REGINALD LOCKETT (1947-2008)
In Memoriam
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© Raymond Nat Turner/Zigi Lowenberg
LISTEN NOW | Full one-hour tribute to Reggie Lockett on Kris Welch’s KPFA Living Room program of 30th May 2008. Hear poets and friends broadcast their hearts in a live broadcast studio at KPFA Pacifica: q.r. hand, jr, Avotcja, Jack and Adelle Foley, Lucha Corpi, Adam David Miller, Kim Shuck, Judy Juanita, John Curl, Kirk Lumpkin, Kim McMillan, Gerald Nicosia, Mary Rudge, Raymond Nat Turner, Katherine Hastings, Karla Brundage, Jim LeCuyere, Karen Folger Jacobs, Slim Russell, Wanda Sabir, Al Young, and others.
Photos © Kathy Sloane
SERVICES WERE HELD
Thursday, May 22
11:00 a.m.
Bee Bee Memorial Cathedral
3900 Telegraph Avenue
Oakland, CA 94609
510.655.6114
Buried at Rolling Hills Cemetery, Richmond, CA
singing the Movement
blending with other voices
we miss yours, Reggie
UNTITLED
for Reginald Lockett
Your words are in the air
and enter us
on this hottest day in memory
flowers burst open
beyond open
brown birds with beautiful voices
dance in sprinkler rain
Would you be surprised to know
poems are being written
all up and down California tonight
in an attempt
to hold on to you somehow?
To love you into thin air?
Just hours before the call
Borges on death:
For me death is a hope, the irrational
certitude of being abolished,
erased, and forgotten. You think it matters
if tomorrow I will have disappeared?
Old spirit. New spirit.
Teacher of Watts and Trane,
August Crumpler,
West Oakland Archaeology,
the Culbersons and Backyard Boogie.
You wrote “To Kathy,”
a name from childhood
growing up in the 60s
in some other world
for reginald lockett
there were your eyes
always holding twinkle and swoon
eyes to make ladies blush and smile
and the voice that rumbled deep
thunder on a summer day
sure to bring a cooling rain
and the head that tipped
with the tease that was to come
slipping it in with a wink and a chortle
always close with a ready quip, a cogent quote
a push, a pull, a slap on the back
sharp sure
a manâs man
true friend
a womanâs man
loved and loving
bookstore owners too knew
your face, your name
as you often sought out shop corners
as places of refuge, places called home
you were a man
of letters and words and books
reading inside their lines, you
could unknot meter, explicate metaphors,
and glean the truth from the quirkiest of prose
the most layered of poems
in your work, you laced memory and song
beneath and around your family of blood
your comrades your students your teachers
your daughter maya, who reshaped your heart
into new drum rhythms
your loves who brought
jubilation and destruction
your last love who brought
joy and acceptance
words of love, and history
regret and defiance
filled your pages
beside the music
that made your spirit dance
carrying sadness in your belly
laughter in your chest
a military posture of pride
and a hip sloping stride
Reginald you were always you
and we will miss you
miss you dearly
devorah major
devorah major at YouTube
polysyllabic omniverse of our dreams
for reginald lockett in memoriam; for his family and all of us
may 16, 2008
we set sail to the endless shore
together
riding ripples of language
carrying us toward the
ultimate song
you now
an ocean-going vessel
piloting a course
through the polysyllabic omniverse
of our dreams
i want to borrow your rhythm
but cannot match your cadence
i hear you sing praises
louder than any church choir
bolder than the soloist’s shout
your multiphonic speech
breathes cascading color
of a hue not yet seen by the naked eye
a fabric so finely woven that you can
drink from it
the sustenance you provide
is like water gushing forth
from an underground spring
now you are that spring
and we take heart in
your unending flow
you are with us
here now
you are with us
as the cosmic dance
you are with us
as the planet ceases its spin
a moment
silent
before bursting in praise
we are now your pages
leaves dog eared from late night study
we are the letters
that form the words
that build the phrase
to sing the song
of love we feel for you
as the boat now reaches its shore
you step forth into the light
you so often spoke of
each one of your poems
a particle forming to
embrace your union
you are with us
hear our song
you are with us
as we join together
you are with us
entities entwined
we will find you
in the polysyllabic omniverse
of our dreams
Reginald Lockett, died May 15, 2008
If there was ever a poet deserving of the title poet laureate for a city, Reggie was Oaklandâs unnamed honoree. His work breathed Oaklandâeach syllable an experience that we, who call this fair city home, could relate to. He lived in a haunted house, haunted by the memories of black people from southern towns where they were just as unwelcome, as some were here. Reggie was born in one of those places, too, but his family moved here and here is where the poet was born.
The last book he completed before his untimely demise was Random History Lessons, each poem one which vividly etched in oneâs mind the characters and corners and attitudes Reggie the young man, Reggie the child, Reggie the young adult met coming up in the âhood.
I remember our interview of quite some time ago, ad yet another which Iâd not had time to publish and now our brother is gone.
He was so helpful and encouraging. He was just about the most encouraging artist I have ever known. Heâd send me leads for publications and then encourage me to send work in. He coached me on numerous job interviews for full-time teaching gigs at bay area community colleges and in 2006 he published our response to Hurricane Katrina, a collection of poetry published under his Jukebox Press imprint. I remember the first time I saw Wordwind Chorus: Lewis Jordan, QR Hand and Reggie. It was at Gerald Lenoir and Karen’s home in Berkeley. I remember his first book I owned, Where the Birds Sing Bass, a Josephine Miles PEN awardee. I remember when Reggie was emcee at the PEN awards when Ntozake Shange was honored. I remember his reading during National Library Week at the College of Alameda and I got to introduce him. I remember the California Community College Composition Teachers Conference in Sacramento and our trip to the mall to buy me some tennis shoes. I have been wearing New Balance ever sense, and I still have the pair of shoes he helped me pick out.
I remember his poem about the “dumb class,” a class he was in until someone checked his vision. I think about this often and how educators misdiagnose our students all the time.
Just this past Sunday, Reggie was to be a part of the program at Annaâs and I wondered why he wasnât there. I remember he and Ted Pontiflet. If I saw one, I usually saw the other. I wonder how Ted is doing. Linda his partner, his daughter, his dad. I wonder how Al Young is doing, Ishmael Reed, all of us.
Reggie was the consummate human being. I was watching an old classic black and white film called Laura. In the film a woman was supposedly murdered but as the investigation proceeds she isnât dead, she was out of town. I wondered if someone would be calling me back to tell me it was all a mistake; it was a case of mistaken identityâ
I knew it was wishful thinking, but in just two months I have lost two friends: Casper Banjo and now Reginald Lockett. When devorah [major] called and told me she had something to tell me, I asked her if someone had died. I was hoping it was good news, but devorah doesnât call me oftenâI got two more calls and I made two. I couldnât think, and the details the only details that stuck were that Reggie was deadâI was foggy on the when and the who discovered this and why devorah knew it was so. I was hoping that someone was pretending to be devorah and really, it wasnât her and then Phil Hutchings called, and Sharifah, and Kim verified what everyone else said and I was likeâwell I guess itâs true.
I had to get away, so I went to the theater to see Figaro. It was great. I loved the language and the physicality of the piece. When I walked out and looked down there was a poem by Alice Walker, next to hers was one by Rilke (translated by someone else.)
I can see Reggie. I hear his voiceâŠsee him walking the Lake with Derethia. I remember giving him a ride to the dentist in Montclair when his crown broke one time. I always saw him, and if I didnât see him a Cave Canem announcement was his calling card.
He was really supportive of the Maafa Book Project and gave me lots of poems and made others I liked available.
Reggie Lockett will be missed. Two writers gone in two years, not a year apart: Chauncey Bailey and now Reginald Lockett.
Review
THE PARTY CRASHERS OF PARADISE
Creative Arts Book Company, 2001
Innocent? When was I ever innocent? I was guilty of just about everything I was accused of doing.
â Reginald Lockett, âHow I Started Writing Poetryâ
âAt the age of fourteen,â Reginald Lockett tells us in his prose memoir, âHow I Started Writing Poetry,â âI was what Richard Pryor over a decade later would call âgoing for badâ or what my Southern-bred folks said was âsmellinâ your peeââŠI âtalked that talk and walked that walkâ most parents found downright despicableâ:
Weâd steal clothes, records, liquor, jewelryâanything for the sake of magnifying to the upteenth degree that image of death-defying manhood and to prove I was indeed a budding Slick Draw McGraw. Luckily, I was never caught, arrested and hauled off to Juvenile Hall or the California Youth Authority like so many of the guys I ran with.
One of the main factors that saved Lockett from the fate of âso many of the guys I ran withâ was a creative writing class taught by Miss Nettelbeck, âwho looked and dressed like one of them beatniks Iâd seen one night on East Side, West Side.â While Lockett took the class,
I wasnât running up and down the streets with the fellas much anymore. Harvey would get bent out of shape everytime Iâd tell him I had something else to do. I had to be turning punkish or seeing some girl I was too chinchy to introduce him to. This also bothered my mother because she kept telling me I was going to ruin my eyes if I didnât stop reading so much; and what was that I spent all my spare time writing in a manila notebook? Was I keeping a diary or something? Only girls kept diaries, and people may start thinking I was one of âthem sissy mensâ if I didnât stop. Even getting good grades and citizenship and making the honor roll didnât keep her off of my case. But I kept right on reading and writing, looking forward to Miss Nettelbeckâs class twice a week.
Lockett, now in his fifties, is himself a teacher with many years of experience. In one of the most moving poems of his new collection, The Party Crashers of Paradise, he writes, âTeaching saves lives.â (Further on in the book he adds that it is âthe poetâs duty / to save lives, / especially our own.â)
Reginald Lockett was born in Berkeley, California. His fatherâabout whom he has a very fine poem, âEndless Ports of Callââwas a Master Chief Steward in the US Navy. In âEndless Ports of Callâ Lockett recalls his father unexpectedly showing up at a high school class
in full Navy dress blues with the gold chevron
of a master chief steward and five hash marks
on the left sleeve a show of authority
and years of service, and that grin
just like the one Scatman Crothers wore,
the whole ghetto classroom in awe of himâŠ.
Lockett began school in Hawaii, âbelieving himself / the dumb, ugly / little nigger / the white kids called him,â moved to Texas, and then came to Oakland in 1960, when he was about twelve years old. He later attended San Francisco State University and lived in San Francisco for thirteen years. But even poems written in San Francisco, he says, âhave an Oakland feel to them.â One of his poems is called âOaktown, CAâ: âOaktownâ is the rappersâ term for âOakland.â Echoing Bessie Smithâs âBlack Mountain Blues,â Lockett concludes the poem by simultaneously invoking the classic blues and leveling a damning commentary on the current world
in a town, in a town, in a town
in a state, in a state, in a state,
in a nation, in a nation, in a nation
so bad,
even the birds sing bass
The Party Crashers of Paradise also gives us Lockettâs experiences in âThe Dumb ClassâââThey didnât use / nice terms like / learning disabledââwhere he eventually taught himself âto write in longhand / and how to do / third, fourth, and fifth grade arithmeticâ
after the new colored school nurse
discovered I needed glasses âŠ.
The book reveals that Lockettâs birth mother, whom he came eventually to know, gave him up for adoption. This is from âBastardâ:
At my motherâs funeral,
I suddenly
became untouchable.
Printed right there
in the obituary
the name of a third son
relatives and friends
knew nothing about
as long as they
knew my mother.
A son
never mentioned,
a son
not born in holy wedlock
like the other two.
Poet David Henderson calls Reginald Lockettâs poems âmainstream Black with a Third World consciousness implicit in every line,â which is accurate enough. Lockett refers to himself, not as a âjazz poet,â but as âthe original Rhythm & Blues poet.â Certainly one of great strengths of this book is the authorâs wonderful ease with Black speech.This is from the opening of âThe Terminatorâ:
his homey in my class.
loud yellow baseball cap
pulled waaaaaaaay down
over matted, jet black blue
ocean waves and earphones
hooked up to a matching
yellow Walkman radio
hidden in the inside pocket
of a black leather Raiders jacket
feeling good behind large
smoke tinted shades
and high on indica and crack
rolled into a grimmie
Again and again one senses the refreshing presence of slang, of talkâthough Lockett is also capable of neologisms like âepiphanousâ and âpolitricks.â Ishmael Reed has referred to Lockettâs âhip, urban, observantâ idiom, and Al Young has described Lockettâs âboppish, bluesy linesâ: â[Lockett] has created a crusty yet tender poetry that tick-tocks between staying cool and getting involvedâŠ.â
The Party Crashers of Paradise is a fine introduction to the work of a poet who ought to be far better known than he is. Lockett is definitely one of Oaktownâs best-kept secrets. The âBro. Radioâ seriesâechoing back to âBrer Rabbitââis by itself worth the price of the book. There are poems about childhood, about family, about political involvement (Lockett was a Black Panther), shaman poems (including poems evoking ancient Africa and the presence of the Yoruba deities, the Orisha), erotic poems, poems about lost youth:
Black Power! Her natural
stood tall, erect,
red and golden
like the flame
we thought
would
ignite the revolution
that never cameâŠ
I know,
I know. I am
a vague, remote
amorous memory,
color and image
fading
each step closer
sistah love
gets to death. My heart
erupts in tearsâ
all manifesting in a language which remains remarkably accessible, often noble and moving, constantly streetwise. I miss the presence here of a wonderful piece, âThe Movementâ (âthe music of Trane, Albert, and Pharoah, / the teachins of Fanon, Mao, Che, and Huey, / and the muses of Baraka, Sonia, Askia and Larryâ), but it is available in Lockettâs earlier collection, Where the Birds Sing Bass (winner of the 1996 PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award). The word âbeingâ echoes at various places throughout the book, but the concluding section moves us out beyond Oakland into Paris and Jamaica and deliberately introduces a moreâspiritualâ dimensionâwhat Robert Farris Thompson calls flash of the spirit:
the holy ground
of ⊠ancient ancestral truths
zooming in on
the black, brown, and beige express,
making connections
in the upper heavens of our souls.
It is Religion at its hippest. Here we read of âthe divine horsemanâ of Vodun and the Yoruba goddess Oshun (âthe blue / jazz hued goddessâ) and experience âsongs of a different revolution.â Under the influence of figures such as Sun Raâwhom Lockett knew personallyâLockett himself becomes a âparty crasher of paradiseâ:
we floated on the ceiling
at the Savoy-On-The-Third-Moon-From-Jupiter
we did the celestial Glide to a Venusian groove
across floors of endless possibilities
at the Palladium Palace on a planet
we never knew was there
until the souls of our shoes glistened
like molten diamonds
In addition to writing and teaching, Reginald Lockett performs with a group called âWordWind Chorus,â and he can be heard on their excellent CD, we are of the saying. (Lockett performs âThe Movementâ on the CD; other members of the Chorus are Brian Auerbach, Q.R. Hand, Jr., and Lewis Jordan: their e-mail address is wordwindchorus@earthlink.net.)
One quibble: not only small-press books like The Party Crashers of Paradise but books issued from major houses in New York are, these days, very likely to contain a considerable number of typographical errors. Unfortunately, Lockettâs book is no exception. Most of these errors are not of a serious natureâspelling âstationeryâ as âstationary,â âMAllisterâ for McAllisterââbut in one case the poemâs meaning is altered. âMOMââa poem dealing with the poetâs birth motherâhere ends
she
chuckles,
cocks her head
to that favored
right angled slant
and
just looks far off
into a distance
we three have yet begun
to travel.
Happily, the poem was published in Where the Birds Sing Bass. This is the correct ending:
she
chuckles,
cocks her head
to that favored
right angled slant
and
just looks far off
into a distance
we three have not yet begun
to travel.
Throughout The Party Crashers of Paradise Reginald Lockett is able to take us there and get us back again. The entire book is a spirit journey. Lockett is not only âthe original Rhythm & Blues poet.â He is also, in his deeply-felt social concern and awareness of spirit, âthe silent songwriter / of our Apocalypseâ:
He keeps a Big John de Conqueror
root in his hip pocket & a
lodestone hidden
neatly away in his vest.
This essay appeared originally in The Alsop Review
THE MOVEMENT
Things werenât always like this.
We were circuit riders of Garveyâs whirlwind,
working the rhythms of blues drenched streets,
jazz soaked nightclubs and gatherings
of houngans and necromancers committed to struggle,
breathing the fire of Malcolmâs words.
Martin Luther King, Jr. Way was Grove Street,
and no children stood on corners
speaking the language of doom and hawking
the wares of self-doubt and destruction.
Fillmore was alive with the comings, goings, and doings
of a people dancing
across collard green floors and holding up cornbread walls
under buttermilk skies,
pawing, clawing, dreaming, scheming, screaming . . .
getting up, standing up, and flying, dying, crying,
conniving their way towards newer tomorrows.
Good brothers and sisters on the speedboat
of revolution, our sights set on this thing
called freedom.
Things werenât always dismal and dank like this.
We were cosmic griots taking the point,
searching infinite perimeters of sights and sounds
from the funky Four Corners of existence,
talking smack by the boatloads and getting one up
on the would-be grafters of our dreams,
slipping and sliding through concrete bayous
in urban undergrowth,
the bloodhounds of oppression, repression,
and suppression
snapping and baying at the iridescence of our heels.
Some of us drank gallons and gallons of Red Mountain
or shortneck after shortneck of Ripple
under the harsh glow of red and blue party lights,
and held tight to women blacker than forty midnights,
suddenly beautiful,
getting the R-E-S-P-E-C-T and do rightness
Aretha demanded in that brand new bag
James Brown shouted and hollered into our thoughts.
Things weren’t always crazy like this.
Incarcerated in the desolate barnyards of Amerikkka,
we were fast and slick in the way we saw ourselves.
We were cutesy tootsie roosters wearing our crowns
a good fifty degrees to the side,
and laid, sprayed, and ready to get paid
in plumage of silk and satin.
We kept the hawks of our misery confused and perplexed
beyond cocaine and cognac tainted perspectives.
We were keepers of the eagleâs eye view
on the watch out for the cutthroats of reason
and the backstabbers of sanity
on these long, winding and twisting highways and byways,
booking midnight flights of fancy
on the music of Trane, Albert, and Pharoah,
the teachings of Fanon, Mao, Che, and Huey,
and the muses of Baraka, Sonia, Askia and Larry,
trying to get back home to Ditty-Wah-Ditty *
in a nick of time to call winners
and cash in all the chips
in this game of chance called life.
* Black Folksâ Heaven
————————————————————————————————-
REMEMBERING REGINALD LOCKETT, INTERRUPTING HIM
lines from Reginald Lockettâs poem, âThe Movementâ
Things werenât always like this.
Blues people
We were circuit riders of Garveyâs whirlwind,
The Black Arts Movement (BAM)
working the rhythms of blues drenched streets,
I remember the poem about your father
jazz soaked nightclubs and gatherings
Trig and Navy even at homeâa tight ship
of houngans and necromancers committed to struggle,
The Black Panthers
breathing the fire of Malcolmâs words.
Not always like this
Martin Luther King, Jr. Way was Grove Street,
Not always hearing the news of your death on the telephone
and no children stood on corners
speaking the language of doom and hawking
But seeing you alive and smiling
the wares of self-doubt and destruction.
And talking in that breathy way I always thought was cool
We were keepers of the eagleâs eye view
on the watch out for the cutthroats of reason
and the backstabbers of sanity
on these long, winding and twisting highways and byways,
booking midnight flights of fancy
on the music of Trane, Albert, and Pharoah,
the teachings of Fanon, Mao, Che, and Huey,
and the muses of Baraka, Sonia, Askia and Larry,
trying to get back home to Ditty-Wah-Ditty *
in a nick of time to call winners
Live forever, brother
and cash in all the chips
in poetry,
in this game of chance called life.
in that place called Ditty-Wah-Ditty–
home to Ditty-Wah-Ditty
(* Black Folksâ Heaven)
for Reginald
times we shared
times we meant to haveâŠ
more times ahead ÂŹâ in the spirit-land.
You always led by inspiration
still will fuel the journeys of manyâŠ
..thank you, my brother, for leaving
such a clear impression
sharing such a force.
You remain an inspiration
who will continue to lead and guideâŠ
bones you taught to rattle
will be Cage-less.
REGGIE LOCKETT: Message from Al Young Read by Javier Chapa at the San JosĂ© City College Memorial, 20th May 2008 — and, in an augmented version, read by Ishmael Reed at the 22nd May Church Memorial
Reginald Lockett was indeed a rare treasure: a teacher who cared about his country and its citizens, a poet whose passions and concerns encompassed more than himself and career advancement. Reggie spoke often to me of his students at San JosĂ© City College and how crucial it was for them to grasp and master what he worked so hard to teach them. It was reading and his love of literature that enabled him to see clearly his own immediate community and the problems it faced and understand that his little corner of Oakland, California was not unique. When Reggie spoke of the gifts that many of his Asian-born students bestowed on him at semester’s end to thank him for teaching them, I could see in his eyes the emotion this stirred.
Anyone who finds Reginald Lockett mysterious need only read his poems about growing up Texas, Hawaii and California. In primary school he was placed not in “special ed” but in “the dumb class.” The poem he composed about this experience cites the school nurse who discovered through testing that Reggie actually needed eyeglasses to read properly. Such is the nature of poetry that it enables us to explore the vastness of of what we like to think of as our personal selves. What we are really exploring when we read stories and poetry is our one big self. Strictly speaking, there is no such thing as the other.
Reginald Lockett and I agreed that if the spirit of democracy is to be preserved in this republic for which we stand, the United States, it will persevere not on the so-called ivy league campuses — the Stanfords, the Harvards, the Yales — but, rather, on community college campuses, whose students are usually immigrants or first-in-the-family college students. For every Reginald Lockett we lose, we lose a a whole universe of knowledge and experience. We lose not just a song, but an entire album; a symphony.
— Al Young
California Poet Laureate
farewell, my friend
for reginald m. lockett
1947-2008
farewell, my friend & agemate,
tho our paths like an ancient
river’s branches have paralleled &
crossed many times in our many
attempts “to from the essential
facts of life” & reach beyond the
possible limits of attanable results …
tho sourced alike from boggy
emotional landscapes, fed & renewed
by the glacial melt of spirit, tellurian
surface runoff & elysian water
flowing through subsurface rocks.
we converged of late, a mighty tributary,
flowing from elevated headwaters to
the sea.
tho u’ve slipped yr mortal coil,
it is not as tho u’ve flowed into the
ground or dried up completely. Our
waters are joined: there are none
who have known u who do not
happily carry the weights of yr
verse, yr love of life & memory.
Your lifesong rings in my ears &
heart, & i am full with the joy of
knowing u ….
farewell, ole gangsta poet,
farewell, my friend, adieu
j. mcnair
5-20-08
TO REGINALD FRANLIN LOCKETT, YESYES MAN:
Random Notes For a Selfish Poem
Each of us has our Reggie, you yours, I mine
We were bone to bone friends
He put bread into my mouth, I into his
When one of us got a fat gig, he was sure
to recommend the other; he hired me, I hired him
He generously inscribed, âMentor, poet, friend, who
contributed to the growth of these poems,â in my copy
of âParty Crashers.â He allowed me to tinker with his
Msss after he thought they were finished.
Reggie is the one person I would permit a half hour on the phone
to vent and clarify his thoughts. My wife Elise and I tended
his apartment, watered his plants and fed his cat
when he visited Paris and New York.
Although he loved words, his own, he was
always willing to share space with other poets.
Because certain poets hog the podium, Iâll never read
behind them. Reggie is not one of these.
Once I read after him and the Word Wind Chorus
I took advantage of the glow they left.
So whether we were reading at a Katrina benefit
or a Kim-directed Oakland Festival, I loved
to follow in Reggieâs glow.
He did not take that with him.
Even now, YES! even now, I feel that glow.
Adam David Miller
May 30, 2008
SOMETHING DEAR
This is a poem about Reggie
I just found out about Reggie
We’d been in Europe three weeks
during the time he died
So the impact was delayed
in me
for an eight-hour day
Then the full force swept over me
The leaves on the tree outside the window
cast shadows on the sunlight
that frosts the glass
and the little bit of light that shimmers on it
shivers for a moment
in my being
about Reggie
Something dear
hovers inside
like a memory
that never
fades
Sorry, Reg
Floyd Salas
q.r. hand, jr and Karla Brundage at the KPFA gathering to honor Reggie Lockett on Kris Welch’s noontime Living Room
Raymond Nat Turner/Zigi Lowenberg
Kirk Lumpkin, John Curl, Judy Juanita (back turned), Karla Brundage, Karen Folger Jacobs, Florence Miller, Kris Welch, Jim LeCuyere | Zigi Lowenberg
Damien, unidentified KPFA staffer, Slim Russell, Florence Miller, Mary Rudge, Karla Brundage | Raymond Nat Turner
Karen Folger Jacobs, Al Young, Slim Russell, Lucha Corpi wait at KPFA to honor Reggie, 30 May 2008 | Raymond Nat Turner
Christina Springer’s Springer’s Journal features “Strut on Home, Then”– Reginald Lockett Makes His Transition
Oakland’s Unofficial Poet Laureate Dies at 60 (Angela Hill, Oakland Tribune)
Blue Reggie on BART, 2004 | Al Young
May 23rd, 2008 at 12:04 pm
Reggie Iâm Missing You Already
Reggie-
I miss your large entrance each morning when you came through the doors to work.
Your brassy voice always let me know that you were there.
I miss your calls when you were stuck in traffic or just simply running late.
I miss your stories of your father and daughters whom I never met.
But feel like I know.
I will miss your straight forwardness; you never compromised yourself for politics.
You were a fair and understanding man to all.
You were a role model for Black men and women- young and old.
You loved your Blackness and always kept it real- just has your dreads grew long.
I love your poems of past generations and the love of family and friends.
You had just spoken of your Uncle Levi last week.
The streets of Oakland filled your soul from the Black Panthers to Noble poets such as Al Young. His flyer is still in your mailbox.
Your words have spread from Cali to Atlanta to New York.
You have been an unsung hero to many that respect and admire you.
At least I know I do.
I miss you Reggie- my friend.
Julinda Caldwell
5/18/08
May 24th, 2008 at 11:14 pm
At Any Moment
(On hearing of the passing of Reggie Lockett)
I recall times back then
way
in the past
it now seems/
but like it
could happen again
at any moment
You were that essential soul/
friend and closest neighbor in the City
the one who would guide me
through the rite
to write
and call my self
poet.
I can still see your head
cocked to one side
the first time you read my words
on paper and gave an affirmative nod
I remember how
your nurturing spirit often lifted mine
and that you intuited my journey
long before I did
I can still see
your twinkling eyes and
that constant smile
& how you pridefully
embraced the books you carried-always
held tight against your chest
Close to your heart.
I hear in my head now
the quick staccato of your speech
and those weighted pauses
between and sometimes after
as if you were extracting and
holding onto its cadence
This all brings to mind
something I once read about
the spaces between the notes
in the music of
Earl Fatha Hines.
Yeah. You would know.
Cause you were a brother who was
Hip like that
A product of the good times
the Good times
But like
all of it
could happen again
at any moment.
By Portia Cobb (Heyward)
written in Charleston, South Carolina
On May 25, 2008
May 27th, 2008 at 6:12 pm
Hi,
I was looking at the poetry flash site, saw the announcement, and googled him.
I started out awhile ago. I never met the man, but after reading his work, he seems like what i’ve been waiting for, what i’ve missed up til now, and i know i have to keep looking… he sounds like he must’ve been amazing.
blessings to his people and community.
lizz bronson
June 9th, 2008 at 5:27 pm
reggie, I’m just mad
mad that you up and left
without so much
as a moment’s notice
mad that you left in the middle of it all
mad mad mad mad mad
come to think of it
when we met we were mad
madly in awe of the revolution
angry young poets at sf state
deliriously mad and happy to be reading
with sonia leroi don lee sarah webster fabio
askia the labries marvin x
and so mad at the world
mad at white people
mad at the system
mad at inequality
mad at the black bourgeoisie
mad at anyone who couldn’t hear us
mad mad mad mad mad
right there in the gallery lounge
at sf state with all the madness around
us and inside us and ahead of us
but I’m glad we were there in the 60s
and that we always remembered it
not everyone was too high to recall it
some of us were too mad not to remember
what we did who we did it with
how we did what we did when we were
our maddest
some said our finest
some said our worst
so what
we were mad
and now that a road
your road our road
has forked and you had to split
carrying your leather pouch and bags
on off into the great space the beyond
I’m still mad but sadgladmad crazymad
that we blossomed once in a seldom season
like bellyflowers that people have to get down
on their bellies to see
I’m not quite as mad even though
I still can’t see you
I can read you
I can’t run into you at a reading
I can rail at you through this medium
I’m so glad you marvin and I read
in oakland last fall one last time
after 40 years of madness
40 years of poetry and water
under the sf-oakland bay bridge
it is. it was. we were. we are.
goodbye brother
goodbye friend
goodbye reggie
August 20th, 2008 at 8:05 pm
just NOW googling around for a friend of me and Reggie’s whom I fear is dead and I come across this news that REGGIE IS DEAD man man too many years out of touch ain’t no good no good Roll In Peace my Brother………
November 12th, 2009 at 4:27 pm
Reginald Lockett was — and is — a great guy, a terrific and versatile poet, and a friend I regret not having spent nearly enough time with. Too many years of separation. But–if we all do as well with what we know as Reginald Lockett (who can bear shortening that wonderfully poetic name?) has, none of us need to fear the Great Beyond.
November 15th, 2010 at 7:36 pm
I tried to post a comment earlier, but it hasn’t shown up. I assume your spam filter may be broken?
December 15th, 2010 at 8:05 am
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