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There is no gender identity behind the expressions of gender... identity is performatively constituted by the very 'expressions' that are said to be its results.

quote by Judith Butler
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Mama Africa's Identity

Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Fulanis and the Fulbes;
But the Savannah and the Sahara are here to stay in Africa.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Dogons and the Shilluks;
And of the cowries usedas money in those days,
But the identities of the African are in many faces.
It is like a durbar in Africa and,
At the market plac to meet others;
But a visit to the tomatoes market in Ghana will tell you much.
Mama African's identity,
And like 'the Golden Stool' of the Ashanti Kingsdom!
But wait for the dried-fish on the coasts of Africa.
Visit St. Louis in the delta of Senegal and learn about the ways of the African,
For my home i in El Molo;
And like Mama Africa's identity praising my muse.
Mama African's identity,
And of the pygmies in Central Africa!
But i have my mind on the Rift Valley,
And like the mirror of the rivers, lakes and the seas of Africa! !
The Massai and the Dinka do play their roles,
And like the Nubaians in South Sudan;
But with the temperature above 40 degrees in most parts of Africa.
Mama Africa's identity,
And like a message to my lover in Lalibala;
For early in the morning came the leopards to drink some water,
But a visit to Mount Meru will entice you.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Zulus and the Rendilles;
But the Afars are here to blend with the dry land.
Mama Africa's identity,
With the rhythms and rituals of the Africans!
And like the tribes of Ovambo, Herero, Xhosa, Shona and Matabele.
And like the Bemba, the Tonga and the Ovaimbundu!
But the red land of Africa care for you all.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of River Limpopo in the mist of love;
But try to visit the Victoria Falls to satisfy your curiosity.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Himbas with their traditional dance;
But the Kikuyu, the Hutu, the Tutsi and the Hambukushu are also there,
For Africa is a very big continent for all of us.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Lonely Spider

The lonely spider reaches out
For what, you might ask?
If not to spin his web then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...

The lonely spider calls out
For what, you might ask?
If not for his mate then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...

The lonely spider waits
For what, you might ask?
If not for his food then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...

'A spider doesn't have feelings! '
How should you know?

'A spider isn't that smart! '
That could be true.

'A spider can never have a real identity! '
And neither could you, or any of us
But we try to find one even if we're not looking
And thats our life... after which we die

What have we done with our life up until then?
Either we've thrown it away, gave it up, wrecked it, lived it up to the fullest, took it for granted, or got far in it.
We still had one.
It's up to us what we shall do with it
Just like the lonely spider
Who will probably just end up on the bottom of your shoe anyways

poem by Andreanna Atkins
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Is Man A Winner Or A Loser?

Woman has a poof that the child is hers;
Man has no such proof to claim on the child.
She is cool with the child as identity.
He is desperate for his identity.

Identity crisis has disturbed him.
He invented marriage and chained woman.
He imposed chastity to mark his kids
And introduced patriarchal system.

Identity crisis has troubled him.
He assumed control over women.
He retained the progeny in his name
And made concubines to silence woman.

Identity crisis has worried him.
He bottled woman's skill and built up his.
He grew to be a Scholar. Sculptor and Poet
And assigned to woman the entertaining.

Identity crisis has bothered him.
He treated woman as her property.
He acquired family unfailingly
And labourd for its upkeep and status.

Identity crisis has bored him.
Water as she is, man could not cut her.
Tired of heat outside, man needed a shade
And sheltered himself in woman's coolness.

Woman treated man with due sympathy
With no fight with him for identity.
Her child is enough for her identity.
She helped him to anchor himself in her.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sinful identity

It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so handsomely procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
infantile cry; overflowed with unfathomable oceans of
glittering gold,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
baselessly rejoiced and took all their hard-earned
wealth for granted; miserably dithered in my
impoverished life to carve a philanthropically
blissful identity of my very own….

It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so majestically procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my
first baby cry; had an endless inundation of sparkling
currency coin,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
parasitically feasted and took all their hard-earned
wealth for granted; pathetically staggered in my
diminutive life to carve a synergistically blazing
identity of my very own….

It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so wonderfully procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
incoherent cry; remained perpetually embellished with
resplendently enamoring diamonds,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
derogatorily marauded and took all their hard-earned
wealth for granted; dismally stuttered in my truncated
life to carve a celestially vibrant identity of my
very own…
It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so marvelously procreated me; nor was
it my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
nimble cry; contained every speck of prosperity on
this timeless planet,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
indiscriminately terrorized and took all their
hard-earned wealth for granted; meaninglessly quavered
in my destined life to carve a beautifully magnanimous
identity of my very own…..

It wasn’t the slightest in my hands to choose the
parents who had so amazingly procreated me; nor was it
my fault that the house in which I emitted my first
inaudible cry; had its foundations resting on an
insurmountable mountain of pearls,
But it would irrefutably be the greatest sin if I
savagely massacred and took all their hard-earned

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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You Trip Too Quick To Insult and Assault

You trip too quick to get your results.
You trip too quick to insult and assault,
Those you don't know...
Who haven't shown,
Reason why you choose to deceive.

You trip too quick to sit and to sulk.
You trip too quick to blame and to fault,
Others unaware...
What has been done to you.
And you don't care...
Going through the act that you do.

You trip too quick to get your results.
Yes you do.
You trip too quick to insult and assault,
Just to prove...
To,
Those you don't know...
Who haven't shown,
Reason why you choose to deceive.
Then you can't believe why they come back,
To mistreat you!

You trip too quick to get your results.
Yes you do.
You trip too quick to insult and assault,
Just to prove...
To,
Those you don't know...
Who haven't shown,
Reason why you choose to deceive.

You trip too quick to get your results.
And...
You trip too quick to insult and assault.
And...
You trip too quick to get your results.
And...
You trip too quick to insult and assault.
You trip too quick to get your results.
You trip too quick to insult and assault.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Identity Of I

Identity is not what I promise others
Identity is what I do when I am alone
Identity is what I think of others
Knowing all the hatred they've shown

Identity is what every wound reminds me
Identity is what I learn and what I pass by
Identity is what I see in the mirror
After giving my best try

Identity is what I make out of my given chance
Identity is what I accept and what I deny
No one else has control over me
Life is about me, and what I identify

poem by Abhiraj Rajadhyaksha
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Identity Crisises

Sometimes I'm James Bond
Sometimes I'm Billy The Kid
Sometimes I feel like Sherlock Holmes
Sometimes I feel like Jack The Ripper
'Cause I got an image out of control
Identity crisisis
I don't need a new face
'Cause mine's been erased
Identity crisisis
Sometimes I'm on a case
Sometimes I'm shooting bad dudes
Sometimes I'm slashing the face
Sometimes I'm looking for clues
Sometimes I'm braking the law
Sometimes I'm solving a crime
I'm always fast on the draw
I get the girls all the time
'Cause I got an image out of control
Identity crisisis
I don't need a new face
'Cause mine's been erased
Identity crisisis
Sometimes I'm James Bond
Sometimes I'm Billy The Kid
Sometimes I feel like Sherlock Holmes
Sometimes I feel like Jack The Ripper
'Cause I got an image out of control
Identity crisisis
I don't need a new face
'Cause mine's been erased
Identity crisisis
'Cause I got an image out of control
Identity crisisis
I don't need a new face
'Cause mine's been erased
Identity crisisis

song performed by Alice Cooper
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Soboba

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soccer camp fall 2007 dallas tx

[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Identity of a person

Identity of a person
Identity signifies complexity
Identity identifies with reality
Identity is the bearer of all vanity
How does a person identify with identity?

You define yourself based on what?
They say, they say
You’re kind or moral based on what?
Or
You’re a genius and shrewd based on what?
Or
You make the perfect lover, look for no other

They say, they say
You’re strong without a thought it may not last long
Or
You’ve skills since with a record you run up high bills
Or
You are shy but no one ever talks to you or says hi
Or
You never give up because right now you are on top

They say, they say
You are generous or gregarious when all you are is conscious
Or
You’re innovative yet not the originator of the idea conceived

What are the facts?
That makes your identity intact
When change on identity has the last impact?

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Ground conceptual

conceptual poetry is a ground for floating identity or post-identity being in the becoming process of possibility-a shaking and unstable truth-banks.conceptual poetry is a ground for floating identity or post-identity being in the becoming process of possibility-a shaking and unstable truth-banks.conceptual poetry is a ground for floating identity or post-identity being in the becoming process of possibility-a shaking and unstable truth-banks.

''

'GROUND'

poem by Nyein Way
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You don't get results by focusing on results. You get results by focusing on the actions that produce results.

quote by Mike Hawkins
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Aint What You Do

(s. oliver/j. young)
When I was a kid, about half past three
My ma said daughter, come here to me
Says, things may come and things may go
But this is one thing you ought to know
(chorus1)
Aint what you do, its the way that you do it (x3)
Thats what gets results
Aint what you do, its time that you do it (x3)
Thats what gets results
You can try hard, dont mean a thing
Take it easy, easy, in the jiven swing
Aint what you do, its the place that you do it
Aint what you do, its the time that you do it
Aint what you do, its the way that you do it
Thats what gets results
Youve learned your abcs, youve learned your dfgs
But this is something you dont learn in school
So get your hip boots on, and then you carry on
But remember not to try too hard or it dont mean a thing
(chorus)
Aint what you do, its the time you do it (2x)
Aint what you sing its the way that you sing it
Thats what gets results (2x)

song performed by Lisa Stansfield
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The Town Dump

“The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious.”

A mile out in the marshes, under a sky
Which seems to be always going away
In a hurry, on that Venetian land threaded
With hidden canals, you will find the city
Which seconds ours (so cemeteries, too,
Reflect a town from hillsides out of town),
Where Being most Becomingly ends up
Becoming some more. From cardboard tenements,
Windowed with cellophane, or simply tenting
In paper bags, the angry mackerel eyes
Glare at you out of stove-in, sunken heads
Far from the sea; the lobster, also, lifts
An empty claw in his most minatory
Of gestures; oyster, crab, and mussel shells
Lie here in heaps, savage as money hurled
Away at the gate of hell. If you want results,
These are results.
Objects of value or virtue,
However, are also to be picked up here,
Though rarely, lying with bones and rotten meat,
Eggshells and mouldy bread, banana peels
No one will skid on, apple cores that caused
Neither the fall of man nor a theory
Of gravitation. People do throw out
The family pearls by accident, sometimes,
Not often; I’ve known dealers in antiques
To prowl this place by night, with flashlights, on
The off-chance of somebody’s having left
Derelict chairs which will turn out to be
by Hepplewhite, a perfect set of six
Going to show, I guess, that in any sty
Someone’s heaven may open and shower down
Riches responsive to the right dream; though
It is a small chance, certainly, that sends
The ghostly dealer, heavy with fly-netting
Over his head, across these hills in darkness,
Stumbling in cut-glass goblets, lacquered cups,
And other products of his dreamy midden
Penciled with light and guarded by the flies.

For there are flies, of course. A dynamo
Composed, by thousands, of our ancient black
Retainers, hums here day and night, steady
As someone telling beads, the hum becoming
A high whine at any disturbance; then,
Settled again, they shine under the sun
Like oil-drops, or are invisible as night,

[...] Read more

poem by Howard Nemerov
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Yips

When focusing too hard on putts
golfers suffer from the yips,
and those who focus hard on butts
and breasts and what’s below the hips
may not obtain a hole in one
because most eagles fly away,
and though a birdie can be fun
you’ll never catch one if you play
too focused. Nonchalance will launch
in sex, as golf, a thousand ships,
and when you’re ready for some raunch,
soft-focus rescues you from yips.

Inspired by an article by Katie Thomas in the NYT on August 1 explaining the phenomenon of yip[s which plagues archersm, golfers and all people who aim to carefully at targets (“The Secret Curse of Expert Archers”) :

There is an affliction so feared by elite archers that many in the sport refuse to even say its name. Archery coaches who specialize in treating the problem are sworn not to reveal the identities of archers in its grip, even though they estimate that 90 percent of high-level competitors will fall victim at least once in their careers. Target panic, as the condition is known, causes crack shots to suddenly lose control of their bows and their composure. Mysteriously, sufferers start releasing the bow the instant they see the target, sabotaging any chance of a gold-medal shot. Others freeze up and cannot release at all. Target panic is akin to the yips in baseball and golf, when accomplished athletes can no longer make a simple throw to first base or stroke an easy putt. The results can be mortifying, and archery is filled with tales of those who have caught the curse, never to shoot again. The problem has spawned a cottage industry of coaches, books and specialized accessories that claim to cure target panic….Lanny Bassham, a former Olympic rifle shooter and mental coach whose clients include the Olympic archer Brady Ellison, said the archery community had a peculiar obsession with target panic, which he noted had a horrifying ring. “The words target panic have induced an unnecessary amount of severity and concern about this condition among archers, ” he said. “I think if they had a better word for it, they’d have a lot less problem trying to cure it.” Many archers and their coaches refuse to say target panic. Those words are forbidden around the Nichols household, which is home to the Olympic archer Jennifer Nichols and her younger sister, Amanda, also a world-class competitor. “We try to stay away from the labels that are put on things by people in the archery industry because once you feel you’ve got that label, it’s hard to stay away from it, ” said their father, Brent Nichols. “We don’t want to hear those things.” Theories vary on how to cure target panic. Some switch their shooting hand, or change their grip slightly — techniques that have also proved successful in golf. Others use visualization techniques and positive reinforcement. Wunderle advises his clients to imagine seeing and feeling what a good shot is, without focusing on aiming the arrow. “Do not focus on results, ” he said. “When you focus on results, it builds anxiety. And anxiety is the kiss of death.” One of the most popular cures is to entirely remove the target. Sufferers instead practice shooting at a blank target, sometimes for weeks at a time, to retrain the mind. “The empty bale restores your confidence in your subconscious, ” said Bernie Pellerite, author of the book “Idiot Proof Archery” and a self-described expert on target panic. “Nobody flinches or punches or chokes on an empty bale.” Hunt spent weeks shooting at blank targets, but he also purchased a special release for his bow, which helped retrain him when to shoot. “It’s trying to engrave in your head when you should shoot, ” he said. “You just pull it back, let the safety off, and pull it until it decides to go. Then you get used to every shot being perfect.” Hunt placed second in his age group at the Junior Olympic Archery Development national championships in Oklahoma City earlier this month. His target panic, he said, had been cured. For now. There is an affliction so feared by elite archers that many in the sport refuse to even say its name. Archery coaches who specialize in treating the problem are sworn not to reveal the identities of archers in its grip, even though they estimate that 90 percent of high-level competitors will fall victim at least once in their careers. Target panic, as the condition is known, causes crack shots to suddenly lose control of their bows and their composure. Mysteriously, sufferers start releasing the bow the instant they see the target, sabotaging any chance of a gold-medal shot. Others freeze up and cannot release at all. Target panic is akin to the yips in baseball and golf, when accomplished athletes can no longer make a simple throw to first base or stroke an easy putt. The results can be mortifying, and archery is filled with tales of those who have caught the curse, never to shoot again. The problem has spawned a cottage industry of coaches, books and specialized accessories that claim to cure target panic.

8/20/08

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Yesterday

Today is lived.
And there they stay,
In heated debate.
About what took place,
Yesterday.
And who did what and when.
How they dressed!
And what impressed them.
With recalled expressions on their faces.

Another day is lived!
And there they stay,
In heated debate.
About what took place,
Yesterday.
And who did what and when.
How they dressed!
And what impressed them.
With recalled expressions on their faces.

And yet another day to them comes.
And there they stay,
In heated debate.
About what took place,
Yesterday.
And who did what and when.
How they dressed!
And what impressed them.
With recalled expressions on their faces.

Few if any live in the 'now'.
Or have their eyes on tomorrow.
Because...
There they stay,
In heated debate.
About what took place,
Yesterday.
And who did what and when.
How they dressed!
And what impressed them.
With recalled expressions on their faces.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Map Of Culture

Culture

Contents

What is Culture?

The Importance of Culture

Culture Varies

Culture is Critical

The Sociobiology Debate

Values, Norms, and Social Control

Signs and Symbols

Language

Terms and Definitions

Approaches to the Study of Culture

Are We Prisoners of Our Culture?

What is Culture?

I prefer the definition used by Ian Robertson: 'all the shared products of society: material and nonmaterial' (Our text defines it in somewhat more ponderous terms- 'The totality of learned, socially transmitted behavior. It includes ideas, values, and customs (as well as the sailboats, comic books, and birth control devices) of groups of people' (p.32) .

Back to Contents

[...] Read more

poem by Nyein Way
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The kid identity

The kid identity

Look at me,
It is not my true identity,
But when they see the true true me,
I am nothing but a messed up key,
When they see my true identity,
They want to go back to what they thought was me,
But they must not go and see,
Who my true identity could really be,
Just remember I’m my real identity.

By: Colby Selter

poem by Colby Selter
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Mistaken Identity

Undercover cop car
Came screeching to a halt
Body lying on the ground
Must be someones fault
Circumstantial evidence
Seemed to point her way
Her right to remain silent
Was all she heard them say
Blue dress, blue eyes
Blonde hair, about five foot nine
Wrong place, wrong time
Wrong face, wrong crime
(chorus):
Mistaken identity
Could happen to you or to me
Mistaken identity
Mistaken identity
Could happen to you or to me
Mistaken identity
Mistaken identity
(I didnt do it, no, I didnt do it)
No money for a lawyer
To defend her case
Standing in the line-up
Tears rolling down her face
No one cared to listen
Someone had to take the heat
Sometimes theres no justice
When youre a victim of the street
Wrong place, wrong time
Wrong face, wrong crime (x4)
(chorus):
Tu ut tu tu tu...tu ut tut tu tu
They didnt even say
Im sorry
Tried to put her away
In a hurry
Dont make her pay the price
Shes not guilty
(guilty)
For someone elses crime
Set her free
(set her free)
I didnt
I didnt
I didnt do it no (x4)
(chorus out)

song performed by Donna Summer
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Who I Really Am

Fingers dash across keys, type, type, type
Awkwardly from one key to the next, I told myself I wouldn't write
The computer, the ginger tea, the black text in a sea of white
They subside
As a new reality has come to override

I don't want to be who I was back then...

Screams of an infernal scratching
Voices of endless chiding
Murmurs of infinite condemnation
Each word a wicked consolation speaking to a identity of hatred
Each scream a twisted affirmation of the identity of hatred
Each murmur coaxing out my identity of hatred
Thus he does emerge, the man, the monster
No it's not a scream
No it's not a voice
Not it's not a murmur it's who I am
I made those
I make those
I am those
Inadequate, incapable, inevitable, inept, invisible
Untalented, unkind, unworthy, unable, unlovable
These are lies
You know they're all true he sighs
You know that's you
Murmurs of infinite condemnation
Voices of endless chiding
Screams of an infernal scratching

I don't want to be who I was back then...

Haha I've come to bring you freedom, let you be honest, let you be me
Can't you see?
I've come to take what's mine
Cough, cough, it's dizzying, I see blood, I feel blood, I lose blood
Ground... thud... voices
tears...screams...tears
murmurs...ha nds...blood
Unlovable
scream
Scream
SCREAM
Still small voice
Whisper, no
Whisper, I am here now because of My love, and it's real
It echoes more than voices, rings stronger than screams,
Louder than murmurs, truer than the lies
And stronger than you...
But you... but this, I tried to be someone else, but I am you

[...] Read more

poem by David Knox
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Me: The thief of my Identity

The thief of my Identity

To my Friends and Family
My true Identity
Is all that makes me

I stole my identity
My personality
What I live for, What I breath for
What I'd fight for, what I'd die for

If not for my soul,
I would be lost once again
For my True Identity has fled me
Fled me for another

It is the dancing shadow you play with,
The beauty you can see in yourself,
And the hostility.
It wants to see you suffer,
It is most content, when you are in despair.

When I can look into my self
and find the real Identity of my inner self,
Until then I will not blame anyone
for my misfortune

poem by Brad Combs
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