviour

       “8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick
with fear, but writing eases fear a little
since still my eyes can see these words take shape
upon the page & so I write, as one
would turn to exorcism. 4 days scudding,
but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune
follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning
tutelary gods). Which one of us
has killed an albatross? A plague among
our blacks—Ophthalmia: blindness—& we
have jettisoned the blind to no avail.
It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads.
Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.‘s eyes
& there is blindness in the fo’c’sle
& we must sail 3 weeks before we come
to port.”

               What port awaits us, Davy Jones’ 
               or home? I’ve heard of slavers drifting, drifting,   
               playthings of wind and storm and chance, their crews   
               gone blind, the jungle hatred 
               crawling up on deck.

Thou    Who    Walked    On    Galilee

       “Deponent further sayeth The Bella J
left the Guinea Coast
with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd
for the barracoons of Florida:

       “That there was hardly room ’tween-decks for half
the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there;
that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh
and sucked the blood:

       “That Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest
of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins;
that there was one they called The Guinea Rose
and they cast lots and fought to lie with her:

       “That when the Bo’s’n piped all hands, the flames
spreading from starboard already were beyond
control, the negroes howling and their chains
entangled with the flames:

       “That the burning blacks could not be reached,
that the Crew abandoned ship,
leaving their shrieking negresses behind,
that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches:

       “Further Deponent sayeth not.”

Pilot    Oh    Pilot    Me


Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories,
Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar;
have watched the artful mongos baiting traps
of war wherein the victor and the vanquished

Were caught as prizes for our barracoons.
Have seen the nigger kings whose vanity
and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah,
Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us.

And there was one—King Anthracite we named him—
fetish face beneath French parasols
of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth
whose cups were carven skulls of enemies:

He’d honor us with drum and feast and conjo
and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love,
and for tin crowns that shone with paste,
red calico and German-silver trinkets

Would have the drums talk war and send
his warriors to burn the sleeping villages
and kill the sick and old and lead the young
in coffles to our factories.

Twenty years a trader, twenty years,
for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested
from those black fields, and I’d be trading still
but for the fevers melting down my bones.


Shuttles in the rocking loom of history,
the dark ships move, the dark ships move,
their bright ironical names
like jests of kindness on a murderer’s mouth;
plough through thrashing glister toward
fatamorgana’s lucent melting shore,
weave toward New World littorals that are
mirage and myth and actual shore.

Voyage through death,
voyage whose chartings are unlove.

A charnel stench, effluvium of living death
spreads outward from the hold,
where the living and the dead, the horribly dying,
lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement.

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies,   
       the corpse of mercy rots with him,   
       rats eat love’s rotten gelid eyes. 

       But, oh, the living look at you 
       with human eyes whose suffering accuses you,   
       whose hatred reaches through the swill of dark   
       to strike you like a leper’s claw. 

       You cannot stare that hatred down 
       or chain the fear that stalks the watches 
       and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath;   
       cannot kill the deep immortal human wish,   
       the timeless will.

“But for the storm that flung up barriers
of wind and wave, The Amistad, señores,
would have reached the port of Príncipe in two,
three days at most; but for the storm we should
have been prepared for what befell.
Swift as the puma’s leap it came. There was
that interval of moonless calm filled only
with the water’s and the rigging’s usual sounds,
then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries
and they had fallen on us with machete
and marlinspike. It was as though the very
air, the night itself were striking us.
Exhausted by the rigors of the storm,
we were no match for them. Our men went down
before the murderous Africans. Our loyal
Celestino ran from below with gun
and lantern and I saw, before the cane-
knife’s wounding flash, Cinquez,
that surly brute who calls himself a prince,
directing, urging on the ghastly work.
He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then
he turned on me. The decks were slippery
when daylight finally came. It sickens me
to think of what I saw, of how these apes
threw overboard the butchered bodies of
our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam.
Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told:
Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us
you see to steer the ship to Africa,
and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea
voyaged east by day and west by night,
deceiving them, hoping for rescue,
prisoners on our own vessel, till
at length we drifted to the shores of this
your land, America, where we were freed
from our unspeakable misery. Now we
demand, good sirs, the extradition of
Cinquez and his accomplices to La
Havana. And it distresses us to know
there are so many here who seem inclined
to justify the mutiny of these blacks.
We find it paradoxical indeed
that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty
are rooted in the labor of your slaves
should suffer the august John Quincy Adams
to speak with so much passion of the right
of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters
and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero’s
garland for Cinquez. I tell you that
we are determined to return to Cuba
with our slaves and there see justice done. Cinquez—
or let us say ‘the Prince’—Cinquez shall die.”

The deep immortal human wish,
the timeless will:

Cinquez its deathless primaveral image,
life that transfigures many lives.

Voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

Copyright © 1962, 1966 by Robert Hayden, from Collected Poems of Robert Hayden by Robert Hayden, edited by Frederick Glaysher. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation.



We Should Make a Documentary About Spades

And here is all we’ll need: a card deck, quartets of sun people
Of the sort found in black college dormitories, some vintage
Music, indiscriminate spirits, fried chicken, some paper,

A writing utensil, and a bottomless Saturday. We should explore
The origins of a derogatory word like spade as well as the word
For feeling alone in polite company. And also the implications
Of calling someone who is not your brother or sister,

Brother or Sister. So little is known of our past, we can imagine
Damn near anything. When I say maybe slaves held Spades
Tournaments on the anti-cruise ships bound for the Colonies,
You say when our ancestors were cooped on those ships

They were not yet slaves. Our groundbreaking film should begin

With a low-lit den in the Deep South and the deep fried voice
Of somebody’s grandmother holding smoke in her mouth
As she says, “The two of Diamonds trumps the two of Spades

In my house.” And at some point someone should tell the story
Where Jesus and the devil are Spades partners traveling
The juke joints of the 1930s. We could interview my uncle Junior
And definitely your skinny cousin Mary and any black man

Sitting at a card table wearing shades. Who do you suppose
Would win if Booker T and MLK were matched against Du Bois
And Malcolm X in a game of Spades? You say don’t talk
Across the table. Pay attention to the suits being played.

The object of the game is to communicate invisibly
With your teammate. I should concentrate. Do you suppose
We are here because we are lonely in some acute diasporafied
Way? This should be explored in our film about Spades.

Because it is one of the ways I am still learning what it is
To be black, tonight I am ready to master Spades. Four players
Bid a number of books. Each team adds the bids
Of the two partners, and the total is the number of books

That team must try to win. Is that not right? This is a game
That tests the boundary between mathematics and magic,
If you ask me. A bid must be intuitive like the itchiness
Of the your upper lip before you sip strange whiskey.

My mother did not drink, which is how I knew something
Was wrong with her, but she held a dry spot at the table
When couples came to play. It’s a scene from my history,
But this probably should not be mentioned in our documentary

About Spades. Renege is akin to the word for the shame
You feel watching someone else’s humiliation. Slapping
A card down must be as dramatic as hitting the face of a drum
With your palm, not hitting the face of a drum with a drumstick.

You say there may be the sort of outrage induced
By liquor, trash talk, and poor strategy, but it will fade
The way a watermark left on a table by a cold glass fades.
I suspect winning this sort of game makes you feel godly.

I’m good and ready for who ever we’re playing
Against tonight. I am trying to imagine our enemy.
I know you are not my enemy. You say there are no enemies
In Spades. Spades is a game our enemies do not play.

From How to Be Drawn by Terrance Hayes, published on March 31, 2015, by Penguin Poets, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2015 by Terrance Hayes.

Let America Be America Again

Langston Hughes,

1902 – 1967

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free. (America never was America to me.) Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above. (It never was America to me.) O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”) Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars? I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one’s own greed! I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years. Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That’s made America the land it has become. O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore, And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came To build a “homeland of the free.” The free? Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we’ve dreamed And all the songs we’ve sung And all the hopes we’ve held And all the flags we’ve hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that’s almost dead today. O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land where every man is free. The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again. Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives, We must take back our land again, America! O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be! Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again!

From The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 1994 the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used with permission.




A Brief History of Hostility

In the beginning
there was the war.

The war said let there be war
and there was war.

The war said let there be peace
and there was war.

The people said music and rain
evaporating against fire in the brush
was a kind of music
and so was the beast.

The beast that roared
or bleated when brought down
was silent when skinned
but loud after the skin
was pulled taut over wood
and the people said music
and the thump thump
thump said drum.
Someone said
war drum. The drum said war
is coming to meet you in the field.
The field said war
tastes like copper,
said give us some more, said look
at the wild flowers our war plants
in a grove and grows
just for us

Outside sheets are pulling
this way and that.

Fields are smoke,
smoke is air.

We wait for fingers to be bent
knuckle to knuckle,

the porch overrun
with rope and shotgun

but the hounds don’t show.
We beat the drum and sing

like there’s nothing outside
but rust-colored clay and fields

of wild flowers growing
farther than we can walk.

Torches may come like fox paws
to steal away what we plant,

but with our bodies bound
by the skin, my arc to his curve,

we are stalks that will bend
and bend and bend…

fire for heat
fire for light
fire for casting figures on a dungeon wall

fire for teaching shadows to writhe
fire for keeping beasts at bay
fire to give them back to the earth

fire for the siege
fire to singe
fire to roast
fire to fuse rubber soles to collapsed crossbeams
fire for Gehenna

fire for Dante
fire for Fallujah
fire for readied aim

fire in the forge that folds steel like a flag
fire to curl worms like cigarette ash
fire to give them back to the earth

fire for ancient reasons: to call down rain
fire to catch it and turn it into steam
fire for churches
fire for a stockpile of books
fire for a bible-black cloak tied to a stake

fire for smoke signals
fire to shape gun muzzle and magazine
fire to leap from the gut of a furnace
fire for Hephaestus
fire for pyres’ sake
fire licking the toes of a quiet brown man
fire for his home
fire for her flag
fire for this sand, to coax it into glass

fire to cure mirrors
fire to cure leeches
Fire to compose a nocturne of cinders

fire for the trash cans illuminating streets
fire for fuel
fire for fields
fire for the field hand’s fourth death

fire to make a cross visible for several yards
fire from the dragon’s mouth
fire for smoking out tangos
fire to stoke like rage and fill the sky with human remains
fire to give them back to the earth
fire to make twine fall from bound wrists
fire to mark them all and bubble black
any flesh it touches as it frees

They took the light from our eyes. Possessive.
Took the moisture from our throats. My arms,
my lips, my sternum, sucked dry, and
lovers of autumn say, Look, here is beauty.
Tallness only made me an obvious target made of
off-kilter limbs. I’d fall either way. I should get a
to-the-death tattoo or metal ribbon of some sort.
War took our prayers like nothing else can,
left us dumber than remote drones. Make
me a loyal soldier and I’ll make you a
lamenting so thick, metallic, so tank-tread-hard.

Now make tomorrow a gate shaped like a man.
I can’t promise, when it’s time, I won’t hesitate,
cannot say I won’t forget to return in fall and
guess the names of the leaves before they change.

The war said bring us your dead
and we died. The people said music
and bending flower, so we sang ballads

in the aisles of churches and fruit markets.
The requiem was everywhere: a comet’s tail
disappearing into the atmosphere,

the wide mouths of the bereft men that have sung…
On currents of air, seeds were carried
as the processional carried us

through the streets of a forgetting city,
between the cold iron of gates.
The field said soil is rich wherever we fall.

Aren’t graveyards and battlefields
our most efficient gardens?
Journeys begin there too if the flowers are taken

into account, and shouldn’t we always
take the flowers into account? Bring them to us.
We’ll come back to you. Peace will come to you

as a rosewood-colored road paver
in your grandmother’s town, as a trench
scraped into canvas, as a violin bow, a shovel,

an easel, a brushstroke that covers
burial mounds in grass. And love, you say,
is a constant blade, a trowel that plants

and uproots, and tomorrow
will be a tornado, you say. Then war,
a sick wind, will come to part the air,

straighten your suit,
and place fresh flowers
on all our muddy graves.

Jamaal May, “A Brief History of Hostility” from The Big Book of Exit Strategies. Copyright © 2016 by Jamaal May. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Alice James Books,



Coherence in Consequence

Imagine them in black, the morning heat losing within this day that floats. And always there is the being, and the not-seeing on their way to—

The days they approach and their sharpest aches will wrap experience until knowledge is translucent, the frost on which they find themselves slipping. Never mind the loose mindless grip of their forms reflected in the eye-watering hues of the surface, these two will survive in their capacity to meet, to hold the other beneath the plummeting, in the depths below each step full of avoidance. What they create will be held up, will resume: the appetite is bigger than joy. indestructible. for never was it independent from who they are. who will be.

Were we ever to arrive at knowing the other as the same pulsing compassion would break the most orthodox heart.

Excerpt from Plot, copyright © 2001 by Claudia Rankine. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.

For My People

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs
     repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues 
and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an
unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an
unseen power;

For my people lending their strength to the years, to the 
gone years and the now years and the maybe years,
washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending
hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching
dragging along never gaining never reaping never
knowing and never understanding;

For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama
backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor
and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking
and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss
Choomby and company;

For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn 
to know the reasons why and the answers to and the
people who and the places where and the days when, in
memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we
were black and poor and small and different and nobody
cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;

For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to
be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and
play and drink their wine and religion and success, to
marry their playmates and bear children and then die
of consumption and anemia and lynching;

For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox
Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New
Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy
people filling the cabarets and taverns and other
    people’s pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and
land and money and something—something all our own;

For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time
being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when
burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled
and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures
who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

For my people blundering and groping and floundering in
the dark of churches and schools and clubs and
     societies, associations and councils and committees and 
conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and
devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches,
preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by
false prophet and holy believer;

For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding,
trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people,
    all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a
bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second
generation full of courage issue forth; let a people
loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of
healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing
in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs
    be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now 
rise and take control.

From This Is My Century: New and Collected Poems (University of Georgia Press, 1989). Copyright © 1989 by Margaret Walker. Used with permission of the University of Georgia Press.


On Being Brought from Africa to America

Phillis Wheatley,

1753 – 1784

‘Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land, Taught my benighted soul to understand That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too: Once I redemption neither sought nor knew. Some view our sable race with scornful eye, “Their colour is a diabolic die.” Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain, May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.

This poem is in the public domain.



Great poems are they not? Enjoy the rest of your Monday, be blessed!

Image source:, Notable Biographies, The New Yorker, Academy of American Poets, Black Then, My Poetic Side, KUOW, Poetry Foundation, Blue Flower Arts, Wikipedia, California Newsreel


Music News…Exitmusic Returns & Sons of An Illustrious Father Live

Music News…Exitmusic Returns & Sons of An Illustrious Father Live

February 24 / 18

Hey again…been a minute since I’ve dived into the music scene, well not really. One band makes a return from a five-year hiatus, while another band is performing live in NYC and Hollywood.


Aleksa Palladino and Devon Church of Exitmusic.

Aleksa Palladino and Devon Church, the duo that is Exitmusic are back. We haven’t heard from them since their last 2012 album, Passage. Now after a five-year hiatus, the former couple has returned with a new single from their upcoming album, The Recognitions. The album is a reflection of their once fairy-tale relationship. Here is a snippet from the website Bandcamp:

While many couples can trace the real time rise and fall of their relationship back to social media feeds and harried phone calls, Aleksa Palladino and Devon Church have channeled the highs and lows of their storybook courtship into something else entirely: the explosive, discomforting confessionals of Exitmusic. The mercurial project started the year they got married (2004) and all-but-imploded during their recent divorce, but not before the duo wrapped its most fully realized collection of beautifully damaged music yet titled ‘The Recognitions’

The first single from the album, ‘I’ll Never Know‘, describes how a great love comes crashing down. The music itself starts at a slow pace, gathering with Palladino’s beautifully haunting whispers, describing in detail about releasing and letting go the love you thought you had. This may be the final act for the duo.  The album will be released on April 20, 2018.  You can go to this link, to pre-order the album.






Ezra Miller, Josh Aubin, and Lilah Larson. The trio that makes Sons of An Illustrious Father.


Another band on the radar is the Brooklyn trio Sons of An Illustrious Father. Josh Aubin, Lilah Larson, and actor Ezra Miller (Justice League) have already been on the music scene for a good while and are appearing live on stage in the month of March with three or more shows.

BardotHollywood, CA, US / Monday, March 12, 2018

C’mon EverybodyBrooklyn, NY, US / Wednesday, March 21, 2018

C’mon EverybodyBrooklyn, NY, US / Wednesday, March 28, 2018

You can listen to their music on Spotify, iTunes, and Google Play.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, be blessed.

Image source: Boomkat, warszwa,ticketfly & Indie Magazine

Weekend Scene: Art Business Bootcamp

Weekend Scene: Art Business Bootcamp

February 24 / 18

Afternoon everyone! It’s been awhile since I’ve checked out Arts Business Institute. They now have an Art Business Bootcamp coming in April.

Credit source: Arts Business Institute



This two-day intensive professional development program presents practical strategies and information on specific markets, with a focus on ways that artists and makers can build sustainable small businesses. Many of the most common challenges artists face will be discussed at length, in an interactive format that invites Q&A within every presentation.

The boot camp schedule will include the following topics:

  • The New Marketplace

  • Creative Marketing for Artists

  • Building Gallery Relationships

  • Selling Art Online

  • Pricing for Profit

  • Booth Design

  • Creating an Effective Art Website

  • The Corporate Art Market

Personalized consultation appointments are also available at this event for an additional $30 charge. Artists who plan to attend should book their consultation at the time of registration to avoid disappointment.

The boot camp will be held at Naples Art Association, 585 Park Street, Naples, Florida on Friday, April 20 and Saturday, April 21, lasting from 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. each day.

Speakers at this event will be:

Wendy Rosen, founder of Best in American Made, The Arts Business Institute, and the American Made Alliance, and publisher of NICHE Magazine for retailers. Rosen has been mentoring and working with artists for over four decades, with a deep knowledge of the business structure and market options for artists.




Carolyn Edlund, founder of Artsy Shark, Executive Director of The Arts Business Institute, and art business consultant. As a former owner of a production studio and an outside rep for art publishing companies, she specializes in marketing and sales topics.

Tuition for this two-day workshop is $225 for Naples Art Association members and $250 for non-members.

To know even more about the workshop, click here.



Image source: Arts Business Institute & unknown

Wednz Scene: Calling All Photographers…

Wednz Scene: Calling All Photographers…

February 21 / 18

Hey there…if there are any photographers out there, this is for you…

Credit source:


2018 CDS Documentary Essay Prize in Photography

This $3,000 prize from the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University honors the best documentary writing and photography in alternating years. The focus is on current or recently completed work (within the last two years). This year’s prize is for photography. Please provide context for the photographic essay you are submitting, including the duration of your project and whether it is completed or ongoing. Describe your intentions for the work. Also, if some of your images have been published together in essay form, please include information about where and when they appeared and how the essay as submitted for the competition is different (or not). Applications will be accepted beginning December 1, 2017. $40 entry fee. Deadline: March 1, 2018. More info. Contact: email or call 919-660-3663.



Call for Entry – Portals

The New York Center for Photographic Arts (NYC4PA) invites photographers worldwide to submit images using any photographic process (print, image transfer, iPhone, emulsion transfer, encaustic, black and white, color etc.). Winners will receive $4,000 in cash awards and be featured in the NYC4PA Online Gallery. The Grand Prize winning image will be posted on the NYC4PA home page. Juror: Darren Ching. $35/3, $10 for each additional image. Deadline: March 4, 2018More info. Contact: email or call 917-359-2642.



International Juried Photo Exhibition | Theme | Making Strange

Praxis Gallery | Photographic Arts Center in Minneapolis, MN seeks entries for a juried photography exhibition, March 24 – April 21, 2018. Thirty images will be selected by the juror for the exhibition. Juror’s Choice award, two Honorable Mentions, and a Director’s Choice will be awarded. Juror: Chuck Avery. Open to artists worldwide. All genres interpretations, capture types, color and black & white, traditional and non-traditional photographic and digital post-production processes are welcome for submission. $35 for 5 entries. $5 for each additional. Deadline: March 5, 2018. More info. Contact: email or call 612-728-5520.



Taking Pictures: 2018

Black Box Gallery in Portland, Oregon seeks entries for a juried photography exhibition, April 1-20, 2018. Juror: Todd Johnson. 24 photographs will be selected by the juror for exhibition at the gallery. An additional 30 photographs will be selected for an online exhibition. Open to all photographers. $35 entry fee. Deadline: March 8, 2018. More info. Contact: email or call 503-804-5032.



Juried Documentary Photography Exhibition

The Smithtown Township Arts Council seeks entries for a juried photography exhibition, April 28 – May 19 at Mills Pond Gallery in St. James, NY. $500 First Place; $200 Second Place. Juror: Kevin C. Downs. Documentary photographers are visual storytellers. An important quality of your entries should be the intent to tell a visual story about the subject of your photographs. Your style may be documentary, personal, photo-journalism. Each entry may consist of between two and four images that convey a story around a particular theme. We are looking for work that focuses on visual storytelling rather than fine art photography…work that compels us to think about life outside our own little worlds…that teaches us something we didn’t know or helps us understand a situation from a new point of view…tell us your story! Entry Fee: $45/3 project entries. Deadline: March 13, 2018More info. Contact: email or call 631-862-6575.



Domesticity – Group Photography Exhibition

The Midwest Center for Photography in Wichita, Kansas seeks entries for a juried photography exhibition, April 27 – May 11, 2018. Juror: Linda Robinson, Gallery Director, MWCP. Domesticity is a primarily household act, an activity, and chore with devotion to family and home life, one in which we do with pleasure to sustain life with the personal characteristics that make it our own. The building of the family unit, the organization of personal possessions, the nourishment provided from the meals we prepare, and the art of creating a space of comfortable respite is a great necessity of the human condition, of survival. Photographs using domestic subject matter, images of people and places we call home, of family, of shelter, are what make up the images in this exhibition, encompassing a range of approaches from the traditional codes of domesticity to alternative modes of homemaking. Selected artists will have their work featured in the exhibition and online. Open to all photographers nationwide in the USA. All photographic media is welcome. Selection will be based upon the series of work submitted by each artist rather than solely on individual images. A brief artist statement is optional. $40 entry fee. Deadline: March 15, 2018More info. Contact: email or call 316-269-1250.



The Photographic Performance 2018

A Smith Gallery in Johnson City, Texas invites photographers to submit compelling solo or cooperative exhibitions. Three exhibition proposals will be selected to be exhibited in the Salon from either April 20 to May 20, May 25 to June 24, or June 29 to July 29. Jurors: Amanda Smith and Kevin Tully, gallery directors. Submissions can be photographic images, photography combined with mixed media or photographic installations. Receptions will be held the last Saturday of each month during the exhibition periods each being from 4 to 8pm. We will also be selecting seven proposals to be featured on the gallery blog. The entry fee is $50 for 10 to 20 images and also requires a written proposal or artist statement explaining the exhibition. Deadline: March 16, 2018More info. Contact: email or call 512-422-4080.

Just click on the links above to get the information. Enjoy the rest of your Wednesday, be blessed.


Image source: & unknown

Film Review: Black Panter

Film Review: Black Panter

February 20 / 18

Hello everyone! It’s time for a film review. Not Fifty Shades Free…who cares about that film. I’m talking about the newest superhero film from Marvel, Black Panther. This review will be short, very short. Here are my thoughts on the film…




It’s not your average superhero film. It’s a film for everyone. For me, as a Black woman, it’s good to see Lupita Nyong’o, Danai Guria, Angela Bassett, and Letitia Wright as strong, capable women able to take care of business. Chadwick Boseman, Michael B. Jordan, and the rest of the cast were great. Boseman brought wisdom and strength to his role as T’Challa. Director Ryan Coogler did an awesome job with his first foray to bring the story of the Wakandan king. It brought the action, drama, and everything else in between. What time to bring this film in the month of Black History.



Ryan Meindering

That’s it. I said that it was going to be short. If you haven’t seen Black Panther, it’s a must that you see it. Enjoy the rest of your Tuesday, be blessed.



Image source: Forbes, the Wrap, &

Updates: @ The Event Moved to Saturday & Other news…

Updates: @ The Event Moved to Saturday & Other news…

February 17 /18

Hello. Just one last post for this weekend. A few updates to share with you guys.

@ The Event will be posted on the third Saturday instead of Friday. 

More Black History Month things to share with you…

Will be looking for volunteers to guest write on the blog.

Hopefully interview with artists, musicians, and other great people within the creative community in the coming months.

In the meantime, you can follow Shadowboxerinc on Twitter and Instagram.

May the rest of your weekend be great, be always blessed!



Image source: unknown