Cooked Potatoes

This is another poem written during The Power of Language workshop lead by Kayo Chingonyi, as part of the Acts of Rebellion event at  October Gallery . And inspired by the image of Brittany Newsome, who climbed up a flagpole in South Carolina and pulled down the Confederate Flag, as she was being arrested. Woman so brave brings down the confederate flag Woman so brave. Like the carved statue on the prow of a ship, breast exposed to the storm and the stones That the centuries have seen poured over your blood and your race. As white officers, agents of hate come punctual to your arrest you remain entirely yourself acrobat of the skies free bird that was dreamt by the slaves

I wrote this poem during the Power of Language workshop , lead by poet  Kayo Chingonyi  , as part of the Acts of Rebellion event so beautifully organized by  October Gallery Education At school I was Neither Blonde, nor blue eyed and butter melted in my mouth. Could not blend nor fit in So I decided to be bad. It caused me conflict That pendulum dance Between being very god And very bad. Spit, bite, curse, kick “Such and angry little girl!” Dishonored many Of the Commandments. No one would recognize me On the first day of May Bringing flowers to the Virgin Writing notes to the almighty Swearing to atone for my sins Family tragedies guilty Burdens on my shoulders Or later crying my eyes out In the middle of a party Because boys danced With...guess... Blue eyed girls Girls with tameable hair Girls with sweet voices With perfect smiles Girls who didn’t swear or smoked pot In the dark. And so I grew to learn and...

Today I got my red shoes back Walked bare feet across the park, To let the sun into my roots. Discard all that is not made with love. Make time to love the ones I love, To practice love, to practice love. Take none for granted Be ever grateful. Imagine those who have no homes 600 million people displaced; Imagine the evening before Abandoning your home Bundles by the door, babies wrapped up You are fleeing at dawn, Imagine that, take none for granted Today I got my red shoes back I discard all that is not love.

For Mum In the beginning, we have no teeth. We depend on our mother. We depend on her for nourishment; we depend on her for love and security. Then at about age one we get our first set of teeth, ‘milk’ teeth’. At the same stage we start to exercise our will to move about the world, to investigate the space around us and our bodies. We chew all that we can find. Then aged six, these temporary, rehearsal teeth start to fall in preparation for the big ones, the ones that are to remain with us for the rest of our lives. With them, we will be able to bite, chew, digest, and smile. By that same stage we are psychologically formed. Events, experiences that happen then will shape us for the rest of our lives. If they do not fall, the lucky ones will carry them until death sees them out. In Garifuna the word for teeth and navel is the same: ‘nari’. What do Garifuna know about the connection between our teeth and our mother? Navel, because it is the symbol of Mother that we carry t...

Mother, you left last autumn And little by little winter came Dragging its old man’s feet. Days grew colder, Shorter and darker Without you being here. And as with tears I watered down my orphan’s grief Your message came to me “Don’t cry my child, Don’t you see now I am free?” I saw you clearly: Your cheeks were pink From so much playing with angels. Your limbs agile and strong Jumping from cloud to cloud Reminded me of the child That you and I and everyone once was. You have taken to the sky No longer bound by pain Or loneliness, or strife. You rise boundless; You are one with the stars. As we scatter the ashes Of your body we so loved Crocuses push the soil Beneath our feet Daffodils raise their Proud heads in the sun Announcing spring, Resurrection and joy. What can we do but thank you and Honour you with our prayers and toil Mother, beloved guardian Of our tender days Loving carer of all, All six of us. And ...

Woman fruit Your pretty hennaed feet Dangle from a Fig Tree, After the ransacking   Of the bud of your womb. The war of sexuality The sexuality of war No one talks about But is worth bearing in mind. Fruit Woman Red flower Appeared one morning Hanging from the Banyan Tree Woman fruit Red flower Immortal as the Fig Tree @PZG

The presence of the Manatee moves me,  a tear drop shifts I weep not for me only,  but for the spirit lost,  all that which we are destroying. The Carnival drum,  all of my land's rhythms  so mine, awaken sleepy,  aching roots,  heal new and ancient wounds  with the shudder the rump.

Love is an act of Will Will is an act of Love The centre of my Will Is in the core of my body So it sprouts like a young tree In the middle of my belly button El Amor es un acto de Voluntad La Voluntad es un acto de Amor El corazón de mi Voluntad Está en el centro de mi cuerpo Y  surge como árbol joven En el medio de mi ombligo

Opinionated, “she is opinionated” read a teacher’s report, at Art College. I had barely spent one year in London, my accent, my wildness and my ‘opinions’ were still intact, unrefined. Now, over thirty years later, my accent is softer, my opinions are just as strong and getting stronger with time in spite of my ‘spiritual training’. I cannot help having opinions in the face of the world I see. And I still find it incomprehensible why having ‘opinions’ is such an unacceptable thing.  One conclusion I have come to is that if you are going to have opinions you better be outstanding and voice them forcefully or you'll be trodden on in a country where the colonial past is engraved in its citizens DNA. Just like our colonised past is engraved in ours. So I write to affirm my rebelliousness. I write not to pick fights. I write because all I have is life experiences. I am told sometimes, by well intentioned friends I need to leave the past behind; I should not read the news; I shou...

There is a poem in my head for you, From a long way back. I remember you Johana in your little cane house and your four children playing in the mud. Pretty, the colour of honey Woman/child The contraband between your breasts And your smile giving us light. Johana in your bicycle bringing me breakfast of fried plantains and rum. Friend jumping for joy in the puddles of your yard on seeing me arrive When you, he, I, all Were healthier, prettier, better. In a world where one is worth What the last cent, I know I counted on you. Johana always to my rescue; That day for the escape you lend me your sandals, another day you came to fetch me in a cab. My only friend Johana. The horror of your instant death an afternoon of  Easter Saturday Pa! Pa!...papapapapapa! Pa! Pa! Papapapapapapa! I Heard from my house Nine millimetre discharge  resounded in the distance and at that moment someone fell How to imagine it was yo...

Today the cords just want to be cords and the beads, beads. A pause in time; fingers basking in the autumn sun like lazy nursing sharks... No cutting, knotting, weaving, typing, thinking. Oh but the mind she never stops. She somersaults, works out a knot. Frets over what she owes to be and she is not I push my lazy little fingers into action. Cut, knot, weave, type...think All one should be and one is not.