Our real talks are like ‘a wom(b)an speaks’
(blood memories bout where we come from to dis’ days we live in and what is destined with the paths we’re on), in the spaces between honouring our ancestors, our children, and the future generations.
“It is time to speak your Truth. Create your community, be good to each other.
And do not look outside yourself for the leader. This could be a good time! ~
“There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold onto the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer greatly. Know the river has its own destination. ~
The Elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and our heads above water. And I say, see who is in there with you and celebrate.”
[part of] Hopi elder’s prayer
…..these are a few of my fav poems for grey days with mounds of homework and metamorphosis, that call out to be pegged blue, red en yellow. Dis are some of the ones I hold close to my heart…..
Moon marked and touched by sun
My magic is unwritten
But when the sea turns back
It will leave my shape behind
I seek no favour/untouched by blood/unrelenting as the curse of love
Permanent as my errors/or my pride
I do not mix/love with pity/nor hate with scorn
En if you would know me/look into the entrails of Uranus
Where the restless ocean pound
i do not dwell/within my birth nor my divinities/who am ageless and half grown
and still seeking/my sistas/witches in dahomey/wear me inside their coiled cloths
as our mother did/mourning.
i have been womban/for a long time/beware my smile
i am treacherous with old magic/and the noons new fury
with all your wide futures
and not white.
[between the lines: we explore indigenus myths en ancestor worship in diasporic tongues, in the spaces between a.k.a another place not here, like]
“in spite of the fire’s heat
the tongs can fetch it.”
It was in Abomey that I felt
the full blood of my fathers’ wars
and where I found my mother
standing with outstretched palms hip high
one breast eaten away by worms of sorrow
magic stones resting upon her fingers
dry as a cough.
In the dooryard of the brass workers
four women joined together dying cloth
mock Eshu’s iron quiver
standing erect and flamingly familiar
in their dooryard
mute as a porcupine in a forest of lead
In the courtyard of the cloth workers
other brothers and nephews
are stitching bright tapestries
into tales of blood.
Thunder is a woman with braided hair
spelling the fas of Shango
asleep between sacred pythons
that cannot read
nor eat the ritual offerings
of the Asein.
My throat in the panther’s lair
Bearing two drums on my head I speak
whatever language is needed
to sharpen the knives of my tongue
the snake is aware although sleeping
under my blood
since I am a woman whether or not
you are against me
I will braid my hair
in the seasons of rain.