Friday, February 9, 2007

Old School

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:

azuka said...

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?

Nilla said...

Does it have to do with slavery.....slaves being transported?

mack said...

"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.

Jaycee said...

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!!!!

mack said...

@JC
you're so... aww