#10 of Maafa Cycle
Whippin’
Here is this flesh
Wrapped around wood
Hands lashed together
Heart pounding
Mind clasped tight around fear
Waiting for breath, while breathing
Waiting for the promised beating
The beating promised to my too dark flesh upon birth.
Waiting for the twisted hide of an animal to launch through the air and past
The speed of sound
Crack
Wildly through the air, land as deftly across the flesh of my back
Split like overripe cherries in summer heat
Breath stops, eyes bulge, arms arch against unheard of pain, every muscle contracts
Before breath can be found
Crack.
New split skin and tears stream down my face, never mind that I am a woman, never mind that I have borne children who work this land,
Never mind that I have given my body to pleasure the man who sold away my love
Never mind
The blood and sweat rolling down my back, never mind
The fire in my lungs
Never mind that my lips can’t even shape the question my mind screams
Never mind.
All rights reserved © 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
#9 of Maafa Cycle
Did you here that?
Did you hear that? Did you hear that?
Sounded like a link in a chain falling.
Did you hear that? Sounded like the first time – Nigger came flying from 4 year old pale white face pink lips.
Did you hear that? I Swear I heard something when I first learned the direction the Nile flowed, and found Kilimanjaro on the map.
Did you hear that?
Martin and Malcolm talked, and called their wives at night. And, read and learned and became definers.
So defined that they are studied and made studies. Did you hear that?
Not even the bullets blasts have taken them from us. No it has not been the bullets blasts but it has been our absence and our willingness to media, to mainstream, to celebrity our memory. We lost them before we found ourselves.
Before we found ourselves we ran to white picket fence streets and forgot our own. Before we took care, to take care, it was taken.
And when we cried foul, we found that it was not a new trick but an old.
The same tool of colony had taken us again. But then instead of losing country and language, history and family, faith and healing, we lost all those who survived the chains.
Big Momma and Old Uncle, Grandpa and Auntie, we lost knowing just how much God has done, we lost witness, and cried foul but it was too late,
new chains had already been prepared.
But this too was not new, these chains were the same chains as used on the first Americans. Chemical chains, wrapped up nice,
yellow diamonds in a dealers pocket.
The dealers,
Worshippers of the money God. They filled the necessary criteria. They volunteered to be the scapegoat who made the people the lamb.
But
the chain was not complete until the last link was added.
The children.
Once the children were raising children,
and once the children would not read, once the children were given to those who refuse to know and who swallow stoneguilt down throats of glass, then the last link was formed.
Here, American.
You piece of Diasporic Afrika.
Here - we are still dancing, still bobbing and weaving,
still shufflehussle
still adrift
with dulldrum minds in critical mass, we are chained.
Did you hear that?
All rights reserved © 2009
Did you here that?
Did you hear that? Did you hear that?
Sounded like a link in a chain falling.
Did you hear that? Sounded like the first time – Nigger came flying from 4 year old pale white face pink lips.
Did you hear that? I Swear I heard something when I first learned the direction the Nile flowed, and found Kilimanjaro on the map.
Did you hear that?
Martin and Malcolm talked, and called their wives at night. And, read and learned and became definers.
So defined that they are studied and made studies. Did you hear that?
Not even the bullets blasts have taken them from us. No it has not been the bullets blasts but it has been our absence and our willingness to media, to mainstream, to celebrity our memory. We lost them before we found ourselves.
Before we found ourselves we ran to white picket fence streets and forgot our own. Before we took care, to take care, it was taken.
And when we cried foul, we found that it was not a new trick but an old.
The same tool of colony had taken us again. But then instead of losing country and language, history and family, faith and healing, we lost all those who survived the chains.
Big Momma and Old Uncle, Grandpa and Auntie, we lost knowing just how much God has done, we lost witness, and cried foul but it was too late,
new chains had already been prepared.
But this too was not new, these chains were the same chains as used on the first Americans. Chemical chains, wrapped up nice,
yellow diamonds in a dealers pocket.
The dealers,
Worshippers of the money God. They filled the necessary criteria. They volunteered to be the scapegoat who made the people the lamb.
But
the chain was not complete until the last link was added.
The children.
Once the children were raising children,
and once the children would not read, once the children were given to those who refuse to know and who swallow stoneguilt down throats of glass, then the last link was formed.
Here, American.
You piece of Diasporic Afrika.
Here - we are still dancing, still bobbing and weaving,
still shufflehussle
still adrift
with dulldrum minds in critical mass, we are chained.
Did you hear that?
All rights reserved © 2009
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Embrace - #8/30 for Naprowrimo
#8/30 not Maafa
Embrace
Fingers against fingers. My fingers, someone’s hand.
Fingers touch wrist and I roll to the side. Face against face and
Embrace
Fingers against fingers. My fingers, someone’s hand.
Fingers touch wrist and I roll to the side. Face against face and
I smile.
Hands in hair and fingers twist gently ‘round hibiscus locs, nose nuzzles ear.
I’m kissed.
Lips touch lips. Softly, gently, gracefully dance. Nose breaths in sandalwood and cedar on warm skin.
He is treasure.
All rights reserved © 2009
Man - #7/30 of Maafa Cycle
#7/30 of the Maafa cycle
Man
Man for sale.
Man for sale.
One man, black man.
One good negro man.
For Sale.
Never run away, talks good, strong back.
Clean back.
Good teeth.
One negro
For sale. One negro buck. Four strong
Boys, good negros too. All good pickninnies, work hard
Too.
500 dollars will buy you this negro. One strong rice negro.
Work all day and never talk back. Work all
Day, no doubt. Buy this Negro, never look back.
Negro for sale.
Negro for sale.
All Rights Reserved ©2009
Man
Man for sale.
Man for sale.
One man, black man.
One good negro man.
For Sale.
Never run away, talks good, strong back.
Clean back.
Good teeth.
One negro
For sale. One negro buck. Four strong
Boys, good negros too. All good pickninnies, work hard
Too.
500 dollars will buy you this negro. One strong rice negro.
Work all day and never talk back. Work all
Day, no doubt. Buy this Negro, never look back.
Negro for sale.
Negro for sale.
All Rights Reserved ©2009
Sunday, April 05, 2009
#5 of Maafa Cycle: Atone
#5 of Maafa Cycle
Atone
Atone
Here is this skin – this black skin.
Here is this body – covered by this black skin.
Here is this soul - full of light and promise.
Here is this world – that looks upon this black skin and calls it secondary.
Here is this earth – the blackest soil reaps the most abundant crop-
Here is the sun- that waits upon this skin.
Here is the world – that buys, sells, rapes, kills this flesh
Here is this soul – made stronger or broken.
Here is this world – that calls this flesh an abomination.
Here is the blood- spilled for gold, sugar, tea, coffee, cotton.
Here is the foot – with steps cut short for trying.
Here are the hands – chapped and bleeding from reaching.
Here is the womb – soured by anger.
Here is this god – who gives his son a copper hue.
Here is this body – that bends so as not to break.
Here is this soul - eternal and connected.
Here is this world – willing to lie to steal the soul from the skin.
Here is the body – Atone.
All Rights Reserved © 2009
LINK TO VIDEO PERFORMANCE
Friday, April 03, 2009
18" 1/30 of Maafa Cycle
#1 of Maafa Cycle
18”
18”
18 inches in which to sleep, eat, drink,
Die
Give birth, relieve myself
18 inches – but then the boat shifts and
There is 12 and then none
Between the next person and myself
And the wood upon which my back
First rested attacks my skin and fed up with it -
Feeds upon it. Sucking in my flesh
My Flesh becomes and melts into the wood. Is this
My burial slat?
And the smell – the smell
Once human, now is animal.
There were children on this vessel but
They are gone – gone tossed over, over, over,
The edge of the boat – most went the first
Chance their mothers had to set them free.
And the little ones – once they found rest
In the ocean buoyed up by the salt for a short time- before they sank – after the
Terror left their little eyes- before they were swallowed by forever – after their arms and legs stopped trying – before the waves
Succeeded and pulled them under – after eyes and skin resembled more that of a seal’s than a human child –
--The Sharks
---The sharks growing fat off of the sick and small,
-----The sharks that nipped at each other and swallowed men whole…
The sharks that lived off the flesh of the dying and desolate and lived in the waves cast by the vessel, came.
The vessel that would deliver us to a new hell
To be consumed by the mouth of man and into an other belly.
But here, again, in darkness and foul stench
I share my 18 inches.
Partially, submerged in urine, feces, vomit and afterbirth
I struggle to believe – that red exists beyond blood, green beyond rot and stench.
I struggle to remember lush hillsides and orchids – the heavenly smell of the plains after the rain has passed.
I pray to any god that will listen. DELIVER ME!
All rights reserved © 2009
Die
Give birth, relieve myself
18 inches – but then the boat shifts and
There is 12 and then none
Between the next person and myself
And the wood upon which my back
First rested attacks my skin and fed up with it -
Feeds upon it. Sucking in my flesh
My Flesh becomes and melts into the wood. Is this
My burial slat?
And the smell – the smell
Once human, now is animal.
There were children on this vessel but
They are gone – gone tossed over, over, over,
The edge of the boat – most went the first
Chance their mothers had to set them free.
And the little ones – once they found rest
In the ocean buoyed up by the salt for a short time- before they sank – after the
Terror left their little eyes- before they were swallowed by forever – after their arms and legs stopped trying – before the waves
Succeeded and pulled them under – after eyes and skin resembled more that of a seal’s than a human child –
--The Sharks
---The sharks growing fat off of the sick and small,
-----The sharks that nipped at each other and swallowed men whole…
The sharks that lived off the flesh of the dying and desolate and lived in the waves cast by the vessel, came.
The vessel that would deliver us to a new hell
To be consumed by the mouth of man and into an other belly.
But here, again, in darkness and foul stench
I share my 18 inches.
Partially, submerged in urine, feces, vomit and afterbirth
I struggle to believe – that red exists beyond blood, green beyond rot and stench.
I struggle to remember lush hillsides and orchids – the heavenly smell of the plains after the rain has passed.
I pray to any god that will listen. DELIVER ME!
All rights reserved © 2009
One more time!
Hello everyone out there in the blogging world! I just want to try this blogging thing one more time. I have decided to do so along with Napowrimo (National poetry month). It is similar to the write a novel in a month writing challenge. I appreciate your feedback. In the months to come I will write more regarding all that is in my view in terms of Afro-American Womanhood. And since my view is limited, I invite your incite. We may not always agree, but communication will hopefully make understanding more powerful.
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