Current Calls for Submissions

We are currently actively seeking work for the following poetry anthologies. Unfortunately, we are not currently accepting any other submissions.

• Overplay/Underdone: an anthology of poetry in the 3rd dimension. We seek poems conceived/constructed in tiers/layers, designed for printing on multiple overlaid transparent, semi-transparent and/or opaque sheets. Postmark deadline 01/09/12. Details here.

• Impractical Cats: an anthology of poems and microfiction in the shape of cats (related species also okay). Subject matter is completely open. Postmark deadline 03/06/12. Details here.

Submissions not destined for one of these two collections will be neither read nor acknowledged. Unsolicited manuscripts received by mail will not be returned.

Script Submissions

Capital Stage presents professional area premieres of new and recent plays.  We are currently seeking bold, innovative new works that inspire thought and dialogue.
Script submissions are accepted as follows:

• Agents may send full-length manuscripts via email to: literarymanager@capstage.org
  or
  Literary Manager
  Capital Stage
  2220 J Street #8
  Sacramento, CA 95816

• Playwrights wishing to submit work should refer to our Playwrights’ Revolution submission deadlines and criteria below

Playwrights’ Revolution

The goal of the Playwrights' Revolution is to celebrate new works and to encourage the creation of bold, powerful new plays for the American theatre. Each year, several new plays will be selected to participate in a series of roundtable and staged readings. In July of 2009, Capital Stage presented its first Playwrights' Revolution World Premiere production. 

Submission Guidelines

Capital Stage is particularly interested in plays that fulfill our mission to bring bold, thought-provoking work to the region. Plays must be full-length in any genre: comedy, drama, musical, etc. Translations, collections of one-acts, children's plays and any play that has received a full-scale, professional production prior to submission are not eligible. Plays that have had a workshop, reading or non-professional production are still eligible. Only one submission per playwright is allowed each year. Playwrights in the Northern California region are encouraged to participate.

Additional Criteria for 2012 Submissions

Cast size must be no larger than eight (8).  Sorry, no exceptions.
Capital Stage is particularly interested in supporting the development of plays that explore the female voice.

2011 Submission Process

Step I: Submit a two-page maximum abstract of the play including title, character breakdown, brief story synopsis and playwright bio or resume. Also include 10 pages of consecutive sample dialogue. If submitting a musical, please include a CD of selections from the score. Literary agents may submit full scripts of their client's work. All abstracts and dialogue samples will be read. From these submissions, selected manuscripts will be requested for Step II. Please donot send a manuscript with or instead of the abstract. Submissions are accepted between November 15, 2011- January 15, 2012 (postmarked).

Step II: Based on Step I submissions, full manuscripts will be requested between February-March 2012. Manuscripts should be neatly typed, securely bound and have the playwright's name, contact address and phone number clearly visible on the front page.

Based on Step II manuscript submissions, four plays will be selected for inclusion in a series of staged readings to be held in July 2012. Playwrights included in these readings will be awarded $250. One or more of these plays may be considered for further development at Capital Stage for an eventual full world premiere production.
Submitted full-manuscripts, tapes and CDs, will be returned if a self-addressed, stamped envelope with adequate postage is provided. Electronic submissions will not be accepted at this time.

Final selections are made by Stephanie Gularte, Capital Stage Founding Artistic Director and will be announced in April 2012.

Address all submissions to:
Playwright's Revolution
Capital Stage Company
2215 J Street  
Sacramento, CA 95816

New Poem For Mumia

by Alice Walker

Posted on January 4, 2012 by prisonradio

Occupying Mumia’s Cell

Copyright©2011 by Alice Walker

 

I Sing of Mumia

brilliant and strong

and of the captivity

that

few black men escape

if they are as free

as he has become.

 

What a teacher he is for all of us.

 

Nearly thirty years in solitary

and still,

Himself.

 

He will die himself.

A black man;

whom many consider to be

a Muslim, though this is not

how he narrows down

the  criss-crossing paths of

his soul’s journey.

Perhaps it is simpler

to call him

a lover of truth

who refuses

to be silenced.

Is anything more persecuted

in this land?

 

No boots will be allowed

of course

so he will not

die with them on;

but there will always be

boots

of the mind and spirit

and of the heart and soul.

 

His will be black and shining

(or maybe the color of rainbows)

and they will sprout wings.

 

Mumia

they have decided

finally

not to kill you

hoping no blood will

stain their hands

at the tribunal

of the people;

but to let you continue

to die slowly

creating and singing

your own songs

as you pace

alone,  sometimes terrorized,

for decades of long nights

in your small cage

of a cell.

 

We lament our impotence: that we have failed

to get you out of there.

 

Your regal mane may have thinned

as our locks too, those flags of  our self sovereignty, may even have

disappeared;

waiting out this unjust sentence,

until we, like you, have become old.

Still,

if you will: accept our gratitude

that you stand, even bootless,

on your feet.  We see

that few of those around us,

well shod and walking, even owning, the streets

are freed.

 

Somehow you have been.

 

Enough to remind us

of freedom’s devout

internal and

ineradicable seed.

 

What a magnificent Lion

you have been all these

disastrous years

and still are,

indeed.

Black Athletes

and the Racial Politics

of Sickle Cell

 

by David J. Leonard | NewBlackMan

 

With the Raiders losing on Sunday, the Denver Broncos backpedaled their way into the 2012 NFL playoffs.  Although guaranteeing one more week of conversations about Tim Tebow, a fact that no one should wish for, their playoff birth is dramatically impacting the Pittsburgh Steelers and more specifically their safety Ryan Clark.   On Monday, Tomlin announced that Clark would be unable to play with the team because he has a sickle-cell trait, which can cause problems in high altitude situations.  During a 2007 game in Denver, Clark became terribly ill.  Doctors had to remove his spleen and gallbladder; as a result of his organs being deprived of oxygen, Clark lost an astounding 30 pounds.

While the threat to his life is significant, and the decision to skip the game would seem to be a no-brainer, Clark had planned to play.  “I mean, everybody knows I want to play and I would have played,” Clark told ESPN. “I talked to my doctors and we actually had a plan in place for me to play. All things pointed to me going until (Tomlin) told me I can't. He said he wouldn't have let his son play and so I'm not playing either.”  It would be easy to dismiss Clark’s comments, assuming that his plans to play were never realistic or possible.  Yet, it is not hard to imagine an NFL player risking life and limb to play “on any given Sunday.” 

In an Associated Press story on San Diego Charges offensive Lineman, Kris Dielman, acknowledged a willingness to risk his health in his pursuit to win a Super Bowl title.  Dielman, who missed 10 games as a result of a concussion, had a seizure during a post-game team flight, resulting in him being rushed to the hospital.  “This was definitely a scare.  Waking up in the hospital with my wife standing over me, that was pretty scary. I don’t scare easy, but that was something different.” Neither this scare nor his 2 kids at home changed his approach to the game.  He is not alone.  Two weeks ago, the Associated Press reported that half of the players (23/44) of the players they interviewed admitted that, “they would try to conceal a possible concussion rather than pull themselves out of a game.”  So it should surprise no one that Clark wants to play.  

In a sport and a culture that defines masculinity through toughness, invincibility, and competitive fire. In a world of sports that values “winning at all costs” and “a never quit attitude,” Clark’s response reflects the masculinist orientation of sports culture.  This is why Coach Mike Tomlin’s decision to hold Clark out of the game, and his unwillingness to ask his players to do anything he wouldn’t feel comfortable asking his children to do, is one worth celebrating.  It challenges the culture of masculinity and the ways in which a football culture puts victories and a particular vision of masculinity ahead of everything else.

What has also been striking in the media coverage of Clark’s situation is the absence of any discussion of sickle cell/sickle cell trait in relationship to African Americans.  There is a missed opportunity here to differentiate between the trait and disease; Clark has the trait and not the disease.  While some articles discussed the medical science related to sickle-cell and how it put him at risk in high altitude settings, with most treating his inability to play as another sports-related “injury story,” there is bigger story here as it relates to sickle cell and African Americans.  

This erasure fits with a larger history whereupon the health issues faced by people of color are rendered invisible.   Writing about the Black Panther Party and its efforts “to raise public consciousness about sickle cell anemia,”  Alondra Nelson states in Body and Soul: The Black Panther Party and the Fight against Medical Discrimination. “The condition became a rallying cry for other representatives of the black community.”    The media missed an opportunity to highlight how this disease disproportionately impacts African Americans.  In the United States, 1 in 12 African Americans carries the sickle cell trait (1 in 500 have the disease). 

The missed opportunity reflects an overall failure to acknowledge the ways in which sickle cell disproportionately impacts African Americans.  As Imani Perry told me, “Being at higher risk, because one belongs to a particular ethnic group, has to be distinguished from the idea that the disease is actually a consequence of race, which is a social construct” notes the Professor of African American Studies at Princeton University, “Some diseases are more likely to be found in particular ethnic or racial groups, but that may be a product of environmental conditions or history rather than some genetics that correlate to what we call race.” 

While race is a social construction, with zero biological imperative, this disease effects African Americans in devastating ways.  In “Dying in the City of the Blues: Sickle Cell Anemia and the Politics of Race and Health,” Keith Wailoo argues that “history of sickle cell anemia in the United States,” is a story of “transformation from an ‘invisible’ malady to a powerful, yet contested, cultural symbol of African American pain and suffering.”

Ryan Clark’s situation was an opportunity to highlight and encourage public awareness in an effort to address this inequality.  Likewise, it provided an opportunity to illustrate the ways in which race is a social and political construction while elucidating the relationship between sickle cell and African Americans.  As with the 1970s that saw not only an increased awareness regarding the impact of sickle cell on African Americans but financial support for targeted treatment of health disparities, instances like Ryan Clark highlight such opportunities. 

According to James Braxton Peterson, associate professor and director of Africana Studies at Lehigh University:

Clark's presentation of the sickle cell trait is a painful reminder of the ways in which genetic predisposition to disease (and broader distinctions in health and health care along racial lines) continue to remain absent from health care discourses. The subject has become taboo because it runs counter to post-racial fantasies of colorblindness or what I like to call - just plain old blindness. That Clark's condition is manifest on the "level" playing field of a football stadium puts into bold relief the ways in which blindness in health care - whether its the gender lag that attaches to breast cancer research resources or the racial/class lag of diseases like sickle cell anemia -- results in the same diminished care as a direct result of social ignorance and the biased distribution of health care resources.

The NFL should take a lesson from Tomlin and Clark, putting the health of the PEOPLE who play the game ahead of anything else.  Likewise, the nation should take a lesson from Tomlin and Clark, putting the health of PEOPLE ahead of anything else, addressing the issue of sickle cell with greater concern and attention. 

***

David J. Leonard is Associate Professor in the Department of Critical Culture, Gender and Race Studies at Washington State University, Pullman. He has written on sport, video games, film, and social movements, appearing in both popular and academic mediums. His work explores the political economy of popular culture, examining the interplay between racism, state violence, and popular representations through contextual, textual, and subtextual analysis.  Leonard’s latest book After Artest: Race and the Assault on Blackness will be published by SUNY Press in May of 2012.

 

Madam Prezident:

1 Little White girl

VS

3 Little Black Girls

 

January 5, 2012 By Madam Prezident 23 Comments

I’m a 25 year old woman without any children, so I don’t know all the details to parenting. However there is something wrong with this picture (video) below. I know many young women aspire to be the next Amber Rose-who admitted being a 15 year old stripper, and of course young women and even adults aspire to be Kim Kardashian-whose fame was elevated by a sex tape!

For young women being a HO’fessional has taken the place of aiming to be a doctor in America. A perfect world does not exist; however there comes a time where African Americans must realize that they are no longer chained- Metaphorically speaking.

A week ago-A 3 year old white girl met Diane Sawyer on good morning America because of her ability to distinguish between gender stereotypical and non-stereotypical advertising for kids.

The little girl was phenomenal and on the other side of the world you have a group of African Americans video-taping their daughters mimicking BET’s UNCUT! 20 years from now-Who will be on top?

Madam Prezident

 

Little White Girl

 

Little Black Girls

 

The shot that nearly killed me:

War photographers

– a special report

 

Attacked by a Haitian mob, kidnapped by Gaddafi's troops, shot in Afghanistan… Who'd be a war photographer?

• In pictures: the life of a war photographer (contains some graphic images)

• The Guardian, Friday 17 June 2011
• Article history

Adam Ferguson, Afghanistan, 2009

Adam Ferguson: 'As a photographer, you feel helpless. Around you are medics, security personnel, people doing good work. It can be agonisingly painful to think that all you're doing is taking pictures.' Photograph: Adam Ferguson/VII Network

I was one of the first on the scene. The Afghan security forces normally shut down a suicide bombing like this pretty quickly. I was able to get to the epicentre of the explosion. It was carnage, there were bodies, flames were coming out of the buildings. I remember feeling very scared because there was still popping and hissing and small explosions, and the building was collapsing. It was still very fresh and there was a risk of another bomb. It was one of those situations where you have to put fear aside and focus on the job at hand: to watch the situation and document it.

This woman was escorted out of the building and round this devastated street corner. It epitomised the whole mood – this older woman caught in the middle of this ridiculous, tragic event. I wish I could have found out how her life unravelled, but as soon as the scene was locked down, I ran back to the office to file.

As a photographer, you feel helpless. Around you are medics, security personnel, people doing good work. It can be agonisingly painful to think that all you're doing is taking pictures.

When I won a World Press award for this photograph, I felt sad. People were congratulating me and there was a celebration over this intense tragedy that I had captured. I reconciled it by deciding that more people see a story when a photographer's work is decorated.

Alvaro Ybarra Zavala, Congo, November 2008

Alvaro Ybarra Zavala: 'Years after i took this picture, every time I see it I feel scared again.' Photograph: Alvaro Ybarra Zavala/Getty

The situation was very tense – people were drunk and aggressive. I was with two other photographers most of the time, but at this moment I went back to the road alone. I saw three soldiers smoking, playing with their guns, and felt safe – I don't know why. Then I saw a man with a knife in his mouth, coming out of the bush – he was holding up a hand like a trophy. The soldiers started laughing and firing in the air. I didn't think about it and began shooting. He walked directly at me. People surrounded us, celebrating. I thought, "Don't do anything crazy, just act like you're part of this crazy party."

When I got to the hotel, I showed the other photographers. They said, "Do you realise you could have been killed?" Only then did it hit me how dangerous it had been. Years after I took this picture, every time I see it I feel scared again.

I really hate this shot. It's the worst face of humankind. I always ask myself, "Why do I do this job?' And the answer is: I want to show the best and worst face of humankind. Every time you go to a conflict, you see the worst. We need to see what we do to be able to show future generations the mistakes we make. The guy with the knife in his mouth is a human being like the rest of us. What's important is that we show what human beings are capable of. The day I don't do that with my photography is the day I'll give up and open a restaurant.

 

Lynsey Addario, Libya, March 2011

Lynsey Addario: 'They made us lie in the dirt, put guns to us. We were pleading for our lives.' Photograph: Lynsey Addario/VII Network

I had been in Libya for just over two weeks, shooting the insurgency. Pictures like this, of inexperienced rebels being fired on by machine guns and mortars. On 15 March, myself and three other journalists were captured by Gaddafi's troops. They made us lie in the dirt, put guns to us. We were pleading for our lives. They started groping me very aggressively, touching my breasts and butt. Then we were tied up, blindfolded and moved from place to place for six days.

The first three days were very violent – I was punched in the face several times, groped nonstop. At that point, it was hard to justify why I put myself in that situation. When our captors left us alone, we spoke about what we'd do if we got out. I said I'd probably have to get pregnant because I've put my husband through a lot – I was kidnapped in Fallujah in 2004, and I was in a car that flipped just months before our wedding. Some of us contemplated whether we wanted to continue covering conflicts; whether it was worth the hardships we put our families through.

When we got out, I felt surprisingly OK. We'd survived – when you survive, this job is always worth the risk. Then a few weeks later Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros were killed in Misrata, which sent me into a tailspin. This job takes a lot of skill, but a lot of it is luck. When friends die, you wonder if it's worth the price.

 

João Silva, Afghanistan, October 2010

João Silva: 'As the soldiers dragged me away from the kill zone, I took these pictures. When people around me have been hurt or killed, I've recorded it. I had to keep working.' Photograph: João Silva/The New York Times

I'd been in Afghanistan for a month when I stepped on the landmine. I was the third man in line, and as I put my foot down, I heard a metallic click and I was thrown in the air. I knew exactly what had happened. As the soldiers dragged me away from the kill zone, I took these pictures. When people around me have been hurt or killed, I've recorded it. I had to keep working. The soldiers were yelling for the medics. I knew my legs had gone, so I called my wife on the satellite phone and told her not to worry. The pain came later, back in intensive care, when infections set in and they nearly lost me a couple of times.

I've spent enough time out there for my number to come up. I was one of the few who kept going back to Iraq. People think you do this to chase adrenaline. The reality is hard work and a lot of time alone. Firefights can be exciting, I'm not going to lie, but photographing the aftermath of a bomb, when there's a dead child and the mother wailing over the corpse, isn't fun. I'm intruding on the most intimate moments, but I force myself to do it because the world has to see those images. Politicians need to know what it looks like when you send young boys to war. If it's humanly possible, if the prosthetics allow me, I'll go back to conflict zones. I wish I was in Libya at the moment, without a shadow of a doubt.

 

Tom Stoddart, Sarajevo, 1992

Tom Stoddart: 'Sarajevo was the most dangerous place I have worked on a long-term basis. But I could leave. The occupants of the city could not.' Photograph: Tom Stoddart/Getty Images

I'm not really interested in military bang-bang pictures; I'm interested in documenting people living through war. Sniper Alley, where this was taken, paralysed Sarajevo. To get from one side to the other, the residents had to pass through this intersection and Serbian snipers would take shots at them. Bullets pinged past the entire time. Some people would sprint as fast as they could; others would brazenly walk, as if they were giving two fingers. Many were killed. Anyone who says they aren't frightened during war is either lying or a fool. It's about finding a way of dealing with the fear – you have to be very calm. You're not there to get your rocks off; you're there because you feel your pictures can make a difference. Sarajevo was the most dangerous place I have worked on a long-term basis. But I could leave. The occupants of Sarajevo couldn't. That was one of the strange things about covering it – it was so close to London. You could be back at Heathrow in a couple of hours. People would pass carrying skis, or off to the Caribbean, and you'd feel like screaming, "Why don't you understand?" You become a terrible dinner guest.

 

Greg Marinovich, Soweto, 1990

Greg Marinovich: ' "No pictures," someone yelled. I told them I'd stop shooting if they stopped killing him. They didn't.' Photograph: Greg Marinovich/Storytaxi.com

I was deep in Soweto when I saw a man being attacked by ANC combatants. The month before, I'd seen a guy beaten to death – my first experience of real violence – and hadn't shaken the feeling of guilt that I had done nothing to stop it. "No pictures," someone yelled. I told them I'd stop shooting if they stopped killing him. They didn't. As the man was set on fire, he began to run. I was framing my next shot when a bare-chested man came into view and swung a machete into his blazing skull. I tried not to smell the burning flesh and shot a few more pictures, but I was losing it and aware that the crowd could turn on me at any time. The victim was moaning in a low, dreadful voice as I left. I got in my car and, once I turned the corner, began to scream. You're not just a journalist or a human being, you're a mixture of both, and to try to separate the two is complicated. I've often felt guilty about my pictures. I worked in South Africa for years and was shot three times. The fourth and final injury, in Afghanistan in 1999, wasn't the worst, but I decided enough was enough. I was looking to settle. Nineteen months later, I met my wife.

 

Gary Knight, Iraq, April 2003

Gary Knight: 'My stress is nothing compared with civilians and soldiers. I remind myself of that all the time. I don't have to be there – they don't have the choice.' Photograph: Gary Knight/VII

This was at the start of the invasion. We were at the Diyala Bridge, which had to be taken by the marines so they could get into Baghdad. They were the lead battalion, the ones who went on to pull down the statue of Saddam. The opposition were shelling us. It was terrifying – both the actual shelling, and the anticipation of it. It comes in waves so you can see it moving in your direction. One had exploded in the tank. If it had landed on top or a couple of feet over, I would have died. Your instinct is to bury yourself, but you can't. You're there to do a job. The point is to get the news out. If you keep moving, you can manage the fear. And my stress is nothing compared with civilians and soldiers. I remind myself of that all the time. I don't have to be there – they don't have the choice.

My wife and children were very much on my mind because the danger was so extreme. You cannot separate the rest of your life and I've tried not to control how much I think about them. Sometimes they have been constantly in my head, sometimes I have not thought about them at all.

 

Shaul Schwarz, Haiti, February 2004

Saul Schwarz: 'I had blood on me, brains. I was crying, shaking. I ran to the car horrified. I was a mess.' Photograph: Shaul Schwarz/Getty

Port au Prince was falling. It was riotous, with widespread looting. A group of us had gone to the port. The thugs with guns didn't want us there. We snapped from the waist, trying not to make it obvious. We decided to go over the wall. One thug offered me "protection". As we jumped the wall, I saw this boy, and was like, "This is what it's come to." It was my first digital assignment and I was amazed to be able to look at my shots. I did for a second; when I looked up, everyone had run off. It was just me and the thug. It was like a dog that smells fear. He began pushing and threatening me. Then I was surrounded. One of them hit me. I had a few dollar bills in my trousers, and put my hand there. They began tearing at me, fighting over the bills. I waited 30 seconds, started to walk away, then ran and scaled the fence. On the other side, I tried to breathe.

I began shooting one guy a metre away. He screamed and pulled a shotgun. I saw the barrel, then he shot the man next to me – I had blood on me, brains. I was crying, shaking. I ran to the car horrified; I was a mess. I love Haiti, but every time I pass the port, I carry some of that fear.

 

Eric Bouvet, Chechnya, May 1995

'You see movies, you read books, you can imagine anything. But when you are in front of something, it's not like the movies.' Photograph: Eric Bouvet/VII Network

It was unbearable. Two crazy weeks and the most unbelievable story I ever did. I was with a Russian special commando. They were torturing, killing and raping. I saw them do it, and I couldn't stop them. Someone of a normal constitution can't accept that. I was working on the edge.

This is the morning after a night that left four men dead and 10 wounded. It was heavy fighting, and I was very afraid. I discovered a dead Chechen four metres from me when I got up in the night. You see movies, you read books, you can imagine anything. But when you are in front of something, it's not like the movies. We started out as 60 and came back 30 – one in two people injured or killed. I was lucky.

As soon as it was light, I took pictures. This is the first thing I saw. The guy with the bandage on his head has lost his friends. He has fought all night long. I don't feel pity, but at the same time they took me with them and did everything to protect me. Without them, I couldn't have done the story. I was the only witness. It's very complicated.

 

Mads Nissen, Libya, February 2011

Mads Nissen: 'Suddenly this guy jumped on the the tank. I'm not that interested in pictures of tanks burning – I'm interested in people. I had wanted to capture the sense of release that everyone had, and this became the shot.' Photograph: Mads Nissen/Berlingske/Panos Pictures

I got into Ajdabiya shortly after its fall. The rebels had just moved in and the locals were going crazy, shooting in the air. Bodies of pro-Gaddafi soldiers were lying around, beginning to stink as the sun got higher. The fire from the tank was incredibly strong and I was worried it might explode at any moment. Suddenly this guy jumped on to it. I'm not that interested in pictures of tanks burning – I'm interested in people. I had wanted to capture the sense of release that everyone had and suddenly this became the shot. I got as close as possible, within metres, and started shooting, counting to five in my head. Then I got out. I had seen corpses, torn apart, in the morgue and didn't want to end up like that. I took a chance – I had to; that was why I was there, to tell the story – but I made sure I wasn't too greedy.

 

Adam Dean, Pakistan, December 2007

Adam Dean: 'I'd never seen a dead body before. It was almost like a test to see if I had what I needed for this job.' Photograph: Adam Dean/Panos Pictures

I was very much a novice when I took this. I'd just finished a master's in photojournalism and thought I'd go to Pakistan to cover the elections. An attempt had been made on Bhutto's life two months earlier, so there was already a certain degree of risk.

I was about 15 metres away, photographing Bhutto, when there was a burst of gunfire followed by an explosion. I had a split-second decision to risk a secondary blast (as had happened in October) or start running with the crowd. I was panicking, trying to fight the urge to leave. I'd never seen a dead body before. It was almost like a test, to see if I had what I needed for this job.

As I approached the aftermath of the bomb, I struggled to compose myself. I was terrified and sickened, but kept telling myself just to concentrate and get it done so I could leave. I knew I had to frame the pictures so they weren't too graphic. The epicentre of the explosion was a pile of maybe a dozen limbless, charred, mangled bodies in pools of blood. This was one of the times I was most in danger, but there have been times in Afghanistan where I have felt more scared. This was over in seconds, but a firefight can go on for hours. The real worry is IEDs, though – when you go on patrol, every step could be your last. I'm 33 and I'm not sure I'd want to put myself in such risky situations when I'm older and perhaps have other people to consider.

 

John D McHugh, Afghanistan, May 2007

John D McHugh: 'We ran behind a Humvee… by that point I'd accepted that I was going to get shot – there were so many bullets in the air, it sounded like a swarm of bees.' Photograph: John D McHugh/Getty Images

This is the last picture I took before I got shot. I'd been embedded with US troops in Nuristan for five weeks when we went to help a unit that had been ambushed nearby. There were bodies on the road, dead and dying. Taliban started shooting down on us from the mountains. I jumped behind a rock. I could hear bullets hitting it, and thought, "Oh fuck, oh fuck."

We ran behind a Humvee, but now we were being fired on from both sides. By that point I'd accepted that I was going to get shot. There were so many bullets in the air, it sounded like a swarm of bees. They had us pinned down and a sniper was picking people off one by one.

The bullet went through my ribs and out of my lower back. It felt as if I'd been punched. I fell to my knees, but managed to get behind another rock. The entry wound was the size of a penny; the exit bigger than the palm of my hand. The pain was overwhelming. I was convinced I was going to die and felt angry with myself. Then I started worrying that I might live but end up paralysed. Maybe I was better off dead? My mind refocused and I thought, "No, fuck that!"

It was 25 minutes before anybody could get to me. My cameras were on the ground, and as they grabbed me I had to lean down and pick them up. When we got to the local base, a medic said, "Hell, I can see right through you." As soon as I knew that I'd recover, I told my girlfriend I was going to go back out. The work I do is important and also, if I hadn't, it would mean I'd never really understood the risks in the first place.

I love my job but getting shot made me think about life beyond work. I proposed to my girlfriend two months later, and we had a baby last year.

 

Marco di Lauro, Iraq, November 2004

Marco Di Lauro: 'I'm 40 now, and a lot has changed in the risks I'm prepared to take. When you're younger, you're immortal.' Photograph: Marco Di Lauro/Getty Images

This photograph was the most dangerous moment in my career. I was with two marines trying to get into this house. The first marine knocked down the door and the guy that you see in the image threw a grenade at him – the dust is from the explosion. Being behind the wall at the side of the front door saved me.The second marine entered the room and shot the Iraqi dead. I was the third person in the room and I took this picture.

I started when I was 28. I'm 40 now, and a lot has changed in the risks I'm prepared to take. When you're younger, you're immortal. Three days into my first assignment, I was photographing between two lines of people shooting at each other in Kosovo. I'm more scared now, more aware of the risks. I've lost a lot of friends and colleagues – two of them very recently. I'll keep doing the job I do but I'll be more careful.

 

John Stanmeyer, East Timor, August 1999

John Stanmeyer: 'The military turned their guns on him , and as her started to run they grabbed him and kicked him. Moments later, he was lying in a 20ft stream of blood. The military were very unhappy with the pictures afterwards.' Photograph: John Stanmeyer/VII

There were numerous firefights going on between the pro-Timorese Aitarak and the Indonesian militia, so I just ran. A bullet went right by my ear, moving my hair. It was fate that my head was tilted to the right, otherwise I wouldn't be here today.

Within minutes of nearly being killed, I came across pro-East Timorese independence supporter Joaquim Bernardino Guterres. The military turned their guns on him, and as he started to run they grabbed him and kicked him. Moments later he was lying in a 20ft stream of blood. The military were very unhappy with the pictures afterwards.

I don't think about the risk to myself, as I probably should. While I was out in Afghanistan, my wife had a miscarriage and she equated it to my being away. That was pretty dreadful, but she's a writer and understands why I do this. We've been to Sudan together, we've been ambushed, we've been in lots of nutty situations.

 

Ashley Gilbertson, Iraq, 2004

Ashley Gilbertson: 'Sometimes you look at images of war, and they're like a Hollywood producer's vision of what war is supposed to look like. There are very few pictures where you get a feel for how awful it is, how desperate and urgent.' Photograph: Ashley Gilbertson/VII Network

It was one of the most intense experiences I've ever had. I was with a lead unit of marines, and we received a triple ambush from the insurgents. I'd just run across a street with 40 marines to take shelter in an Islamic cultural centre, with bullets whizzing past my face. I thought, if I'm going to die right now, I might as well be working. I was in so much shock. It was a wake-up call to how violent it was going to be.

The guy in the photo is shouting, "Don't take my fucking picture!" Sometimes, you look at images of war, and they're like a Hollywood producer's vision of what war is supposed to look like. There are very few pictures where you get a feel for how fucking awful it is, how desperate and urgent. I like that it's not a clean picture, that it's not well composed and you can't see everything that's happening. That's part of it. It's so messy. It's the closest I've come to capturing the chaos of combat.

 

Ron Haviv, Bosnia, 1992

Ron Haviv: 'I was shaking when I took the shot. None of them was looking at me, so I lifted my camera, just trying to get them in frame. When I put it down, they looked over. They didn't realise I'd taken photos.' Photograph: Ron Haviv/VII

These are the Serbian warlord Arkan's men. They've just executed these Muslim civilians – a butcher, his wife and sister-in-law; the start of what became known as ethnic cleansing.

I had taken a photograph of Arkan with a baby tiger, which he'd liked, and he'd agreed for me to travel with his troops to photograph his "mission". The soliders were yelling at me not to shoot, but I'd promised myself I'd come out of this with an image to prove what was happening.

I was shaking when I took this shot. None of them was looking at me so I lifted my camera, just trying to get them in frame. When I put it down, they looked over. They didn't realise I'd taken photos.

Later, Arkan caught me photographing another execution and said he'd process my film and keep the ones he didn't like. I'd hidden the film from earlier in the day in my pocket and figured that if I fought hard enough for the film in my camera, he wouldn't search me.

When the pictures were published not long after, Arkan said in an interview, "I look forward to the day I can drink his blood." He put me on a death list, and I spent the next eight years trying to avoid him. Eventually, these images were used to indict him at The Hague.

 

Julie Jacobson, Afghanistan, August 2009

Julie Jacobson: 'The media ground rule was that you couldn't photograph a military casualty in a way that they could be identified… Making that decision was a public act. I got a lot of flak.' Photograph: Julie Jacobson/AP

We were hiding from Taliban gunfire, when there was this explosion. Afterwards, I saw [Lance Corporal Joshua M] Bernard – one of his legs was blown off and the other was barely there. He'd suffered a direct hit from an RPG [rocket-propelled grenade]. The media ground rule was that you couldn't photograph a military casualty in a way that they could be identified, but I could see Bernard's hand reach out to his weapon, his face turned to me. So I shot nine frames over two and a half minutes.

Making that decision was a public act. I got a lot of flak. Bernard later died, and people said that I didn't give him dignity, that I should have helped him. But I couldn't help him. For me to turn my back, that's disrespectful.

Ami Vitale, Gaza, October 2000

Ami Vitale: 'I was terrified, and thought, "This is it, I am going to die." Suddenly I understood a mob. There's no thinking, just passion.' Photograph: Ami Vitale/Panos Pictures

I was photographing a funeral, and having spent most of the day with the women, I went to see the body being taken in. A man in the procession started screaming, "CIA agent" and pointing at me. I was surrounded by hundreds of angry men, screaming in my face, grabbing me. I was terrified, and thought, "This is it. I am going to die." Suddenly I understood a mob. There's no thinking, just passion.

A woman I'd spent the day with managed to pull me away. When I got home, I sat and cried and cried – she had saved my life. I stayed on in Palestine, but was much more cautious after that; have been ever since. That moment changed my perspective. No picture is worth it.

Author Elizabeth Dowling Taylor tells the story of Paul Jennings, who served as one of James Madison's slaves and ultimately purchased his own freedom.

Black Star:

"You Already Knew"

& "Little Brother"

(Live On Fallon) (Video)

 

January 4, 2012 · by Andrew Martin

 

 Photo Credit: John Smith

 

Hip-hop heads were treated to one hell of a musical gift on last night's episode of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. Black Star, aka Yasiin Bey and Talib Kweli, stopped by the set to perform not one but two tracks with the Roots. First, they ripped through "You Already Knew," an uber-soulful joint off their upcoming Aretha Franklin tribute mixtape. What came next, though, was the true treat. Black Star tackled the J Dilla-produced "Little Brother," off The Hurricane soundtrack, as a tribute to the late producer. You can watch both performances below. Don't be surprised if you end up checkin' 'em twice. I know I did. [MWP]

"You Already Knew"

"Little Brother"

This Robert Glasper Experiment,

Musiq Soulchild

& Chrisette Michele

Will Make You Say 'Aw Yeah'

 

SoulUK  |  01/05/2012 

 

So this is the third track from Robert Glasper Experiment's Black Radio to hit the interwebs in as many days (after this and this). These official and unofficial "leaks" are definitely building a serious buzz around the project, which is turning out to be the album on the top of everyone's February 28th shopping lists. "Ah Yeah" is the official first single from the album and sees Glasper teaming up with SoulBounce favorites Musiq Soulchild and Chrisette Michele on a thought-provoking romantic ballad. Both Musiq and Chrisette's most recent projects were a little sketchy -- at least in my opinion -- but "Ah Yeah" showcases what they can do when they have quality music and production behind them. The track originally started off as a Musiq solo, but when Glasper ran into Chrisette after her plane had been delayed he got her in the studio and this duet was born. Give it a spin, and then go pick it up from Amazon to tide you over until Black Radio is unleashed.

Robert Glasper Experiment feat. Musiq Soulchild & Chrisette Michele: "Ah Yeah" [Amazon]

  

The American Poetry Journal

Book Prize

 

Guidelines & Information for 2012

 

The postmark deadline for entries to the 2012 The American Poetry Journal Book Prize is February 29, 2012. To enter, submit 50-65 paginated pages of poetry, table of contents, acknowledgments, bio, email address for results (No SASEs; manuscripts will be recycled), and a $27.00 non-refundable fee for each manuscript entered. The winner will receive $1000, publication, and 20 copies. All entries will be considered for publication. All styles are welcome. Multiple submissions are acceptable. Simultaneous submissions are acceptable, but if your manuscript is accepted for publication elsewhere you must notify The American Poetry Journal and/or Dream Horse Press immediately. Fees are non-refundable. Judging will be anonymous; writers' names should not appear anywhere on the manuscript. Please include your name and biographical information in a separate cover letter. Please be sure to include your email address.  The winner is chosen by the editor of The American Poetry Journal, J.P. Dancing Bear.  Close friends, students (former or present), and relatives of the the editor are NOT eligible for the contest; their entry fees will be refunded.

The American Poetry Journal Book Prize entries may be sent, following the guidelines above, to:

The American Poetry Journal book prize
P. O. Box 2080
Aptos, California 95001-2080

Please make checks payable to: Dream Horse Press.

Or, you can now submit your manuscript in email, save on postage, paper, envelopes AND MONEY (reduced entry fee) by paying online: