Poetry
THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO SPEAKS
congo, tiamca, colango, matinga
bambara, nago
senegal, creole
i am the head of luís congo
and i speak for him
lying
burnt and rotting in some farmer's field.
and you
you may chant and shout
and dance about your bonfires on the levees.
and drink your aguardiente till you burst.
drink up until your eyes shine liquid.
and you will never have the vision that he had.
will never see the world as he saw.
what are you in the end
but a wretched lot of slaves?
the lot of you
slaves
in an alien land
under the rule of a pale, slight and ghostly
and alien man?
you laugh
you drink
and for a moment
your pain is gone.
but i am here to tell you:
it is not over.
a thousand thousand betrayals hound you
among even those of you
dancing on this very water.
it is not over.
he is only dead.
he is not yet through
with you.
THE HEAD OF LUÍS CONGO CRIES OUT FOR WATER
agua
agua
agua --
if there is among you any congo man
any man with but a grain of pity in his soul
give me a drink of water as i die.
but look
look they cry out in their festive voices
the head of luís congo
it speaks
it begs a drop of water
the head of the great murderer
our torturer
the head of luís congo cries out for water
... .
Excerpted from "The Head of Luís Congo Speaks" from All Saints: New & Selected Poems
All works © by Brenda Marie Osbey
4.
just before you see them
there is their confounded
jingling
the sound of those root ends
against their tambourines
but no one really hears them coming
just the thud of those bare feet
against the broken surfaces
of the banqette
the low rumbling of song
and then bahalia
bahalia
and yet
you can never say you hear them
it is like that
their coming
5.
it is not tonight i will find the path
i am ready, damballah
but the way is barred
a slender woman in red skirts
tignon and golden hoops through her ears
young and smooth
and jerking to the sound
of old blood
and thin-skinned men
walking on the graves of the old ones
i am ready, oh spirit
but the way is dark
6.
and like rising from a dream
they are gone
and like a vision they never leave you
standing in my sidelight
you can see them
women so far gone
that their walking is dance
madhouses so grey
against the other houses and churches
that you pretend for now
you do not see them
and never did
but when you make the final journey
and stand at the crossing
seeking the barred footing
it was i who first showed you
and remember my name
it was felicity who told you
how to exit one madhouse
and enter the other.
from Ceremony for Minneconjoux
MADHOUSES
1.
these women men business
burn their hair only on the ends
and spit tobacco
in the reverends hedges
they call themselves
mothers
and wear bare feet in public
daring fathers and brothers
to come down on the banqette
and i have seen them dancing
along the interstate in mid-january
we call them madhouses
but it is only that we fear
i know their secrets
only through having learned them
the hardest way
my name is felicity
i live inside the city
i am telling only
as much as you can bear
2.
the bahalia women are coming
from round st. james
carrying the bamba-root
in their hands
believe on those hands
and they will see you through seasons
of drought and flood
believe on these hands
and you will cross the grandy-water
3.
journey with me and see what i see
first you hear the leaves
past silence
hitting the ground
moving along the streets
with an undercurrent of rhythm
moving to your bloodbeat
and the sounds of your hands
reaching
reaching up