Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Monday, September 29, 2025

Abu Ishaq Ibrahim al-Kanemi

Wikipedia's Map of the Almohad state.

Whilst revisiting old notes, we came across references to the poet Abu Ishaq Ibrahim al-Kanemi. Comparing how Djibo Hamani wrote about him to the short description of him in the second volume of Arabic Literature of Africa: The writings of Central Sudanic Africa. Vol. 2 raises many questions. Hamani, like the editors of the Arabic Literature of Africa, draws from an exceedingly difficult to find study by Mohammad Bencherifa. Bencherifa, the author of Ibrâhîm al-Kânimî (m. 609/1212–1213), figure illustre dans les relations culturelles entre le Maroc et Bilâd al-Sûdân uses all known works in Arabic that mention al-Kanemi. Consequently, it is the best study of al-Kanemi and used by both of our sources.

Where do the accounts differ? Djibo Hamani, whose Quatorze siecles d'histoire du Soudan Central: Le Niger du VIIè au XXè siecle refers to Bencherifa, adopts a somewhat speculative approach. Hamani, like our other source, mentions al-Kanemi's birth in Bilma, a town in Kawar. He apparently arrived in Marrakesh in 1198. As for his surnames, Hamani interprets al-Zakawani as an allusion to the Zaghawa, an appellation used by medieval Arabic sources to refer to some of the populations living in Kawar and Kanem (Hamani 57). In addition, al-Kanimi was said to have possessed a mastery of the Arabic language. He impressed the court of Almohad Marrakesh and befriended a prince, also named Abu Ishaq Ibrahim (al-Mansur). Through his elite connections, al-Kanimi was said to have married an Almohad princess named Zahra and to have moved to Seville. But by c.1212, al-Kanemi had died in Marrakesh (58). As one might expect, Hamani also wrote of al-Kanemi's writings in defense of his skin color. Alas, none of his poetry survives except for fragments of his verses praising Almohad rulers. The ultimate reason why al-Kanemi may have reached Marrakesh in the first place could have been diplomatic. Hamani seems to concur with Bencherifa that al-Kanemi may have traveled there on behalf of the rulers of Kanem, interested no doubt in securing trade routes after the fall of the Bani Khattab in the Fazzan (57). This diplomatic purpose may have also been why al-Kanemi spent a lot of time with the envoy of Saladin at the Almohad court, Ibn Hummaya. 

Arabic Literature of Africa: The writings of Central Sudanic Africa offers a very different interpretation of al-Kanemi. The editors present the variants of al-Kanemi's name in the sources. Rendered as Ibrahim b. Ya'qub al-Dhakwani al-Kanemi, the editors also mention his name written as Abu Ishaq Ibrahim b. Muhammad b. Faris b. Shakla b. Amr b. Abd Allah al-Sulami al-Dhakwani in al-Dhayl wa'l-takmila. Instead of mentioning the Zaghawa, they stress the Dhakwani origin in a branch of the Banu Sulaym, Arabs who migrated west from Egypt in the mid-11th century. Apparently, al-Kanemi wrote a poem about his Dhakwani ancestry, too. However, this source agrees with Hamani about the poet's birthplace in Bilma. Since his skin color was described by contemporaries as "jet-black," at least al-Kanemi's mother was black. Indeed, if his skin color was very dark, it is possible that any Arab ancestor was more than one generation ago. If one assumes al-Kanemi was probably born around 1155, then his Arab ancestor who came to Kawar might have been born a century before him. Interestingly, the ruler of Kanem when he traveled to Marrakesh is remembered in the Diwan for being very dark-skinned, too. Lange has suggested this was due to his mother, Hawa, being a Dabir, a Kanembu group. Is it possible al-Kanemi's mother came from a Kanembu population rather than a Teda-Daza one? In addition, al-Kanemi was said by one source to have been educated in Ghana before traveling to Marrakesh. Furthermore, his defensive poems about the color of his skin were addressed to both his wife, Zahra and the poet al-Jirawi. Lastly, he died in Andalusia, not Marrakesh.

A map of Kawar in The Oasis of Salt: The History of Kawar, a Saharan Centre of Salt Production by Knut S. Vikor.

Obviously, part of the divergence of opinions on this obscure Arabic poet and grammarian can be traced to the source material. Lost works, fragments of his poetry quoted by others or references by later chroniclers or writers likely led to errors about him. One thing is clear, however: al-Kanemi was a highly respected poet from Kanem. His dark-skin and verses in praise of it also suggest something about possible views in the Maghreb of this period. After all, why write verses in a defensive tone about one's color unless others were denigrating it? This early form of racism or colorism did not completely hinder his social ascension if he was accepted at the royal court as a great poet whose renown even reached the eastern Mediterranean. The accounts also agree on a Bilma and Kanem origin for al-Kanemi. By the late 12th century, Kawar was in Kanem's sphere of influence, thereby explaining the al-Kanemi nisba. What can one possibly surmise about al-Kanemi from this bundle of facts, speculations, and contradictions?

First, the Banu Sulaym origins. In Corpus of Early Arabic Sources for West African History edited by Levtzion and Hopkins, 2 references to the Banu Sulaym can be found. According to Ibn Khaldun, they were Arabs who lived in Ifriqiya, opposite the Targa (331). But, it is likely that some branches of the Banu Sulaym lived further east, in today's Libya, during the 11th and 12th centuries. If so, and al-Kanemi's alleged Banu Sulaym origins are not fabricated, he was probably a descendant of a member of this group that migrated to Kawar from today's Libya. Since his Arab pedigree might have dated back a few generations, this would match a timeline of the late 11th century for his Arab ancestor to have migrated to Kawar. Bilma, whose first appearance in written history can be traced to the late 10th century author al-Muhallabi, was already a major town or settlement in Kawar by the time of al-Kanemi. In fact, al-Idrisi's description of the region points to its wealth through the trade in alun (salt?) and its residents who traveled far as merchants. For instance, Ankalas, the town he identified as having the most trade, had residents who traveled to the Maghreb and Egypt. Its local ruler was said to be a generous Muslim (123-124). The region would naturally have attracted both traders and nomadic groups traversing the desert. In Bilma, which Yaqut described as a town with a sultan subject to the Zaghawa ruler (Kanem), al-Kanemi was likely exposed to people of Arab, Berber, Kanem origin. Our poet, al-Kanemi, was undoubtedly a product of this multicultural, Islamic space.

Close ties to Kanem are further supported by problematic mahrams which allude to the local Kawarian elites seeking protection from the mai of Kanem. Allegedly dating to the late 12th century, probably during the reign of Abd Allah Bakuru, they illustrate Kawar's strong ties with Kanem. Likewise, the Diwan indicates Kawar roots and connections for a number of maiwa in 11th century Kanem. In truth, al-Kanemi himself allegedly told a story about a supernatural phenomenon in Kanem that indicates he had traveled there. In this story, reported by al-Umari but derived from the Takmila by Abu Abd Allah Muhammad b. Abd al-Malik al-Marrakushi, al-Kanemi reported sightings of a objects that resemble pots of moving fire at night. When traveling at night, people in Kanem saw it and it moved away as they tried to get near (260). This strange tale is difficult to interpret, but might be some type of meteorological or astronomical phenomena. It nonetheless suggests that al-Kanemi also traveled to Kanem. Thus, it is possible part of his education, which must have included robust training in Arabic language, the Quran and poetry, took place in Kanem. 

Another early center of Islamic scholarship in West Africa, Ghana (the ancient kingdom and not today's Ghana), may have been where al-Kanemi furthered his studies. Ghana certainly gained a reputation by the 12th century as a kingdom where one could find jurists, scholars, Quran readers, and people who traveled to al-Andalus or Mecca. Descriptions of Ghana from al-Bakri, al-Zuhri, Abu Hamid al-Gharnati, and al-Sharishi mention these details in their works from the 12th and 13th centuries. Therefore, it is not inconceivable for al-Kanemi to have studied in the Western Sudan. In fact, his roots in Kawar might have been a factor if salt from the oases was sold to lands west of Kanem by the 12th century. Unfortunately, no sources exist to verify Islamic and Arabic literary education in Ghana that attracted students from as far away as Kanem. It would certainly be plausible for al-Kanemi's education to have been in Kanem and Kawar, where Islam was established and the Sayfawa rulers promoted the religion. This seems more likely given the deeper roots of Islam in Kawar than in Ghana. Even in Kanem, one of the early Muslim maiwa, Bir b. Dunama, was remembered in tradition as a pious and learned man. Ahmad b. Furtu, whilst chronicling the Kanem campaigns of Idris Alooma, alludes to him as a "learned and God-fearing sultan." Thus, the Sayfawa maiwa may have even sponsored his education or been the ones responsible for sending al-Kanemi to Marrakesh in the first place.

Overall, much of the life of Abu Ishaq Ibrahim al-Kanemi remains a mystery. Was he really educated in Ghana? Was his first voyage to Marrakesh a diplomatic mission on behalf of the king of Kanem? If so, are there any extant Almohad accounts of Kanem's diplomacy with Marrakesh, as with the Hafsids in Tunis? Moreover, was he of Banu Sulaym descent and when did they establish a presence in Kawar? If his education in Arabic grammar and poetry took place in Kanem, was he close to the Sayfawa dynasty? If so, was his mission to Marrakech ordered by Salma b. Hawa? What was his life like as a dark-skinned black man in the Almohad court? Many of these questions are unanswerable with the currently available evidence. Nonetheless, it is probable he was educated at least partly in the kingdom of Kanem. If he was serving in a diplomatic capacity at the Almohad court, he would need to be an educated figure to best represent the kingdom with Muslim powers to the north. Apparently, he was so impressive a poet and grammarian that it was worthwhile for him to stay. To conclude, here are some of his verses composed in praise of the Almohad ruler, Yaqub al-Mansur, recorded by Ibn Khallikan (translated by Levtzion and Hopkins in the Corpus, p.163):

He removed his veil but my eyes, out of awe, saw him 
through a veil.
His favor drew me near, but being near, out of awe, I 
found myself distant.

Saturday, August 23, 2025

Un campesino dominicano


The following is an entertaining décima by Juan Antonio Alix (posted at  https://poesiadominicana.jmarcano.com/). Essentially a list of words in Haitian Creole with their Spanish equivalents, the poem is interesting from a linguistic perspective. It's also intriguing to see the manner in which Haitian Creole is written by Hispanophones. Indeed, the Dominican Spanish term for our djon-djon is apparently casabe de bruja...Even if the campesino expresses bewilderment at the Creole language, he is able to communicate enough to sell andullos. 


que estuvo en Haití vendiendo unos andullos y
a su regreso tuvo una entrevista muy curiosa
con el que suscribe.

(A dos amigos puertoplateños)

Del campo un dominicano 
que pasó a vender andullos, 
en dos borriquitos suyos 
a no sé qué pueblo haitiano, 
así me contó: ¡critiano 
ni Dio comprende esa gente! 
Caicule que laguaidiente 
allá le dicen tafiá, 
a lo jalitao llengá 
y penchó ai pan caliente.

Los frijole colorao 
puá rus lo llaman allá, 
a la brujería guangá 
y a lo sombrero chapao. 
Malfiní é guaraguao 
lo guandule puá congó 
Bonyé le dicen a Dio, 
a lo brujo lugarú 
y a lo jefe dei judú 
le dicen papá Bocó.

Lo memo la macarela,
la titulan macrilló
lo molondrone gombó
y difé a la candela.
A la paila o casuela
le dicen allá shodié;
a lo sapato sulié,
puesón ai peje o pecao
y en siendo el arró graniao
le dicen durí grené.

Yo andube toitico Haití
y no encontré un condenao
que dijera bacalao
sino todo la murí.
Al arró llaman durí,
a la cebolla loñón,
a lo cochino cochón.
Lo fideo vermichel
a la sal le dicen sel
y creviche ai camarón.

En siendo peje salao
le dicen puesón salé
como banan bucané
llaman ai plátano asao.
Pero siendo sancochao
le dicen banan bullí,
a la ñica saloprí
a lo sajice pimán,
lo mamone cachimán
y a lo niño anfán pití.

Al agua le dicen gló,
ai queso llaman fromalle,
una rí e juna calle
y finí que se acabó;
allí nadie dice fó
como nosotro jaquí,
cuando viene a la narí
ei bajo de aigún parrá!
el haitiano dice allá:
«¡A la peté qui santi!»

Un sancocho, e ebullón
ñon eguille es una aguja
como ei casabe de bruja
ello lo llaman llonllón.
A lo caibone charbon,
ai quitasoi, paresol,
guanábana, corosol,
ñon chandel e juna vela;
y a la maidita viruela
le dicen pití verol.

Al aceite llaman huil,
aguacate sabocá,
y a la piña ananá
como porcanel, cajuil;
allá perejil, persil,
el melao allí siró,
lo mameye, abricó,
la yuca llaman mañoc,
a lo gallo viejo coc,
y ai sapo llaman grapó.

Lo que aquí llaman letrina
por allá e cae brulé,
como si dijera uté
la casa quemada en ruina,
donde allí la chamuchina
o gente de poca nota,
entra allí y se ñengota
en un brulé o aposento,
y se despacha al momento
dejando allí su pelota.

Conque saque uté la cuenta
siño Juan Antoño Elí,
y dígame si en Haití
cuaiquiera no se revienta;
en eso de compra y benta
yo le pueo asegurai,
que si no sabe coitai
de esa gente ei lenguaraje,
ni la toitilla dei biaje
uté no la pue sacai.

Jata otro día, con su licencia.

Saturday, July 19, 2025

Sur le morne lointain

Enjoy a poem by Oswald Durand with Vodou as a central theme. It certainly features an interesting use of repetition and rhythm

Sur le morne lointain, semé de blanches cases,
Le tambour qui rugit le chant mystérieux
Du magique vaudoux, aux divines extases,
Où l’on immole un bouc, où l’on brise des vases,
Enivre les papas, qui battent, furieux,
Le tambour qui rugit le champ mystérieux
Sur le morne lointain, semé de blanches cases.

En sons sourds, sibyllins, du gosier des sambas,
L’improvisation pleurant les dieux antiques,
Réveille les vieux morts qui gémissent là-bas,
Et guide les danseurs dans leurs lascifs ébats.
Les adeptes fervents écoutent, frénétiques,
L’improvisation pleurant les dieux antiques,
En sons sourds, sibyllins, du gosier des sambas.

Dans le fond où Legba gouverne les yeux mornes,
[73] Au pied du saint autel qu’entourent les houncis,
Dont les lugubres chants s’entendent dans les mornes,
On conduit le bouc noir, le bouc à quatre cornes,
Qui penche son front ceint de rubans cramoisis,
Au pied du saint autel qu’entourent les houncis,
Dans le fond où Legbas gouverne les yeux mornes.

Une sainte terreur emplit le lieu divin.
On ne voit que l’éclair de la mortelle lame.
Pour plaire au dieu vaudoux, le grand prêtre devin
Donne à boire aux élus le rhum mêlé de vin,
Brise le vase rouge et fait envoler l’âme…
On ne voit que l’éclair de la mortelle lame…
— Une sainte terreur emplit le lieu divin.

Sur le morne lointain semé de blanches cases,
Toujours le tambour dit le chant mystérieux.
Mais l’antique vaudoux, aux magiques extases,
Plus n’égorge le bouc, plus ne brise les vases.
Les papas ne sont plus, qui battent, furieux,
Le tambour qui rugit le chant mystérieux
Sur le morne lointain, semé de blanches cases.

Wednesday, June 19, 2024

Olympius among the Vandals

Latin poet Luxorius wrote a tribute of sorts to a popular, dark-skinned venator or beast-fighter in 6th century Carthage. A translation of the poem can be found here, translated by Art Beck. Below is Luxorious's praise of Olympius, who was an Egyptian:

The reason you’re so popular is that we’re grateful
for the show, Olympius, animal fighter. And
your name fits your gnarled body –– with the neck,
shoulders, biceps and back of a Hercules.
Astonishing, quick, daring, impetuous and ready for anything;
that you’re black doesn’t hurt your looks a bit.
Nature created, dark, precious ebony. Royal purple
glimmers deep within the noble murex.
Blue-black violets blossom in the soft grass.
Dark jewels invest us with a special grace.
The dusky trunk of the terrible elephant thrills us.
Black incense and pepper from the Indies civilize
us. Need I say more? Scarred by your countless
wins, you’re as beautiful in the people’s love
as those elegant fops are hateful.

Friday, March 15, 2024

Oswald Durand's Le Vaudoux

So interesting to read Oswald Durand's Vodou-inspired poetry which, like that of non-Haitian authors, relies on perhaps primitivist discourse on the Haitian religion. 
   

  

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

3 Dominicans, a Puerto Rican and Vodou

by Juan Antonio Alix

A ¡os amigos Domingo Russo y
Ventura Silverio, Ciudad.

Cumplíendo con sus deberes
La señora policía,
Ayer como a mediodía
Sorprendió cuatro mujeres
Que bailaban con placeres
El judú con un haitiano
Que también le echaron mano
Y lo tienen en chirona,
Porque esa buena persona
Del judú es buen hermano.

En la calle ‘Santa Ana”
Allí fué la fiesta armada,
Pero que a puerta cerrada
Celebraban su bacana.
Y como costumbre haitiana
El baile tuvo lugar,
Delante de un altar
Cubierto de lamparitas,

--------------
(1) A última hora hemos sabido que
el baile judú tuvo lugar en la calle de
la “Victoria” y no en la de “Santa Ana”.

Con siete mechas toditas
Para más iluminar.

Y unos infelices santos
En dicho altar se encontraban,
Y aquel baile presenciaban
Sin cubrirlos con sus mantos.

Y al son del tambor y cantos,
Bailarinas y gazones
Hacían miles contorsiones
Pero el chans, o proserpina~,
Atacó a una bailarina
Con muy crueles convulsiones.

También en aquel altar
Había un plátano asadó,
Maíz y maní tostado,
Pimienta y sal de la mar.
Y en ese mismo lugar
Encontró la policía,
Una lata que tenía
Agua verde y tan hedionda,
Que con repugnancia honda
El público la veía.

Entre dichas bailarinas
Había tres dominicanas,
Fragatas de cuatro andanas,
Y con buenas culebrinas.

La otra es de las vecinas
De la tierra borinqueña,
Corbeta puertorriqueña
De cien cañones por banda
Que por estos trigos anda
Alegre y siempre risueña.

El gran musié del judú
O ya sea el gran papá,
Es un tal musié Grambuá,
De la societé D’Otrú.
Pájaro muy lugarú
Y gran profesor haitiano,
De ese fandango africano
Que se nos mete de lleno;
Y si no hay Gobierno bueno
Adiós pueblo quisqueyano!

Al fin comeremos gente, si Dios no
mete su mano.

Santiago, Julio 30 de 1904. 

Friday, July 3, 2020

The Tales of Ise

I was pleasantly surprised to see how readable The Tales of Ise can be. Translated by Peter Macmillan, it's smooth, engaging, and lyrical while taking the reader on a journey to Heian Japan. Based around 125 episodes combining poetry and prose, the narrative is a fictionalized take on the life of aristocrat Ariwara no Narihira. Most of the episodes concern Narihira's love affairs and poetic messages to past and present women in his life. Some also contrast the countryside with the elite court culture of the capital (modern Kyoto) and describe various regions of Honshu. Reading this after the Ochikubo Monogatari, one can see how The Tales of Ise influenced future monogatari through its subject matter, tropes, and combination of poetry and prose. 

Like Ochikubo Monogatari, men and women often communicate through love poems, and the courtly culture of the capital is clearly the main social arena through which the various characters interact. However, unlike the husband of Lady Ochikubo, Narihira is a womanizer who is constantly wooing or sleeping with various women of all social classes (countrywomen, women of higher rank, lusting for his own sister), including the Priestess of Ise. I personally think Ochikubo Monogatari is, at times, a defense of monogamy possibly written by a woman. Ise Monogatari, on the other hand, seems to lack any judgment of the various affairs of Narihira, and takes the reader on an endless romp with the various successful and unsuccessful conquests of its protagonists. At times, one cannot help but admire him though, as he decides to stay with country women or, in one case, with an older woman to please others besides himself. 

In its combination of poetry and prose to tell a (somewhat) central narrative, it also brings to mind the far older Satyricon of Petronius. While Petronius's comic "novel" is more of a satire on Rome from nearly 2000 years ago, both texts combine poetry and prose to propel a narrative centered on a man and his amorous affairs. Encolpius is far less likable or romantic than Narihira, but both engage with a variety of social classes in their various amorous affairs across their respective territories. The Tales of Ise, however, actually consists of well-written poetry and contains less humor. Yet, both are bound together by their episodic nature of life in highly stratified ancient societies. Ultimately, The Tales of Ise is the more rewarding work because of the incomplete nature of The Satyricon, but it is interesting to see how early "fiction" in both the "Western" and "Eastern" contexts evolved from a combination of verse and prose. 

Monday, January 20, 2020

Friday, October 18, 2019

Jazz (Laleau)


Le trombone vient d'Honolulu,
De la Barbade, le saxophone,
Et le grand mulâtre au nez poilu
Qui grimace une chanson bouffonne,
Un soir, s'est enfui de Port-de-Paix.

"Mais avec qui des trois, se demande,
(Tous les trois ont de crépus toupets!)
Se demande la putaine flamande,
Avec qui passerai-je ma nuit,
Pour n'avoir pas une nuit d'ennui"?



Toque marron, gourmette en or à la cheville,
Tu disculpes l'amour où ton cœur s'ennuyait.
Et, comme au bout d'un vers trop fait, quelque cheville
Orgueilleuse, un rubis rutile à ton poignet.

Au cendrier, ton Abdulah s'épuise, Hortense,
Bleuissant de parfum ton rêve, ou ton ennui.
Et le nègre du Jazz décuple d'importance
Quand jusqu'à lui, tes yeux élargissent leur nuit.

Son rire alors, bordé de sang, fendu de nacre,
Vous griffe l'air qu'il hurle, en le scandant des reins.
Sanglots gluants du saxophone... Fumée âcre...
Et meurt le blues, parmi des lambeaux de refrains.

The above poems, from Leon Laleau's Musique nègre, published in 1931, provide an interesting example of jazz's influence on Haitian poetry at the time. An English translation of the first poem can be found here.

Sunday, October 13, 2019

Douze-et-Demi

Eructation pénible
du saxophone
qui crache
dans le soir lourd
des notes discordantes.
Dans la salle basse,
où flotte,
dense, 
un parfum de luxure
les couples
se trémoussant
au rhythme de la méringue
exhalent l'âcre odeur
de bêtes en rut. 
Et dans le coin ombreux
qu'illumine
son sourire de noire, 
je tâche d'étouffer
le spleen
que me tue.

The above poem, by Daniel Heurtelou, was published in La Revue Indigène. Unsurprisingly, the indigenist publication welcomed contributions such as the above, which immersed themselves in the folkloric and cultural practices of the masses. It is also a priceless account of the douze et demi balls popular among the working-class quarters of Port-au-Prince since the late 19th century. In J. Michael Dash's Literature and Ideology in Haiti, 1915–1961, he translates a section of the poem and highlights the eroticism and debauchery of it. The nightclub scene, melancholy, and undeniable sexual character of the the scene exemplify this. However, the poem is also a useful description, from a presumably bourgeois poet's perspective, of popular urban music of the 1920s. The use of saxophone, references to the meringue, discordant notes, and heavy odor of the venue are striking visual cues to the douze et demi balls of the era. 

According to Georges Corvington, the douze et demi balls arose in the second half of the 19th century. Because the cost of admission was douze et demi, they received said name. The earliest ones mentioned began with Carnival bandleaders who formed more permanent groups that performed regularly on Saturday evenings in Bel-Air and other neighborhoods. Corvington identified one of these pioneer Carnival bandleaders as Destiné of Bel-Air. In the 19th century, the previous instrumentation of these bands usually contained violin, clarinet, tambourines, and triangle. Presumably, other instruments associated with Carnival bands or parades could also be heard, such as banjo, guitar, mandolin, accordion, or  The favored dance was the "bambocha," noted by Corvington to be a relation to the meringue. However, since Carnival music in Bel-Air and other non-elite areas of the city were more likely to incorporate African traditions and elements of Haitian music, it is probable that these douze et demi orchestras did, at first glance, come across as "rough" or "discordant" compared to the elite balls, salons, and masquerades. 
Intriguingly, Heurtelou's poem indicates the use of saxophone in these bands by the 1920s, although they were still performing meringues (perhaps more akin to the koudyay Carnival styles). New instruments that were also used in bands performing Cuban music or American jazz may even indicate the intrusion of said styles in the douze et demi bands. With the growth of Port-au-Prince during this time of US Occupation and further centralization, packed dancehalls providing entertainment for the urban lower classes would have been necessary. Furthermore, Haitian poets making literary use of this development perhaps mirrors that of African American poetic incorporation of blues and jazz elements. This cheap entertainment's appeal to hide or assuage the melancholy of the narrator may speak to his alienation under US Occupation, or, perhaps, the effects of US capitalist penetration into Haitian society. In short, much could be made of the use of free verse, the origins of the narrator's melancholy, and transformations in urban music during this era. 

Saturday, January 12, 2019

Puerto Rican Obituary


This classic poem by Pedro Pietri holds up very well as an expression of "Nuyorican" literature and the New York City of its era. In light of the importance of Colon and Vega's earlier works in understanding the working-class and impoverished conditions of Puerto Rican migrants in the American metropolis, Pietri captures that oppressive experience brilliantly with the postwar generation. New York comes horrifically to life in the poems of Pietri, whose justifiable rage against the Vietnam War, the exploitation of workers, easy credit rip-offs, public housing projects and US imperialism demand the reader's attention. It is indeed a long, non-profit ride from Spanish Harlem to Long Island cemetery. 

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Derek Walcott's Laventille

 It huddled there
steel tinkling its blue painted metal air,
tempered in violence, like Rio's favelas,

with snaking, perilous streets whose edges fell as
its Episcopal turkey-buzzards fall
from its miraculous hilltop

shrine,
down the impossible drop
to Belmont, Woodbrook, Maraval, St. Clair

that shine
like peddlers' tin trinkets in the sun.
From a harsh

shower, its gutters growled and gargled wash 
past the Youth Centre, past the water catchment,
a rigid children's carousel of cement;

we climbed where lank electric
lines and tension cables linked its raw brick
hovels like a complex feud,

where the inheritors of the middle passage stewed,
five to a room, still clamped below their hatch,
breeding like felonies,

whose lives revolve round prison, graveyars, church.
Below bent breadfruit trees
in the flat, coloured city, class

escalated into structures still,
merchant, middleman, magistrate, knight. To go downhill
from here was to ascend.

The middle passage never guessed its end.
This is the height of poverty
for the desperate and black;

climbing, we could look back
with widening memory
on the hot, corrugated-iron sea
whose horrors we all

shared. The salt blood knew it well,
you, me, Samuel's daughter, Samuel,
and those ancestors clamped below its grate.

And climbing steeply past the wild
gutters, it shrilled
in the blood, for those who suffered, who were killed, 

and who survive.
What other gift was there to give
as the godparents of his unnamed child?

Yet outside the brown annex of the church, the
stifling odour of bay rum and talc, the particular,
neat sweetness of the crowd distressed

that sense. The black, fawning verger, 
his bow tie akimbo, grinning, the clown-gloved
fashionable wear of those I deeply loved

once, made me look on with hopelessness and rage
at their new, apish habits, their excess
and fear, the possessed, the self-possessed;

their perfume shrivelled to a childhood fear
of Sabbath graveyards, christenings, marriages,
that muggy, steaming, self-assuring air

of tropical Sabbath afternoons. And in
the church, eyes prickling with rage,
the children rescued from original sin

by their Godfather since the middle passage,
the supercilious brown curate, who intones,
healing the guilt in these rachitic bones,
twisting my love within me like a knife:
"across the troubled waters of this life..."

Which of us cares to walk 
even if God wished
those retching waters where our souls were fished

for this new world? Afterwards, we talk
in whispers, close to death
among these stones planted on alien earth.

Afterwards,
the ceremony, the careful photograph
moved out of range before the patient tombs,

we dare a laugh, 
ritual, desperate words,
born like these children from habitual wombs,

from lives fixed in the unalterable groove
of grinding poverty. I stand out on a balcony
and watch the sun pave its flat, golden path

across the roofs, the aerials, cranes, the tops
of fruit trees crawling downward to the city.
Something inside is laid wide like a wound,

some open passage that has cleft the brain,
some deep, amnesiac blow. We left
somewhere a life we never found,

customs and gods that are not born again,
some crib, some grille of light
clanged shut on us in bondage, and withheld

us from that world below us and beyond,
and in its swaddling cerements we're still bound.

Monday, November 9, 2015

Ishmael Reed Times 3

I have been reading and listening to talks given by Ishmael Reed in the last few days. His radio interviews, readings, essays, fiction, and, now, his poetry, are always worthwhile for critical insight on US politics, race, literature, or history. Here are some of my favorite Reed "reads" and things I enjoyed in the last week or so.

1. I just finished Reed's satirical novel, The Terrible Twos. A masterful (and humorous) take on the 1980s, the rise of evangelicals in political power, Christmas, and Saint Nicholas, few aspects of mass consumerism and greed escape unscathed in Reed's book. Although one finds it challenging the first time around to keep track of the numerous characters who populate the book, there are conspiracies, excellent one-liners, and excessive wackiness to keep the reader entertained and laughing. While not as engaging as Mumbo Jumbo in its conspiracies, allusions, or historical references, The Terrible Twos does foresee some of the huge problems of the Reagan era. A friend of mine recently wrote an excellent short story rich in satire and stylistically reminiscent of Reed, so if they are reading this, I hope they keep working on mastering satire.

2. My second favorite Reed find was an engaging 1976 radio interview with Charles Ruas on Flight to Canada. What ensued was a conversation on Flight to Canada, Lincoln, slavery, Haiti, and Reed's interest in Vodun. Reed mentions traveling to Haiti and visiting the lovely Episcopal Cathedral in Port-au-Prince and its exquisite murals in the so-called naive style of Haitian painting. My question: why did Reed shift away from his Vodun interests and symbolism in subsequent fiction? The Hoodoo or neo-Hoodoo aesthetics and influences seem to disappear from Reed's subsequent fiction, but perhaps that's just a sign I need to read his recent novels.

3. The third and most intriguing Reed find was last night, listening to a 2006 reading of his poetry. As someone who usually sticks to novels and short stories, I am unfamiliar with most of Reed's poetry. Clearly, that was a mistake to avoid his poetry because they're actually very informative, entertaining and witty. How could anyone dislike "When I Die I Will Go to Jazz" if you are a jazz fan?

Friday, September 11, 2015

Johannesburg Mines (Langston Hughes)

In the Johannesburg mines
There are 240,000 natives working.

What kind of poem
Would you make out of that?

240,000 natives working
In the Johannesburg mines.

Friday, July 17, 2015

Nostalgie par René Depestre

Enjoy a lovely poem by René Depestre which expresses his nostalgia for Haiti. I found the middle stanza the most moving and powerful. 

Ce n’est pas encore l’aube dans la maison
La nostalgie est couchée à mes côtés.
Elle dort, elle reprend des forces,
Ça fatigue beaucoup la compagnie
D’un nègre rebelle et romantique.
Elle a quinze ans, ou mille ans,
Ou elle vient seulement de naître
Et c’est son premier sommeil
Sous le même toit que mon cœur.

Depuis quinze ans ou depuis des siècles
Je me lève sans pouvoir parler
La langue de mon peuple,
Sans le bonjour de ses dieux païens
Sans le goût de son pain de manioc
Sans l’odeur de son café du petit matin.
Je me réveille loin de mes racines,
Loin de mon enfance,
Loin de ma propre vie.

Depuis quinze ans ou depuis que mon sang
Traversa en pleurant la mer
La première vie que je salue à mon réveil
C’est cette inconnue au front très pur
Qui deviendra un jour aveugle
À force d’user ses yeux verts
À compter les trésors que j’ai perdus.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

When the Tom-Tom Beats

Enjoy Jacques Roumain's "When the Tom-Tom Beats", translated by African-American literary giant Langston Hughes, courtesy of Poetry Nook. For another translation from May 1943, check out Poetry Foundation's page for a version from L.C. Kaplan. It is worth nothing that the water blends with the audience of the poem in the Hughes translation, but Kaplan's omits that. Hughes, who wrote similar poetry, seems to capture the deeper meaning of Roumain's poetry and its message for readers of African descent, particularly mixed-race readers who reject their African ancestry but cannot escape it. 

Your heart trembles in the shadows, like a face reflected in troubled water
The old mirage rises from the pit of the night
You sense the sweet sorcery of the past:
A river carries you far away from the banks,
Carries you toward the ancestral landscape.
Listen to those voices singing the sadness of love
And in the mountain, hear that tom-tom panting like the breast of a young black girl

Your soul is this image in the whispering water where your fathers bent their dark faces
Its hidden movements blend you with the waves
And the white that made you a mulatto is this bit of foam cast up, like spit, upon the shore

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Morisseau-Leroy Reads His Work

Enjoy a reading by Morisseau-Leroy of his Creole poems from Haiti Radio Selections! I believe (correct me if I am wrong) Dyakout was the first published book of Haitian Creole poems, and Morisseau-Leroy always supported writing in Haitian Creole, the language used by the overwhelming majority of Haitians. He saves the most powerful poem for last, "Mèsi Papa Desalin" (which can also be read here, including an English translation). 

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Tired and Merry Christmas

I am currently reading The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes, edited by Arnold Rampersad and David Roessel. Of the multiple poems in this collection that spoke to me, these two below were the most meaningful. The anger of Hughes in the 1930s and his internationalist outlook are especially interesting considering how we tend to limit writers along national lines.

Tired

I am so tired of waiting,
Aren't you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.


Merry Christmas 

Merry Christmas, China,
From the gun-boats in the river,
Ten-inch shells for Christmas gifts,
And peace on earth forever.

Merry Christmas, India,
To Gandhi in his cell,
From righteous Christian England,
Ring out, bright Christmas bell!

Ring Merry Christmas, Africa,
From Cairo to the Cape!
Ring Hallehuiah! Praise the Lord!
(For murder and for rape.)

Ring Merry Christmas, Haiti!
(And drown the voodoo drums--
We'll rob you to the Christian hymns
Until the next Christ comes.)

Ring Merry Christmas, Cuba!
(While Yankee domination 
Keeps a nice fat president
In a little half-starved nation.)

And to you down-and-outers,
("Due to economic laws")
Oh, eat, drink, and be merry
With a bread-line Santa Claus--

While all the world hails Christmas,
While all the church bells sway!
While, better still, the Christian guns
Proclaim this joyous day!

While holy steel that makes us strong
Spits forth a mighty Yuletide song:
SHOOT Merry Christmas everywhere!
Let Merry Christmas GAS the air!