Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.224.33.235
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
One time a barefooted pickney dancing on the street
I beat puhn pan an' wanda how life could be sweet
For my yai quadrilled to distant cling-cling roost and feel
A longing to change their parliament in my zeal
           I climb down my Martha Brae to ancient salt of sea
           And scoured the land in spate in search of jubilee
           The river flows winding and make twist and turn
           Make me conform to the land, and more my hunger yearn

I quadrille like pitcherie from logwood to gaungo tree
I read Tom Redcam, but it was Flameheart that captured me
Dancing for tourist on the pivotal syllable of history
O you betta know how my river flow, know this legacy
           River say RIP Martha Brae man, river come for you
           Big hungry belly, dutty river, bway, it hungry for true
           Lift me up to London Tower, keep my head and power
           Watch me river rise and bring the mountain lower

Keep this legacy in memory, black child come to history-mumma
Ponder awhile the mento man playing for my mother's children
On the tourist boulevard, feel the futility like a dime in the liver
Fenced out by taboos and laws, my yai pining after that heaven
           I learn to build my house behind zinc fence, brick by brick
           Out of the social memory, out of the oral sand. The trick
           Was the forbidden thing, the thing the enemy I did know
           Feared I would find, and finding my pearl I would glow.

O did you see me dance that joy, it was so almost heaven
I kumina, I rastaman, I poco bway, from mento to reggae
Making new edifice out of the forbidden and almost forgotten
I rising red in spate carrying in my gut the Martha Brae
          Where was my Ebenezer, meagre dawg tief mi bone
          What shall I do with eloquence when hungry belly on the throne
          Tell them it is not so, this Rex Nettleford is not dead
          Tell the them this native son sleeps in the river bed

Tell them I taught you your first poem when poem was silent
When stare at the Carib theatre like a Naboth's garden
Because it was ours, but who were but the ascribed sediment
Our names were the excuse for things done in heaven
          But our lives were hell with no vision, no racial pride
          And so from canefields to rum bars we staggered, we cried
          But every river begins in a meagre foot poem first
          Watch it swell, rain come down, and thunderhead burst
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required