art & poetry at the albuquerque museum & poetry at the albuquerque museum ... ernie was from...

Art & Poetry at the Albuquerque Museum

As the inaugural Poet Laureate of Albu-

querque, NM (2012-2014), Hakim Bellamy

is a national and regional Poetry Slam

Champion and holds three consecutive

collegiate poetry slam titles at the Univer-

sity of New Mexico. His poetry has been

published in Albuquerque inner-city buses

and various anthologies. Bellamy was rec-

ognized as an honorable mention for the

University of New Mexico Paul Bartlett Re

Peace Prize for his work as a community

organizer and journalist, and was recently

bestowed the populist honor of “Best

Poet” by Local iQ (“Smart List” 2010,

2011 & 2012) and Alibi (“Best of Burque”

2010, 2011 & 2012). He is the co-creator

of the multimedia Hip Hop theater pro-

duction Urban Verbs: Hip-Hop Conserva-

tory & Theater that has been staged

throughout the country. He facilitates

youth writing workshops for schools and

community organizations in New Mexico

and beyond. Hakim is currently finishing

his MA in Communications and Journalism

Department at the University of New

Mexico. He is the proud father of a

5-year-old miracle and is the founding

president of Beyond Poetry LLC.

HAKIM BELLAMY

These poems were performed by

Hakim Bellamy, Albuquerque’s

Poet Laureate, in conjunction with

The Albuquerque Museum’s 3rd

Thursday program on January 17,

2013. Many of the poems were

written expressly for this event,

and they are based on different

artworks in the Common Ground:

Art in New Mexico exhibition.

New Poem 1Indian by Firelight by JosephHenry Sharp

There is a fireOn the other side of the horizon

At which we stare our entire lives

Where dreams incubateBefore they ignite

In a yawn of lightThat erases entire constellationsIn the wink of an eye

Relocates themTo the dormitory of our brain

Where they masquerade ballAs a sky of neurons

Until the sunsetSets them free

As ZiaPlays hide and seek with the horizon

We pocketA piece of solTo play kindling to our sleep

To play closeTo the center of the solar system

And stare.

© Hakim Bellamy January 16th, 2013

Cuba, NM

At not a day over 7maybe 8she stood in between the double doorson display

“Rest Stop”wrong phrase to use‘cause she was definitely workingthe absent smile was proof

not selling herselfbut rather entire generationspicked, pushed, promisedthen pulverizedinto precious gems

worth more when rarethis was her cultureand as she has learned thus farit is the one thing she can sellbetter than themthe soul she can sell fasterthan they sold theirs

one thing that they cannot takeonly buy

no telling how longshe’d been standing therebefore she unreturned my smilebarely pierced herself,she hustles ear ringsthat are not for ceremonyjust tradition

holds them in arms that say “buy”but stares at me with eyes that say “go away”I could tell she’d been standing therealmost as long as we’ve been living herefrom the burden of her gate

as she drug herself backto mom’s four door officecell phone attached to earin lieu of product she doesn’t sniffjust like a pimp

on minutesbaby girl hasn’t workedenough hours to prepay yetbut will

and I’ve seen us sell each otherin different forumsshrink rap ourselvesup into marketable art formsbut at least

for at least 7maybe 8hours on her feetshe put in an honest day’s work to sell hers.

Bert & Ernest (New Poem 2)

Nothing tests a friendshipLike a trip across countryYou can smell the number of days between baths

Two peopleAnd a busted wagon wheel

Turned Taos into a gallery of artists

Ernie was from PittsburghFollowed a trail of years and yankeesTo the Southwest

He would not be the last nor’easterTo skip shoreAnd tangent into town

Waylay inland

Give up being a hurricaneFor the trifle of a tornado

Give up the bumper to bumper of stagecoachAnd whistle of cabbieFor hummmmm

“We ain’t in longhorn anymore, Ernest”says Bert

Ernest can’t hear him over the acidOver the water color of sky puddling into his heartOver the sound of falling in love……with falling in love.


Star Road and White Sun (New POEM 3)By Ernest Blumenchein

Your first responseWas to pretend you didn’t have it

But they could smell the gold on your breathAnd mistook it for the hills

Buried it so deep insideYou forgot how valuable you were

Elders flanked in karatsFail at reminding you

And peyote fails at helping you forgetThere is light in your eclipse

That cannot be darkenedThat cannot be killed

But it can be silentIt can be hidden.


Legend (New Poem 4)Acoma Legend by Mary Greene Blumenchein

Made a legendAt a time when womenWeren’t acknowledged to make artMuch less a living

And it showsIn homemade illustrationsA homemaker couldn’t fake

Painted struggleOut of experience and truth

Where cartoon imitates lifeAnd art…?

Where corn is exquisiteDetailedKernel by kernel

Where him, notMore archetype than authenticMore caricature than complexAnd her,Same

A north wind of kivaAnd creativity out the window

Versus

A floor full of harvest uncooked

Because of two handsFull of brushesAnd one lifeFull of canvas


Georgia’s Blues (New Poem 5)Gray Cross With Blue by Georgia O’Keeffe

In New MexicoThere is nothing alienAbout seeing folks, on a daily basisStatue-like on sidewalksStaring at the sky

Most timesThey are looking forReds and orangesBut you, GeorgiaYou found the blues

You found the intersection of highAnd heavenAnd marked it holy sh……

People still cussat your profane brilliance

Lose their religion

And hurl obscenities at you like“Who the hell,Said you could put purple in the sky, Georgia!”

“Who the hell,Do you think you are…?”


Forty MoonsForty years of Los Lobos

Sometime betweenhairless chinny chin chinsand Michael J. Foxthere were adolescent wolves

who bottled teen spirit‘til it smelled like punk

teen wolves who said f#$% basketballI wanna play rock ‘n roll

from a generation on “all fours”who had no “Pa”s

except for the ones on their hind legs

insteadthey look upup to moons they sing songs to

serenade cyclesand worship full bodied water goddesseswith howlsthat sound like dog whistlesup there

she’s got their kind of earseven after forty yearsof living with audiences that hunt in packs

wolves love like musicians

count on lifein nights

instead of days

in pray and stagesinstead of dates and cages

instead of calendarswolves are collectorsof memories

half manhalf god reincarnate

seated at the foot of every dreamcatchersueños’ best friend

in hunt of somethingin hunt of self

lobosthat women will run withthat men will lie down withand wake up with belief

in the tradition of the Plains Indianswolf means west

sometimesborn in east L.A.water-mouthed by birthwarrior

by breed and by block.

© Hakim Bellamy December 23rd, 2012 @ City Winery NYC

Ruidosa, TX

They used to hold Massin three languagesin this town300 people ago

before Candelariapirated our religion up riverback when Ruidosameant loud as the Rio Grandewhen the border wasdeaf, dumb and blind

back when the riverconnected us for milesinstead of separating us by generations

tucked behindthe toothy smileof the Chinati Mountainsthis town sitsswallowedin the valley of her gut

land that’s been contestedsince the Apaches and Jumanosto today’s cartelson both sides of the borderand Congresson both sides of the aisle

a townthat’s been fought overand fought fornow forgotten

75 milesdown the roadin Lajitastourists pay $800 a nightto stay at a resort

a town first knownfor electinga beer drinking goat as its mayor

Ruidosanow a town of only 19is best knownfor people electingto leave

two businessesand a churchall that is leftin a town known for“getting by”in so many ways

Ms. Celia Hillthe 82 year-old ownerof the La Junta General Store,which neighbors the church,has watched the adobeevaporate for years

Mr. Blumbergowns the other business in townRuidosa Cantinafor when boththe desertand the Sacred Heart Mission Churchare drier than usual

a rancher as well68 years-old Jim Blumbergalso ownsthe only other lifestyle in town

a town wherecowboys and vaquerosbelly up to the bar togetherlike they piss in the same riverbut nobody goes to church anymore

there is a temporary chapelin the adobe buildingadjacent the churchthat has a roof,unlike the Sacred Heart,now sunbathing its altar

in a reminderof the sacrificesmade to the sun godeach dayin this region

where Franciscansbuilt missionsto bring Christianityto those crossing the borderat Presidio

where the Mexican governmentestablished a penal colonyand assembled armed convictsagainst the Comanches

where Pancho Villalet the revolution rest,regroupand ride onto our blank canvas

resistancelike the graffitinow adorning the well-worn walls of thechurchas sacrilegious and sacred as its namesake

they herd artists here nowright up the road in Marfatowns can’t afford to movetowns have to switch careers tooin order to survive

but I wouldn’t call it a ghost townnot while the churchstill has wallspressed together like handscrumblingbut still prayinglike people

nah,I wouldn’t call it ghost townnot while it’s still got soul.

Haiku/New Poem 6Albuquerque, where the desert doesn’tget in the way of your view (NM Dept.of Tourism)Before the Flood (AKA Baptize Me)

Before taking a day offAnd after dessertGod made Adam out of dust

DesertSo what does Albuquerque make me?

Other than one big irritated “I”With a car so desperate to be washedIt would do things for money That would make acrackhead blush

Once white carNow clay readWith jokes fingered into her windows like

“Baptize me”But only when rain finds these holy grounds sacredenough to hold waterOtherwise Let us sweat

NEW POEM 7Stick Figure FamineHerding by Jaune Quick-to-See Smith(French Cree & Shoshone)

God could not come up with this kind of creationAlone

Every spilled bucket of paintTurns into movementTurns into makingTurns into madeTurns into mud

And back againDust to dust

HistoriesThat count on stick fingers

Are nothing moreThan a collision

Of linesAnd colors

linesAnd wind

linesAnd livestock

linesAnd nations

linesAnd love

And nothing less


Silent Sanctuary

The poet entered the sanctuaryas a cynic not a sinnera seernot a sayerthis time

this timehe was lookingfor the word

this timehe needed inspirationmore than he neededto be inspiring

and he was listeningfor oncemaybe twice

the poet entered the sanctuaryas a sentencerbut not like themnot a judgebut one who strings wordsinto rosariesthat protect usfrom not talking to each otherthat shackle us to communitiesfor life

the poet entered the sanctuarystood in the doorway of silencepraying to be met withmusic, mantra, melodyeven magic

he was met with noneas he crossed the thresholdbetween craft and creationas he has learnedon the street

that science ain’t shitwithout sanctitythat anyone can read the notesit’s how you play’emanyone can write and read a wordit’s how you lay’emhow you say’emanyone can read a holy bookit’s how you live itpeople sleep under sheet musicall the timeand don’t give a f#$%it’s how you make love

the poet entered the sanctuaryto have his French pardonedamongst other thingsbut was disappointedbecause there would be more French

disappointedthat God’s peoplewere worshipping with mouths closed

disappointedthat God’s peoplewere worshipping with asses still

disappointedthat heavenly peoplewe’re afraid to love one anotherto touch one anotherto dance

confusedthat they could reada whole bookand have nothing to saythat they could readan entire hymnaland have nothing to singnothing to dance

who could readan entire volumeof divine poetryand then pray in silence?

so the poet left the sanctuaryback to the curbside pulpitwhere painand worshipboth have to be louder than the trafficwhere God is a superheroand you only ever see herwhen your life’s in danger

and unlike the church folk‘cause of the nature of how he liveshe sees God everydaydoesn’t even have to pray

but when he doeswhen they dothey have a novel on the tip of their tongues

and God like storiesa lot

but what the poet forgotis that their poetrycomes from silencenot from sounds

and such poetryif its goodleads backto silenceagain.

amen.

Nuclear Bird (New Poem 8)Atomic Thunderbird by Tony Price “The Atomic Artist”

There is a silenceRight after the intense flash of light

Quick as youBut a thousand times brighter

That comes before the heatBefore the radiationBefore the fireballIn mid air

You still fly there

Even after gravityHas evacuated

The same way you longboardedThe calm before the stormFor generations

So gracefullyWe confused harbingerFor bringerAnd made folklore out of you

And just like the science you defyWith your wings full of thunderyour eyes full of lightning

You’ve taken to the human formBraided yourself to our DNAFused our future to yours

In hopesThat we won’t turn youInto a weapon too.


Still (New Poem 9)San Cristobal Valley Series #18 byRobert M. Ellis

It never gets old

The aisle seatLegroom?Yes.

But also the bruised shoulderFrom the drink cartBuilt for an airplaneJust a few centimeters wider

No one ever thinks aboutThe amount of legroomA drink cart needs

Or this flotation deviceThat is about as comfortableAs a flotation deviceThat has been impersonating a seatAnd is currently turning my backInto a serious medical condition

Already in an upright positionSince takeoffBecause the recline functionDoesn’t work on this thing

Right as we broke10,000 feetAnd the pilot’s voice driftedInto tuned outMiddle school teacher monotone

Poor manners became my wingmanAs I forgot there were two people between meAnd the view

Personal space hitched a parachute20,000 feet ago

This seat was as comfortable as footie pajamasCuddled up to a window of wonder

Wonder if this is what the view from heavenLooks like

WonderHow this teradactyl stays afloat?How come this never gets old?

$500Is a stealFor a few moments of reliving your childhoodFor the ability to time travelFor the best seat in the house

So palatialThat my feet can’t even touch the ground.

© Hakim Bellamy January 17, 2013

art & poetry at the albuquerque museum & poetry at the albuquerque museum ... ernie was from...

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