became grist for wheels of progress?
Monsanto, Monsatan.
CONGO NEGRO
( homophonic transliteration)
Nicolás Guillén
Hey hi ya hey heyo
sound the Congo slongo
Congo slongo beat
dancing hey hey diddledaddio
Mama drumba
sing me a pupusu mamba
the Black man sings and jives
the Black man jives and sings
the Black man sings and splits
Remember me
Hey hey heidio
Bopdiddybop bop bop
Drum the Black man falling down
Death of the Black man
Shit! The Black man singing
hey hey heidio
DARK DRUMSONG
—after Nicolás Guillén's Congo Negro
Agó amé mjambo me llamo amé
repeat the drumtalk, the dumbek
the deep, dark drumtalk, dumbek
the heartbeat of the jungle, the Congo,
the bongo drumsong of the heart,
your name dances on one leg!
mama moondancer dancin' in the street
serenadiing me crossing the river
the darksong sings and snaps its digits
the darksong snaps its fingers and sings
speak to me, kiss my drumskin
Agó amé, mjambo amé snap!
drum bumbek drum bumbek drum
drum on the dark one who goes down
the buried one, the one buried, buried crown
holy cow now how the dark one, shackled, is free
Agó amé mjambo amé your name!
TAKE 2
CANTO DE MACHU PICCHU
—after Nicolás Guillén's Congo Negro
Ollantaytamo Ollantaytamo a mé
Repetirlo, sing me a river song, sing me.
The melody of the milpa, o fallow milagro de Díos.
Pachatata, an ancestor storm shaking the mountains!
Who sings to me a blue song of the sky, who tied the sun
while the vicuña sleeps, while she sleeps.
The milpa terraces are burning, they are burning
The night wears a necklace of fire, grows old and dies.
Pachacuti, the stones rise up, fire devouring the mountains!
The temple of the moon devours the temple of the sun
Inti sun going down, the moon's children flock to the sky
while the Southern Cross drills a hole in the universe
Quidado! the Urubamba asleep, opens an eye, licks its lips.
Ollantaytamo Ollantaytamo a mé!
3/9
TWEED WAULKING SONG
—after Nicolás Guillén's CONGO NEGRO
Hey Mandu! Hey Mandu!
Play the sounds, play the mouth sounds.
The mouth music, use it, don't lose it.
Wet wool, dark as night, stinking of sheep
and urine pounding down the tweed!
Hey Mandu! Hey Mandu!
In the Hebrides women once felted tweed
they waulked the tweed, they waulked it down.
Down down derry down. Down, down.
They beat out a drum song on the table.
They beat it down, twistitg it soleil with the sun!
Mouth music, mouth music.
Women's work from another time.
The dark cloth thickens its lips, toughens its weft
to protect the fishermen against winter's fierce bite.
It develops a thick skin, and a thirst for whisky.
The dark cloth sings wet lanolin songs
of whisky and lost sheep clinging to sea cliffs!
Who remembers the mouth music?
Now, it's nonsense uttered in gutteral tongues.
Lost translations of work songs, ancient songs.
Who remembers when time itself was mesmerized
by the seasons set in stone?
We sit in a circle, in a college classroom
on the other side of the world, no island sheep,
no North Sea hissing outside the door, only the freeway.
We're waulking a long snake of stinky tweed
singing Hey Mandu! Hey Mandu!
The table thrums, the table is a bodhrán drum
for primitive, ancient songs of felted tweed.
The old women singing Hey Mandu! Hey Mandu!
3/13/12
THINGS I
—after Nazim Hikmet's Things I didn't Know I Loved
I'm sitting by an open window
waiting for the train, it's running late
waiting for the clock to trip over
like a deck of cards fanning itself
52-card pick-up, cowboys & Indians.
I saw the clouds gather like sheep
the bitter wind nipping at their heels
they cowered in the blue-vaulted sky
bleating piteously at all that open space
corralled by the jagged peaks and valleys.
I know I'll never pass this way again
the alps stabbing the sky, the train
moans and strains on its tracks, humming
like a lost mouth harp at twilight
the sour notes careening off cliff walls.
I believe that time stood still, frozen
when I ran down the tracks, almost
missing the last one to take me
to another country, the iron borders closing
in on me, a life not lived.
I loved my freedom far too much
to be shackled by chains of marriage
to another country where women are chattel
my dowery of words enough to sustain
my art, my ephemeral vows, might flee.
3/15
TEACHERMAN HE SAY
Rasta teacherman bellows out
in a metric monotone.
He sings a pejorative song
of a preacherman
confronting hell and damnation saying
Thank you, thank you SO much.
Have a seat. SIDDOWN!
Come sit with me now.
Come here, or get out of my room
Stand up, please. Don't move the chair.
Siddown siddown. Now.
Turn around, yes, you!
Saying Turn around now!
to lazy boys waiting to enter
the legal system
as inmates.
3/15
LOOONS/LUNES
(American Haiku)
A LIFE OF PAPER
A life of paper,
filling the bed, the house,
orphaned words everywhere.
(take 2)
A life of paper,
orphaned words filling the bed,
the house, everywhere.
IS SHE
Autistic or artistic
the Asperger's question of creativity
Flip a coin.
In the classroom
the poets flute brings order
to writing mayhem.
The wind stole
the poet's green flute, jealous
of his song.
Over the garbage
the poet sharpens his pencil
with his wit.
In deep woods
a child thinks of fairytales
imagines wolves howling.
The teacher screams
Be creative. Do it NOW.
A condescending note.
3/22
Wind poppies dancing
sun, cream and fire combusting
in deep grass.
Poet counts words
arranging them like ducklings all
in a row.
Archway defines both
the shape of the doorjam
and liminal boundaries.
Riot of blooms
rosemary prays to the sky
in lost remembrance.
In spring, rosemary
prays to a brooding sky
in azure remembrance.
By the roadside
paint buckets and snare drums
catch a beat.
Forgotten porchlight shines
captive starlight in a day
full of sunshine.
Porch light burns
a baleful eye glaring at
an empty sidewalk.
Tiger cat stalks
cabbage moth in a garden
of shadowed delight.
Madeleines and mint
tea, remembrance of things speaking
in small cat tongues.
On Monday morning
counting words in 3s & 5s
American haiku looons.
Crepe myrtle petals
seek asylum where royalty walks
in purple stains.
A Catholic guilt
crepe myrtle petals seek forgiveness
in purple asylum.
In Arequipa lawns
jacaranda blossoms settled like birds
amid green oases.
After the storm
jacaranda blossoms flock like birds
on suburban lawns.
A lone blossom
clinging to an apple tree
fruitlessly resists rain.
Lone blossom clinging
to a branch fruitlessly resists
the pounding rain.
Blossom fist grips
a branch and fruitlessly resists
the pounding rain.
Miriam's cheek smeared
with paint: good day at
the art studio.
Fat couple walks
up the street in tandem
clutching a pizzabox.
On the dashboard
dried roses cackle like chickens
beneath my fingers.
Even in fog
bluejay tail feathers still sing
in scissored rhapsodies.
Against yellow adobe
agave arms itself with centuries
of blue silence.
Beneath the pyracantha
robins stagger like old drunks
in holding tanks.
The redwood moans
like a young girl when
the wind twists it.
Spring fig leaves
dress the naked tree with
small green hands.
Two crows patrol
the road looking for carnage
on the line.
After a squall
white petals rim the puddles
like sea rime.
Laptop wi-fi scans
surveillance van #3 lurking
in the hood.
3/30
