Nativity by Melissa Beauvery
Entering the world
With calloused feet first
Stomping
Tearing
Through my mothers’ womb
She never knew that
Transporting me
Would be so painful
She would’ve definitely
Reconsidered
No placenta in sight
Instead
Splinters are ever so present in her uterus
My head comes out
Last
Accompanied with the coarseness of my hair
Spiking upward
Possibly for direction
I am not gasping for air
Nor do I let out a cry
My arms are crossed
Bearing the facial expression
Of over two hundred years of frustration!
Questioning my existence,
The midwife
Strikes my bottom
Not expecting that I would strike back!
And certainly I did
Rejuvenated
By the sting left in my fingertips
And also by the sting left in my bottom.
A
game of Dice Short story by Gary
End of Story (just added) Part 2
and Part 3 (kept here on request)
Click this link to read
part 1
I did not see him for a few days after this conversation until one evening when he came
to my room, making his entrance through the backyard door. Though I had a quite normal
home life with my family, my room was relatively independent from the rest of the house.
That night Gerard's behavior was unusual. Not that he was upset or shaken up, but there
was a strange look in his face, or more precisely, a calm that I had never seen him with.
Even his voice sounded uncanny. The expressive inflexion had given way to a monotone
delivery that conveyed a lugubrious feeling to his words. "My group has been
infiltrated," he said. "The S.G.F (Special Government Forces) is rounding up our
members."
I couldn't help noticing and mentioning that he did not look at all like someone who
was running for his life. He asserted that he was not in danger for the moment because
only the members of his chapter and I knew about his involvement. The ensuing development
happened so fast that, even after so many years, I still have not found a rationale for
our conduct.
Why did Gerard, who was aware of my lukewarm dispositions towards his militant
endeavors, come to me? Why did I offer to drive him to safety to his chosen destination?
Why did I choose my family 68 VW Beetle instead of our Land Rover which was more equipped
for the rugged, mud and dig ridden road ahead? I was an imbecile (how about that for an
euphemism!). Make no bone about it! What happened next assumed the dimensions of a bad
movie:
We drove for about thirty miles, then while crossing an unpaved road that looked more
like a ditch than a route, the ever reliable VW bug got stuck.
Seasons do not change in Tohu-Bohu. It's summer all year around. In the middle of
September, the heat was relentless, implacable. A "ringdinger" of a hot night!
Along the dirt road, under the high oaks, the rustling of the leaves had vanished. Instead
the strident whistle of crickets mixed with sporadic sounds of night birds --which
probably fed on the crickets-- were dispensing their nocturnal cacophonous concert.
We had just freed the Beetle rear wheels when suddenly from the main road, from which
we were about one football field away, a military jeep appeared. Its occupants had turned
from the wrong side of the intersection and were gingerly roaring down the ditch. They
shot at us from the distance.
Fortunately this gang could not shoot straight. I guessed they thought we were armed,
and when they found out that we were not returning fire, they stopped their target
practice. They were probably saving bullets, since along with two Thompson submachine guns
and M1- rifles, they were equipped with stainless steel machetes.
Part 3
Sound like a bad movie? Just like that, without any preparation, the plot thickens. The
explanation was clear and simple, just like real life sometimes: My best friend had
betrayed my confidence. He had lied, lied by omission. First, he was more implicated than
he made it look, for from what I learned a few days later, he had taken part in some real
terrorist action in which two soldiers were killed. Second, in my house earlier, he
purposely looked calm to imply that he was not being pursued. In fact, the security forces
at the Head Quarter had his description and had alerted all the adjoining military posts.
In this repressive state where there were at least two government informers for every
citizen, the surprising thing is that it took them so long to catch us.
We had already hit the ground when they jumped out of the jeep. I could see a little puff
of heat emanating from the tailpipe . . . A black bird went fluttering in the breezeless
night . . .
This is where the analogy with a bad movie ends. In a bad movie a la Wesley Snipes, we
would have been two action heroes applying their martial art skills to disarm the bad
guys; Gerard would have been Blade or something and I would have been his sidekick.
In this real life predicament, we were two teenagers on a deadly course. One had lied to
save his skin; the other, yours truly, was a stupid lad (do I favor euphemism?) who could
not separate all the moral themes he was ingurgitating, from good judgement. I was mad at
myself. I was angry with Gerard and wanted to call him by all the expletives that I
normally replaced by a euphemism (!). I wanted to tell him what kind of demagogue I
thought he was, but the goons grabbed us. They tied Gerard first, maybe because he
was so tall or he was attempting to tell the soldiers that they had no right . . . (Since
when has a fly caught in a spider web had any right?) They began to hit us with their
rifle butts. I managed to avoid one blow to the head and got hit on the side of the neck.
I lost consciousness.
When I regained my thoughts, revived by a bucket of filthy water, I found out that the
soldiers had secured a camping place and were discussing our fate. I was scared, but
resigned. This time, my putative sense of humor had gone. This time, I completely
experienced that feeling of forlornness that I have read and written about in my
philosophy classes. A Kafkaeske scene. Drunk Soldiers in a festive mood playing with dice
while discussing about our life. Transistor radio blasting American Country music.
--American music was a by-product of the American occupation which took place eighty years
ago and lasted about fifteen years.-- And Gerard! This ass was surpassing himself:
Defiant, he was lecturing again, completely ignoring that those soldiers were all
uneducated and could not understand the concepts he was preaching. Those men (except for
one) were unfortunate people who were always treated like animals. Like animals, they
could not feel remorse of having ruined their life. Like animals, they could not
experience a sense of dignity, innocence, penitence or self-reproach!
"Shut-up you Bastard!" vociferated a young thug who could not have been more
than three years older than I. Then he hit the lecturer with the handle of a 38-caliber
pistol. His hands being tied up front, he tried to protect his face, to no avail. I saw
blood in Gerard's face. This time, it was his turn to take a forced nap.
Then the
soldiers resumed their discussions. To be exact, there were only two
active participants in the conversation: the young soldier who seemed to
be absolutely crazy, and an overweight middle age baldie who was the
exception I just mentioned. He must have been whirled in this occupation
by necessity, like many other family men who had to go with the flow to
survive. He was indeed the voice of moderation in this deliberation. The
others were isolated pawns in this tragic game of chess where the two
kings where coming head to head.
We gonna
kill these communist dogs," said Mr. Psychopath. (For lack of a more
colorful term.). He had difficulty pronouncing "communist"- He had some
teeth missing and was affected with a stuttering speech that I would have
found amusing in any other circumstances.
His
interlocutor replied, "We should take them back to the headquarter."
I realized
then that we did not have any chance to come out of this alive: These
soldiers who were making decision on their own were not members of the
regular army. They belonged to the most dreaded paramilitary group who had
mushroomed in the low country. Those Sans-mamas (literally
"Motherless") were criminals whose purpose was to beat the living fear out
of every defenseless Tohu-Bohian. There were doing the Dictator's dirty
job, plundering the land, raping and killing at will, while the regular
army kept projecting the appearance of legality to the rest of the world.
It worked: On the proverbial pretense (too often evoked alas!) of curbing
the advance of Communism, they were trained by the C. U. A. (Central
unIntelligent Agency) (Forgive me again!) and were highly efficient in
the slaughtering of innocent people. Then as a wage of these crimes, the
country received large foreign aid. This money, mostly American tax
payer's, was conspicuously employed to buy luxurious homes, Mercedes and
Lamborghinni in a primitive land where human beings were still used like
horses to heave heavy chariot! But Tohu-Bohu was a paradise . . . for
the . . . tourists. A hell of a paradise!
The young
and aggressive thug was now getting the best of the argument. Though he
could hardly speak due to his stuttering, he had rallied the rest of the
band to his side and wanted to kill us right away. No need for an expert
in group psychology to foresee the outcome. In a leaderless herd, the rest
of the animals always follow the most aggressive.
They had
forced us on our feet, when Mr. Reasonable ( at this moment this bald
fatso was the most reasonable man in the Universe) made a last attempt at
saving our life:
"Wait a
minute!" he said, "Last month, my cousin made a big mistake when he shot
the son of the mayor of his town. This mayor beheaded him with his own
machete the same night. You see those kids who get involved, most of them
have families in much higher place than us."
Group
Psychology Lesson two: Wherever there is no leader in a group, the
smartest ones practice the C. Y. A. management technique, that is you
cover your ass. Sound cynical? Kids grow up fast in Tohu-Bohu!
Mr.
Psychopath grinned with a ghastly smile. "I don't give a damn!" he
barked. "I ain't afraid of nobody. The President is my only master.
Vive le President! Long life to the Chief!"
Then he
leaned in my direction to pick up the transistor radio next to my feet. I
could smell the cheap rum on his breath. My heart was pounding at the
throbbing beat of the Tohu-Bohian dance music blasted by the radio. I was
sick. I was cold with fever, and my head was splitting with a submachine
gun butt headache. "I want some Rock- and -Roll," he
said. The radio now was playing the tune
in vogue:
"But
it's all right now! I learned my lesson well!
Can't
please every one. Got to please yourself!"
Ricky
Nelson's voice never sounded so out-of-tune.
Psycho was
tossing his head from right to left, mimicking some hippie dude he'd
watched on the sole T. V. channel on the Island. By then, a third
participant came to Mr. Reasonable's rescue with the smartest solution
that could come out of an illiterate drunk. He proposed a game of dice.
And to support his argument, Mr. Las Vegas (the smartest gambler on the
other side of the Atlantic) explained: "What do we do when we are not
sure? "He laughed, and laughed. If you've seen any Eddie Murphy movie, you
know what I mean: It was an insane laugh, half-idiot, half-defiant. Then,
as if he had just discovered America, Mr. Las Vegas added triumphantly:
"Let's roll
the dice, the dice of death!"
"The dice
of death!" cried the rest of the band in exultation.
In this
comedy of human inhumanity, six or seven stooges were leaping upward,
dancing to a macabre musical in which one die would be the solo
instrument. So that' s all It was all about. Our hope, our aspirations,
our years of learning and playing, in short our life was hanging on a
thread of a simple game of dice. In this case, one single die would
decide the outcome. Someone would throw the die twice. Should a six come
out once, they will spare our lives. Just like that. Just like in real
life. We are all sentenced to die. Every day we live through is a day
of reprieve. A strange calm invaded me then. Dying today or
tomorrow, what difference it makes? At any second, at any place,
someone hits the wrong die and dies (pun entirely intended!)
The whole
game took about one minute. In my mind, it lasted an eternity. I saw the
first throw of the die rolling. Years after in my life the action has been
reenacted. At this very moment, the first throw of the die is rolling
slowly, stopping smoothly at a face value of three.
Psycho, closer than ever
to fulfill his murderous wish, gloats. His toothless upper lips change his
smile into a hideous smirk. His bulging eyes are looking at me now, tiny
eyes whose roundness is accentuated by two puffy cheeks. A wicked animal,
a biblical snake.
The
radio is blasting now some anti-Vietnam war ballad. The snake
metamorphoses now into Mr. Bojangles, as he grabs the die for the second
throw. He dances for me, in worn-out boots. He dances for Gerard who is
quite awake and bleeding from his ugly head wound. The dance of death.
Mr. Bojangles, strutting with long and awkward steps, danced
on for about half a minute, mechanically on the beat. Then still moving
like a dislocated marionette, he threw the die. The cube rolled and
stopped inexorably. Mr. Bojangles was not dancing any more. He yelled: "Oh
sss . . . sssss," He had now more problems with his stuttering, but
slowly but surely he mumbled," sss six!"
No need to
translate what came out of his mouth. He was now an expert in scatology. He
was now an expert in my mother’s most secret intimacy. He new more about
Gerard's dead grandfather sexual preferences than Gerard did. He even had
some insight about our pigheaded ancestors from Guinea. Or so he cursed.
Strangely
enough, he abode by the rules of the dice game, and the rest followed. You
know the old cliche: " Reality is stranger than fiction." That was not
strange after all. For even in the worst chaotic world, there is always some
kind of honor code or some kind of order . . . the kind of order which
prevents the stars and the planets from colliding with each order, the kind
of order which keeps this crazy world going.
The rest of
the story is as tame as the conclusion of a bad movie. As the sun started to
rise and the morning birds were singing in the trees, we were led to an
outpost. In the meantime, my father, a well-known businessman in the
capital, undertook to buy out some army members, and obtained my immediate
release.
For Gerard,
things ended differently. No money could buy his freedom, since he was
deeply compromised. Our captors took him to prison. I learned later that he
either died of his wounds' infections or was summarily executed. One way or
another, I know that that time, the dice did not roll for him.
Gary
Jean-Jacques
12/10/81
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Lemane Vaillant
-----Original Message-----
From: jesi chancy-manigat [jesicm@hotmail.com ]
Sent: Fri 8/20/2004 1:18 PM
To:
Cc:
Subject: Se kilès?
Kilès ki egzanp la ?
Kilès, eske se pastè legliz ki nan adiltè a?
Kilès, eske se pè ki nan fònikasyon an?
Kilès, eske se senatè ki nan dwòg la ?
Kilès, eske se depite ki nan zenglendo a?
Kilès, eske se direktè polis la ki nan kidnapping nan?
Kilès, eske se direktè lekòl k'ap vann mwayèn nan?
Kilès, eske se jounalis yo k'ap bay manti pou degouden an?
leta yo k'ap vann djòb la?
Kilès, eske se inivèsitè yo ki tounen flatè ?
Kilès, eske se komèsan k'ap vann nan fo mamit?
Kilès, eske se gason k'ap tronpe madanm yo?
Kilès, eske se fanm k'ap bay mari yo zoklo?
Kilès, eske se timoun k'ap derespekte granmoun yo?
Kilès, eske se fanmi k'ap batay pou byen ?
Kilès, eske se machanm lèt k'ap dekoupe li ak dlo a?
Kilès, eske se chofè k'ap fè eksè vitès la ?
Kilès, eske se tayè k'ap bay manti a?
Kilès, eske se bòs mason k'ap poze blòk mal ?
Kilès, eske se enjenyè k'ap lage travay nan men kontremèt?
Kilès, eske se agwonòn k'ap pale de kantamwa a?
Kilès, eske se peyizan k'ap kouri rantre lavil yo?
Kilès, eske se prezidan k'ap travay pou pòch li a?
Kilès, eske se chèf gouvènman ki sou zòd la?
Kilès, eske se papa ki pa pran reskonsabilite yo?
Kilès, eske se manman k'ap detwi lavi timoun yo?
Kilès eske se sila ki chouazi zanmitay avan konpetans la?
Kilès eske se sila k'ap meprize pòv yo?
Kilès, eske se sila k'ap detwi san konstwi a?
Kilès, eske se bòkò k'ap tronpe sòt yo?
Kilès, eske se doktè k'ap gade moun sou ran sosyal ?
Kilès, eske se pechè ki pa bay ti pwason chans pou grandi?
Kilès, eske majistra k'ap itilize non pèp pou regle zafè pesonèl?
Kilès, eske se kazek k'ap konplote pou van'n bèt malere?
Kilès, eske se jij k'ap van'n jistis malere yo?
Kilès,eske se avoka k'ap diskite lajan olye de rezon?
Kilès, eske se mekanisyen k'ap vòlè pyès nèf pou mete pyès ize?
Kilès, eske se kòdonye k'ap repare soulye ak fisèl pouri?
Kilès, eske se animatè k'ap voye monte?
Kilès, eske se patwon k'ap bay kondisyon imoral yo?
Kilès, eske se fidèl ki gen yon pye andedan lòt la deyò a?
Kilès, eske se pèp k'ap vote pou kasav ak vyann?
Kilès, eske se sila k'ap ban'n katouch pou sa mwen posede?
Kilès, eske se mwen ki poze kesyon yo?
Kilès, eske se ou menm k'ap li a?
Kilès, Kilès Kilès, Kilès Kilès, Kilès Kilès, Kilès Kilès, Kilès
Chak fwa ou bay teks sa chans pou li jwen 10 lòt moun ou bay Ayiti yon chans pou li jwenn yon modèl.
Epi Gade! se nou tout tande tipapa.
WHEN I
Poem by Fabienne Ulysse, RN
When I feel your N urturing hands
comforting me as I experience excruciating pain.
When I hear your Uplifting voice
calming my sorrowed heart.
When I deeply feel the trusting
Patient-caregiver Relationship.
When you hold my hands
and greet me with a Smile.
When I observe your Interactions
With multiple disciplines.
When your Need to know facilitates
Your notice during my assessment.
I know then that you’re a Nurse
Because you care, And in my eyes.
You are Great!
Author: Fabienne Ulysse, RN
Oncology Nurse Specialist
Wyckoff Heights Medical Center
Author: Fabienne Ulysse, RN
Oncology
Nurse Specialist
Wyckoff
Heights
Medical
Center
Honor the Black Woman
Angie Stone
Introduction:
Since the first Black woman was brought to the "New World" on a slave
ship,four hundred years ago, she has been stripped of her inherent right to
be the beautiful creation that God intended her to be. Below, you will find
poems that will help rebuild her self-esteem so that sisters can be
recognized for the beautiful, powerful, yet, fragile creations that we are.
Remember to handle her with care, and never let a sister feel "unpretty."
Unpretty by TLC courtesy of freshmidis.com
Like
Black Women Love by Yvonne
Black
Woman by the Ebony Poet
The
Black Woman by Tony B. Conscious
Only
a Black Woman by Author Unknown
The
Black Woman by Gerren Liles
For
Colored Girls Excerpt by Ntozake Shange
For
My Sistahs by Jewel Diamond Taylor
Like Black Women Love
Wait.
I'm gonna love you
like black women love their children.
Gonna dig way down,
call upon the history
my fore-sisters built,
fill you up with wonderful,
nurse your self esteem
in the arch of my back.
When you are low,
I'll refresh your spirit
with tales drawn from the well
of my momma's childhood memories.
Wait.
I'm gonna love you like black women
love their men. Thick-lipped words
of encouragement will breathe icy cold
on heated epitaphs of venom-laced hatred.
My over-stuffed hips cache a resevoir
of strength. Like grandma's
hands I'll knead your worn-out pride
with kindred understanding.
I'm gonna love you like the whores
of masters loved the light of day.
Wait.
I'm gonna love you
like black women love themselves:
without reservation; strong.
Yvonne
(c)1998
BLACK WOMAN
Black,
And strong,
Different words,
Same meaning.
She is a strong black woman.
Captured and beaten,
Tied and bound,
You endured the Middle Passage,
Was dragged into a new land,
You held your head high.
You are a strong black woman.
In the fields all day,
Hot, blazing sun beating down,
They stripped away your language,
They took your clothing and made you look like a slave,
But you never bowed,
You are a strong black woman.
I saw you till the soil,
Bend your back to make things grow,
Saw you cooking food,
That you could not even eat,
Saw you washing clothes,
Mending shirts,
Growing flowers to adorn the house you could not sleep in.
And not once did you shed a tear,
You are a strong black woman.
They bred you like horses,
And sold your children like they were dogs,
They took them away in chains,
While you stood screaming,
And then you prayed to God,
Because you are a strong black woman.
In times of jim crow you shouldered the weight,
Brought food home when I could not even work,
Borne the children,
Cleaned the house,
And raised my children.
A strong black woman.
You brought God inside,
So we could talk,
About our toils and pain,
You sat Him there and He listened,
And gave us relief,
We marched for freedom,
And you were at my side.
Went to jail when I did,
Stayed awake and held me in your lap.
You comforted my every fear,
Gave me courage when I had none.
Washed my face with the hem of your dress,
Cleansed the matter from my eyes so I could see,
Prayed for me when I did not for my self.
You are a strong black woman.
You taught me to read
You taught me to write,
How to eat with a fork,
How to tie my tie,
You taught me grace and kindness,
You taught me how to treat my fellow man,
You found the goodness in my heart,
And nurtured it and made it grow.
For all you`ve done I can never repay,
Nor can I do the same for you,
And despite all of that... you smile at me,
And pull me to your bosom for love,
I thank God for you,
And that you are a strong black woman.
Andrew Johnson
Ebony Poet
THE BLACK WOMAN
From the sands of EGYPT you rose
Coffee and carmel coated
From your head to your toes
Made of mud with perfect curvatures
No need for clothes
Naturally strong hair
Full lips and nose
The CREATOR made you for a reason
And you were made FIRST
As a guardian of this planet
To watch over the Universe
To be in touch with nature
To, at times, exercise your wrath
Lying your head in Ethiopia
While in the Nile, taking a bath
It is you and only your power
Plus strength alone
That can bring order to this planet
And make a many atone
So stand up BLACK WOMAN
Shake the shackles from your mind
Wash the process from your hair
For, that's not what makes you fine
You need not powder your face
Nor place fake nails upon your hands
There's no need to dress in skimpy outfits
For, that pleases not , the TRUE BLACK MAN
GET YOUR MIND TOGETHER
STAND TALL, FIERCE AND PROUD
REBUKE THE COLONIZER AND HIS WAYS
LIFT YOUR HEAD UP TO THE CLOUDS
Dance those dances, chant those chants
Let your eyes fill with that gleam
Bring justice to your Ancestors souls
Who fought so hard against the so-called "AMERICAN DREAM"
And together me and you, side by side
Shall put an end to all the chaos and start winning
By re-aligning ourselves with nature and the animals
Just as we were in the very beginning...
By: TONY B. CONSCIOUS
©1998 Conscious Enterprises
To order these prints visit October Galleries
ONLY A BLACK WOMAN
Can take a week of left over scraps and make a gourmet meal
Can cuss a man out, then make love to him that night and make him feel
like a king.
Can wear a burgundy french roll, 3 inch heels and a split up her thigh to
work and make it look professional
ONLY A BLACK WOMAN
Can wear the hell out of spandex
Can raise a doctor, a world class athlete and an A+ student in an
environment deemed by society as dysfunctional, broken underprivileged And
disenfranchised.
Can heat a whole house in the winter without help from the gas company.
Can go from the boardroom to the block and "keep it real" in both places.
Can slap the taste out of your mouth.
ONLY A BLACK WOMAN
Can put a Black man and his non-Black date on pins and needles just by
walking into the room.
Can live below poverty level and yet set fashion trends
Can fight two struggles everyday and make it look easy
Can make a child happy on Christmas day even if he didn't get a thing
Can be admired and fantasized about by men of other races
Can be 75 years old and look 45.
ONLY A BLACK WOMAN
Can make other women want to pay plastic surgeons top $$$ for physical
features she was already born with.
ONLY A BLACK WOMAN can be the mother of civilization.
Author unknown
THE BLACK WOMAN
Serena Williams
What could I possibly say
that can capture the essence of a black woman?
the fact is there are no words that can describe
the feelin' when you're in vibe
with a sister that is strivin' to be
all that she could be looking at history,
it was the black woman that pulled us through
centuries of strife often sacrificing her own life
for the welfare of generations to come
never to be undone by the tribulations she faced
the Black Woman, much love to you,
the backbone of our race you know,
sometimes when I walk across campus I have to stop,
and lift my hands up to Jesus and say "Thank Ya'!"
for puttin' melanin in my skin
cause' I can't begin to tell you How these anorexic,
rice-cake eatin', slim-fast sippin'
maybe-she's-born-with-it
make sure you get my good side come on...
Vogue runway walkers just won't do
because there's something about the way that you walk
and the way that you talk that's phenomenal
and it's a blessing how men will submit themselves
when the RIGHT ONE comes along
one who is strong and persevering,
yet gentle and caring
loves her man,
but doesn't need him to define her
has a mind of her own and knows how to use it
when I see a sistah like that for real, I lose it
(but I gotta play it cool, cause' I'm a man, you know what I'm saying?)
She could rock the natural locks
steal the show with a nappy fro
take it to the max with no lye relaxer
or let the weave fall to her knees
as long as she's pleased with who she is
then other jealous women can mind their biz
because a true black woman is who she aspires to be
and reflects those that represent the epitome of our ancestry
like Terry and Oprah,
Maya and Rose,
Harriet and Nikki,
Sojourner and Sonia,
Lauryn Hill killing us softly with her musical tracks,
Angela Bassett 'bout to tell us how Stella got her groove back
I could give a hundred names, but they all result in the same
magnificent being that has survived
and blossomed throughout the tests of time
the Black Woman
the light of the world
may your spirits continue to shine....
© 1998
Gerren Liles
"FOR COLORED GIRLS...": Act One Scene One
dark phases of womanhood
of never havin been a girl
half notes scattered
distraught laughter fallin
over a black girl's shoulder
it's funny/it's hysterical
the melody-less-ness of her dance
don't tell nobody
don't tell a soul
she's dancin on beer cans & shingles
this must be the spook house
another song with no singers
lyrics/no voices
& interrupted solos
unseen performances
are we ghouls?
children of horror?
the joke?
don't tell nobody
don't tell a soul
are we animals?
have we gone crazy?
i can't hear anythin
but maddening screams
& the soft strains of death
& you promised me
you promised me...
somebody/anybody
sing a black girl's song
bring her out
to know herself
to know you
but sing her rhythms
carin/struggle/hard times
sing her song of life
she's been dead so long
closed in silence so long
she doesn't know the sound
of her own voice
her infinate beauty
she's half-notes scattered
without rhythm/no tune
sing her sighs
sing the song of her possibilities
sing a righteous gospel
let her be born
let her be born
& handled warmly.
© Ntozake Shange
Artist: WAN
FOR MY SISTAHS
In a round table discussion about whether reincarnation was really
possible,
a financially struggling single woman said, " I want to come back as a
rich white woman's poodle that's pampered and rides around all day in
her luxury car."
A tired waitress said, " I want to come back rich and make a lot of
money and be mega-super recording star."
The frustrated computer technician said, "If I can come back, I want to
be the President, so I can change a lot of things about this world near
and far"
I sat and thought about it. I said, " I don't know if it's possible....
but if I can..... Lord, please let me come back a Black Woman!
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