A band of baked men
With black souls.
Ashes of black hearts
Smoked over coals.
Three natives thrown over-board
Four murdered,
Five busted vocal-cords,
As silence had--
No greater chant heard.
Rotting black skin
Chained hands and necks.
Men tortured thin,
On enraging decks.
Mother of murdered babe
Slamming her fists;
Her man's voice roars on the deck,
Her glimmer of hope--
Her ounce of bliss.
And earth reckoned
As our voices rippled the ocean:
"We bled your cups hard and full--
Now take us back to Old School!"
Copyright © macalurs 2007
5 comments:
This is one of those poems that get me thinking -- and yet I still couldn't understand it. For the record, where's Old School?
Does it have to do with slavery.....slaves being transported?
"old school" azuka, is a metahor to say something like "the way things used --or are supposed-- to be.
@nilla, yeah it's about the (fictituous) first revolutions against oppressors, on a slave-ship setting.
The things I thought abt as I read this poem were "slavery...the diaspora...the horrific trip...the deaths...the murders...the cries...the children who died...the ancestors..."
You've just broken my heart...a-g-a-i-n!!!!
@JC
you're so... aww
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