Hasan's Poetry Sampler
Hasan Davis' poetry and performance is powerful. He can be intense and light-hearted. He can bellow out a poem from the bowels of his viscera or he can whisper words that linger in the air, echoing and calling to our souls. His poetry is reflective, using the narrative a great deal. The power of his work is his ability to craft characters that are full and round and then deliver them to you on stage.
Mississippi Vibes –Nov 1999
Mississippi Vibes –Nov 1999
MONDAY MORNING AT THE SOCIAL SECURITY OFFICE
Opening the doors
Blank faces greet me,
Then turn, disinterested.
I Take a number, 59.
Then sit uncomfortable
Trying not to stare.
A neon letter board explains the procedure.
A very alert Elderly woman watches the lights.
They mean nothing to her.
The man at the counter, Number 27
Is trying to explain how his wife died
Without having a nervous breakdown.
Number 38, a mother,
Rehearses her answers for a closed office audit.
Her child sit pensive, aware of the need for silence.
Number 65 opens a coke.
And Everyone wonders
Why they didn't think to bring one.
But, no one speaks,
Just listening,
Praying not to hear the pain.
Number 44 coughs,
Black-lung, I think.
The blind gaze of Number 86
Scans the room, focusing on whispered thoughts
And soon the people lose their color,
And only numbers remain, marking us
Like concentration camp refugees'.
"Number 58" a hollow voice shrieks.
And a young man rises.
"I was here before him"
The old woman next to me screams, to herself.
"Excuse me ma'am,"
I interrupt her silent rage.
"I think you dropped your number."
Then point to the piece of paper carefully dropped at her feet.
"Oh!" she says leaning to the ticket,
Her eyes never leaving me.
"What number is this?"
She whispers to the man on her right.
"59" he says as he looks at me and continues,
"I guess your next ma'am."
See, the neon letter board explains the procedure clearly:
.If.You.Do.Not.Have.A.Number.You.Will.Not.See.A.Social.Security.Representative.
So, I take a number, 105.
Sit uncomfortable,
Don't stare,
I think I've got time.
"Excuse me," I say to Number 65.
"Where is the Coke machine?"
Blank faces greet me,
Then turn, disinterested.
I Take a number, 59.
Then sit uncomfortable
Trying not to stare.
A neon letter board explains the procedure.
A very alert Elderly woman watches the lights.
They mean nothing to her.
The man at the counter, Number 27
Is trying to explain how his wife died
Without having a nervous breakdown.
Number 38, a mother,
Rehearses her answers for a closed office audit.
Her child sit pensive, aware of the need for silence.
Number 65 opens a coke.
And Everyone wonders
Why they didn't think to bring one.
But, no one speaks,
Just listening,
Praying not to hear the pain.
Number 44 coughs,
Black-lung, I think.
The blind gaze of Number 86
Scans the room, focusing on whispered thoughts
And soon the people lose their color,
And only numbers remain, marking us
Like concentration camp refugees'.
"Number 58" a hollow voice shrieks.
And a young man rises.
"I was here before him"
The old woman next to me screams, to herself.
"Excuse me ma'am,"
I interrupt her silent rage.
"I think you dropped your number."
Then point to the piece of paper carefully dropped at her feet.
"Oh!" she says leaning to the ticket,
Her eyes never leaving me.
"What number is this?"
She whispers to the man on her right.
"59" he says as he looks at me and continues,
"I guess your next ma'am."
See, the neon letter board explains the procedure clearly:
.If.You.Do.Not.Have.A.Number.You.Will.Not.See.A.Social.Security.Representative.
So, I take a number, 105.
Sit uncomfortable,
Don't stare,
I think I've got time.
"Excuse me," I say to Number 65.
"Where is the Coke machine?"
My Street
Bullets fell like rain last night on my street.
Chaos laughed,
It’s vile tongue lapping at the festering humanity
Spilled around us.
Another child was laid to rest on concrete.
And tearful mothers cried the ritual cry.
Name after Name they called.
Afraid, distraught, hopeless.
Their chorus did little to comfort them,
Like every other night,
One did embrace the cold arms of despair.
And the rest?
They prayed themselves to sleep.
Dreamed in fear of what tomorrow night will bring.
But, any questions will go unanswered.
Because, blood does not stain concrete,
And, only a mother could remember his good deeds.
See, you’re automatically a gangster,
If you born on my street.
Here bullets fall like rain on concrete.
Dark hearts taunt the chalk souls that map the ground
As our children bare witness
To their futures gagged and bound.
The Devil grinds his teeth, flashes evil grin
Counts the hours back
Until he can once again drink,
In the pain of a young mothers tears.
So, as bullets continue to fall
Like rain.
Chaos laughs,
And, humanity gathers in small puddles along my street.
Then Slowly, It Drains Away.
Chaos laughed,
It’s vile tongue lapping at the festering humanity
Spilled around us.
Another child was laid to rest on concrete.
And tearful mothers cried the ritual cry.
Name after Name they called.
Afraid, distraught, hopeless.
Their chorus did little to comfort them,
Like every other night,
One did embrace the cold arms of despair.
And the rest?
They prayed themselves to sleep.
Dreamed in fear of what tomorrow night will bring.
But, any questions will go unanswered.
Because, blood does not stain concrete,
And, only a mother could remember his good deeds.
See, you’re automatically a gangster,
If you born on my street.
Here bullets fall like rain on concrete.
Dark hearts taunt the chalk souls that map the ground
As our children bare witness
To their futures gagged and bound.
The Devil grinds his teeth, flashes evil grin
Counts the hours back
Until he can once again drink,
In the pain of a young mothers tears.
So, as bullets continue to fall
Like rain.
Chaos laughs,
And, humanity gathers in small puddles along my street.
Then Slowly, It Drains Away.
VISIONS
The bat fellfast and hard
The bat fell fast and hard,
Across my back and head.
My vision blurred then focused,
Blurred and focused on the object
Of my pain and fears.
I wake, trembling in a pool of… sweat.
On the Television is the source of my pain
Brought to me in living color.
Somewhere,
A black man is being beaten
And no one seems to give a damn.
Somewhere,
A white man lies bloodied and battered
In the name of some obscene justice.
These are the images
that introduce me to a new world order.
Two steps forward and three steps back!
Our own ideas may not survive such a storm!
Somewhere a stereotype,
passed to an innocent child
Who has never seen me before,
has been affirmed.
A belief in the natural ignorance of color!
A belief that justice is, that justice should
be based on the shades of a person's darkness.
A belief that poverty and chaos are inherent and inferior traits!
Somewhere a child like me,
Who grew up tired and hungry on the streets
Has had his greatest fear come to life.
The fear that his pain
matters less than any other's
The fear that his struggle for equality
guarantees him no respect.
Somewhere our children
Black and White,
Native and Immigrant
Have been led to ruin,
Because Justice has turned a blinded eye upon their tears.
With these thoughts to torment my dreams,
I drift painfully back to sleep.
But in this dream,
there is a weapon in my hands
And there is a confused white man
chained and thrown at my feet.
He begins to curse me,
Goading me into what he is sure must be my next act.
And he looks quite surprised
as I Raise the weapon high above my head
and bring in down.
Down upon the chains that have held US captive in ignorance for so long.
Then I extend my hand.
Now,
As we start our journey Toward understanding
He will learn that he can rest his tired weight on strong black shoulders
Now
As we start our trek Toward the truth
I will learn that I can trust blue eyes to watch my back
Now,
As we start our pilgrimage towards Unity
We will learn that Justice is still alive
And that Just Us few people
Have the power to restore this beauties righteous sight.
These are my visions for you
My People
The bat fell fast and hard,
Across my back and head.
My vision blurred then focused,
Blurred and focused on the object
Of my pain and fears.
I wake, trembling in a pool of… sweat.
On the Television is the source of my pain
Brought to me in living color.
Somewhere,
A black man is being beaten
And no one seems to give a damn.
Somewhere,
A white man lies bloodied and battered
In the name of some obscene justice.
These are the images
that introduce me to a new world order.
Two steps forward and three steps back!
Our own ideas may not survive such a storm!
Somewhere a stereotype,
passed to an innocent child
Who has never seen me before,
has been affirmed.
A belief in the natural ignorance of color!
A belief that justice is, that justice should
be based on the shades of a person's darkness.
A belief that poverty and chaos are inherent and inferior traits!
Somewhere a child like me,
Who grew up tired and hungry on the streets
Has had his greatest fear come to life.
The fear that his pain
matters less than any other's
The fear that his struggle for equality
guarantees him no respect.
Somewhere our children
Black and White,
Native and Immigrant
Have been led to ruin,
Because Justice has turned a blinded eye upon their tears.
With these thoughts to torment my dreams,
I drift painfully back to sleep.
But in this dream,
there is a weapon in my hands
And there is a confused white man
chained and thrown at my feet.
He begins to curse me,
Goading me into what he is sure must be my next act.
And he looks quite surprised
as I Raise the weapon high above my head
and bring in down.
Down upon the chains that have held US captive in ignorance for so long.
Then I extend my hand.
Now,
As we start our journey Toward understanding
He will learn that he can rest his tired weight on strong black shoulders
Now
As we start our trek Toward the truth
I will learn that I can trust blue eyes to watch my back
Now,
As we start our pilgrimage towards Unity
We will learn that Justice is still alive
And that Just Us few people
Have the power to restore this beauties righteous sight.
These are my visions for you
My People
