Long Hawkers Poems
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Paternal grandmother's headstone - Beth David, Elmont, Long Island
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.
Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.
Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.
Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.
Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.
Palm Sunday
Shopping and hawking,
purchasing and vending their wares;
the observant noticed;
the indifferent paid no mind;
the powerful perturbed by all the noise
make their way to confront
and charge the man
some call anointed.
Loud and raucous singing
disturbs the quiet of the status quo.
Those who should be seen and not heard
are making the utmost clamor;
appreciated by some;
angering others
insisting they turn the volume down.
Boulders will sing
while trees will give their branches
to welcome the mighty
if the lowliest of participants
are muzzled by the powerful,
but they sing in applause;
an affront to the self-made mighty.
Shaking off the winter greys and
waving springtime green,
a shout welcomes the anointed one.
Thrown off fashion lines the path
covering eager rocks
postponing the clearing of their throats.
Join the cavalcade
and raise the benediction;
awaken the sleeping alleluias
and the slumbering hosannas.
Join the lowest of the low
and applaud the highest of the high.
But beware,
the shoppers are eager to buy,
even if the cost is high.
And the hawkers are ready
to sell their merchandise.
A place in the sun...bright and shining from early morn.
Ebony tones everywhere..colorful garments
lend an air of festivity....hustle and bustle everywhere.
Streets...bands of steel meander through the city
tall buildings ...cast grotesque shadows along the roads
as trees bow in homage to the new day.
People rushing by...insects trapped in an invisible jar
laughing, singing....white teeth flashing.
Aromatic scents of herbs and spices
emanate from side walk cafes to
tease the senses.
Side walk hawkers...fried fish, fried chicken, fried cassava
tittilate the senses... tempt the taste buds.
Taxis rush at a mad pace oblivious to potholes all the way.
Wildlife a-plenty ....... from lions to giraffes
a colorful scene ....a feast to the eyes.
Flamingoes on the lake.. fiery pink compete with brilliant sunsets,
a world seen behind rose tinted shades.
Even the soil.....red as ochre, black as coal, white as the beaches
a variety of colors throughout the land.
Tea and coffee plantations..a delightful view
in a beautiful land , I once knew
where suffering, hardship, joy and laughter
embrace each other,
Traders besides the street
Hawkers of beckoning teeths.
End of progressing wealth.
Over hill and beyond death.
Tarmac of blood tilled with bones,
Hater's abode in varying tone.
Energizing witch-craft and western swiftness,
Retrieving destruction and unGodliness.
Scramble of ambiguity scattered around,
Ink of penury begotten inwardly abound.
Desacrated hope and shattered wills,
Emerging Joy bewitched with venomous pills.
Optimum validation is to their lavished,
Fame and wealth is from their banished.
Living like their is no life,
Incarnation of thriving strife.
Faith fated with frails and fears,
End of Joy-peace,wealth-luxury;all positive pairs.
c.2017
(for: chinua achebe)
Part One
With gaiety and some pump
Forerunners, trumpeters
And the Gala came to us –
Varied voices, many eyes on faces
Swift to see the lapis lazuli
Nature’s gift to a forest:
(Teachers and teachees,
Authors, farmers and traders,
They came with songs;
Scholars and scholees,
Misters, mistresses and villagers,
They came with songs;
Lecturers and lecturees,
Drummers, dancers and clan-leaders,
They came with songs;
Professors and professees,
Pro-chancellors, chancellors and chair-holders,
They came with songs;
Governors and governees,
Business giants, dwarfs and hawkers,
They also came with songs!)
Form:
(This is the image of a semi urban city of India)
The glow of a late Autumn Sunset,
Gleams over the dense city streets.
Rushing wheels and honking horns,
Halt awhile for the traffic signs.
Through the rows of rushing motors,
Men on bikes plough their way.
They squish and squeeze through every gap,
Caring a naught for the traffic rules.
With jarring siren, the Ambulance van,
Speeds past for emergency aid.
The patient inside, in writhing pain,
Lies stressed on every hurdle raced.
Ladies holding children in hands,
And people bent with growing age,
Remain planted at the zebra cross,
Waiting to move to the opposite side.
As the tired people back from work,
Hurry away to reach their homes,
The jovial band in easeful mood,
Treads towards the city parks.
Fortune tellers with their Tarot cards,
Hold their clients in great suspense,
The street hawkers on tiled pavements,
Squat beside their cheap merchandise.
Scores of men who tread on foot,
Grow to Hundreds in a short awhile,
These are folks right from the show,
The Block buster has drawn hoards of men.
When young Dandies in tawdry dress,
Dally round with their ladies love,
Street urchins in tattered clothes,
Go searching in the garbage pile.
While decrepit old beggars lie drowsy,
On the cement benches in wayside shelters,
The affluent Sahibs in plush restaurants,
Feast on their cocktail dinners.
The city thus with its motley crowd,
Paints life in contrast shades,
For Fortune, with her alluring charms,
Favours a few and leaves the rest.
From Sunday to Sunday,
We work hard like the donkeys in sironko;
Moving to and fro like roadside vendors and hawkers.
Like the holy spirit has descended upon as,
The way it was on pentecost,we move up and down all day.
We go to the laboratory from the ward,
From the theater to the morgue,
To the store from the supervisor's office.
Thinking hard and keeping our brains in check,
We go to work everyday to save the dear lives of mothers and babies.
A blow of sadness hits our faces,
Whenever we lose one of them to death.
Regret fills our hearts for where we were negligent;
And we live never to forget that moment,
When,we relaxed on duty and messed things up.
Sometimes,a feeling of giving up kisses our lips;
And soon,when we are yet to verbalize it,
That we have given up and cannot try anymore,
Or that we are tired and clients should leave us alone, give us a break;
Sense overrules, and we return to our ethical boundaries.
We work,work,work;- like Rihanna sings.
We work and work and work till the work itself is tired of us;
But still,we work to save their lives; mother's and babies.
Pushing and screaming; crying and fighting,
Quarrelling and abusing us;
We urge her to breathe in,and breathe out;
To relax and calm down,and think not about anything other than her baby;
Whom,she has carried for nine months,
Persevering through the sleepless nights and pregnancy complications
Just to see her child become someone who will breathe and live on its own.
On the other hand,we desist from the temptation to slap her;
She can mean to be disappointing sometimes; you know??
A smile tickles our lips,and our teeth,we hide no more.
Sweat runs down our faces,but we forget to wipe it away, overwhelmed with joy!
The crying of the baby,is the joyful laughter of the mother.
It is the peaceful relief of the midwife.
Allover the world,that is what we do. That's our daily routine.
6 a.m
It is time to wake-
After being bludgeoned by sleep.
A quick brush
And a quick wash
Off to the bus-stop in a quick rush.
It’s another day
To work for a pay
Loose soap lather-
Sticking senselessly by the tip of the ear
And white Vaseline still to sink in the hair.
This life is a rush
Get late and get fired
No one cares if you are tired
Or couldn’t spare the time for a notch.
Brown suit,
Black trouser
Loosened zipper
Man! You are a walking sleeper.
We all filed-up
Looking like men heading for the concentration camp,
Yawning helplessly from an unfinished sleep.
This city life,
Is just a life of strife.
We hop on the bus,
So eager to seek solace in its confines.
Heads hanging loosely,
Snoring trumpets at its crescendo.
11 p.m
Free from the day’s toil
But held captive by Lagos traffic.
Sweating and panting from heat,
Squeezed like a crumpled note at the back seat.
Dinner on third-mainland Bridge,
A stick of gala and Asala*
With a bottle of water to quench the hunger.
It’s business time for the street urchins
From Iyana-oworo to the bridge that links Alapere,
They disguise as beggars-
Or hide in the shade of dark like scavengers
Watching out for victims to prey on.
The day weans itself away;
Broken down vehicles,
Long tankers stealing the lanes,
Pedestrians ignoring the bridge,
Hawkers shouting their wares,
Tanker horns blaring like hooting train.
Six to Eleven of our lives
Stolen by the struggle to survive.
Office pressure and less leisure,
Street madness and no cure.
Traffic Thieves,
Problematic Passengers,
Howling Hawkers,
And Lazy-ing LASMA**
All add to this insanity.
* A Yoruba dialect for Walnut
** LASMA reference to Traffic Officials of Lagos State
© Ayinla Muyideen Adeleke
Over by the corner the bandstand plays on
next to the cotton candy wagon and the clown
Its a circus act full of people and acrobats
and tallish men on walking wooden stilts
One tiny red balloon dots the sky as I espy
juggling acts leading to the garden path
it ain't over until the fat lady sings
so I better not dally, I need a glass ring
Fire eaters and sweet ladies that stretch
ventriloquists with two sided mouths
magicians that stage with props, and coins
cats on tight ropes, hawkers and escapists
Silver hoops and fast delivery guys
life is changing right before our very eyes
Give me the candy but don't tell me lies
of course I want the red balloon, untie!
February 12, 2023
Sponsor Anthony Biaanco
Contest Name Balloons
Under the inky façade of the night sky,
With reluctant steps, I joined the stream of men
Flowing to the place of the great celebration.
A huge crowd was already there in the temple premises.
Its vicinity was bursting with colour and flashing lights.
The young and the old, clad in festal attire,
With fire in their hearts and festive sheen in their eyes
Thronged, not driven by piety, but mostly to enjoy the fanfare.
Festoons decorated the trees that lined the compound.
Colourful lamps were blinking everywhere
Sacred bells kept chiming intermittent
At the auspicious hour, as devotional songs rent the air,
The chief deity was brought out of the shrine
And was placed on the caparisoned elephant,
Accompanied by pulsating percussion ensemble.
The devotees cheered witnessing the majestic entourage.
Within them, the fervid spring of joy swelled.
Colourful umbrellas were unfurled,
Drawing synchronized patterns in the air.
An army of hawkers had already set up shops.
Each made it a time to earn some bucks,
Selling knick-knacks and goodies- from ice creams
To popcorn and colourful balloons, to tempt children
The young ones ran around licking cotton candies.
Some enjoyed blowing up soap bubbles,
With iridescent orbs landing softly on their hair and dress.
Under the glare and noise, the heat and sweat,
Amid the tumultuous beat of trumpets,
And the rhythmic sounding of cymbals,
The crowd swayed in psychedelic lassitude.
I was just a mute witness to the whole hullabaloo.
Amid the faceless crowd, I stood aloof, so aloof,
With an abysmal loneliness gnawing me from inside.
I had hoped the carnival would help me forget the past
And drown my scalding pain, but sad memories,
Followed me close to my heels like a mangy mongrel.
Deep down, how I wished I was part of the revelry!