Clave
Yes, that groove tells much to all
that hear.
Far "Africk", captive, yet free,
sent cross the seas such rhythms that
stirred great music for a world
that still doubts black genius.
Polyrhythmic sounds,
beats that are heard beyond
the range, breadth, heart, soul,
of the sad middle passage,
forbidden a drum, preserved with
a tapping foot, a stick and a floor,
an acapella song.
Each beat calling back a life lost,
a heart stopped,
in a three century diaspora,
You can't forgive the blood shed,
pain caused,
yet all move in awe
at the drum heads
perpetual testimony.
Copyright © Ahellas Alixopulos | Year Posted 2008
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment