|
Books by Kalamu ya
Salaam
The Magic of JuJu: An Appreciation of the Black Arts
Movement /
360:
A Revolution of Black Poets
Everywhere Is Someplace Else: A Literary Anthology
/
From A Bend in the River: 100 New Orleans Poets
Our Music Is No Accident /
What Is Life: Reclaiming the Black Blues Self
My Story My Song (CD)
*
* * * *
five.
a decade of development
(contd.)
The final
book of poetry in the Ahidiana period was Iron Flowers. A
trip to Haiti in August 1979 affected me so strongly that I
started writing the book during the last couple of days in Haiti
and finished everything within a matter of days upon returning.
For this book the cover and borders were done by Douglas Redd,
who by then was the main artist I worked with. But the book also
included photographs which I had taken in Haiti. Next to Revolutionary
Love, I like this one the best from cover to cover. In fact,
in terms of consistency, unlike Revolutionary Love, I
like all of the poems in the Iron Flowers. Again, there
are two poems which stand out. One is the last piece selection
in the book titled "Tomorrows' Toussaints". The other
is "Beyond The Boundaries", the poem I most often read
from the book. Iron Flowers was printed in black and red ink on
the cover with black only on the inside, on a translucent,
semi-parchment eggshell white paper.
|
Tomorrows'
Toussaints
this
is Haiti, a state
slaves
snatched from surprised masters,
its
high lands, home of this
world's
sole successful
slave
revolt, Haiti, where
freedom
has flowered and flown
fascinating
like long necked
flamingoes
gracefully feeding
on
snails in small pinkish
sunset
colored sequestered ponds
despite
the meanness
and
meagerness of life
eked
out of eroding soil
and
from exploited urban toil, there
is
still so much beauty here in this
land
where the sea sings roaring a shore
and
fecund fertile hills lull and roll
quasi
human in form
there
is beauty here
in
the unyielding way
our
people,
colored
charcoal, and
banana
beige, and
shifting
subtle shades
of
ripe mango, or strongly
brown-black,
sweet
as
the suck from
sun
scorched staffs
of
sugar cane,
have
decided
we
shall survive
we
will live on
a
peasant pauses
clear
black eyes
searching
far out over the horizon
the
hoe motionless, suspended
in
the midst
of
all this shit and suffering
forced
to bend low
still
we stop and stand
and
dream and believe
we
shall be released
we
shall be released
for
what slaves
have
done
slaves
can do
and
that begets
the
beauty
slaves
can do |
* *
* * *
|
Beyond
The Boundaries
(meditating
on the meaning of life)
I.
who
am i
who
visits
who
stares at sights
who
strains to catch the
drift
of conversations
who
bathes
who
dresses
who
eats
sometimes
two or
more
times a day?
what
does my black skin
mean
to similarly skinned people
when
there is money
in
my pockets
and
no pockets
on
their pants
or
when
I glide pass
at
a hundred kilometers
an
hour as they
trudge
step by step
cross
rolling mountain side?
these
are tense questions
testing
my thought
II.
who
asks for their lot
who
chooses parents, or
selects
birthing spot
i
have I.D., U.S. certified,
but
what is my identity
Haiti
haunts me
there
are eyes I saw
in
those hills
in
the silence of those
noisy
nights, Haiti
i
turn over
back
to the wall
even
in the dark
i
keep seeing me
beyond
myself
climbing
to the side
of
some overfull tap-tap*
singing
out in comfortable tongue
"keep
going,
keep
going, don't stop
i'm alright!" Haiti,
are
we,
are
we alright?
congealed
into too many urban areas
our
people idly littering stolen streets, oh
these
spaces are so bitter
Africa
has had
to
walk so many rough waters
we
need rest
we
need rest but must
press
on, "keep going,
keep
going,"
never
mind that the
particulars
of our nativity
are
luck and circumstance
what
we do
with
our after birth
is
the singular
importance
III.
who
knows what Toussaint
lurks
in the heart of Haiti
how
can we new slaves
of
an old world order
not
be Haitian
not
have fight
and
freedom flowing
in
our veins
flashing,
flaming like
gold
shooting through
sturdy
human hills
never
mind the language,
a
barrier, breakthrough
the
dress code
a
barrier, breakthrough
the
lay of the land
a
barrier, breakthrough
breakthrough,
yes
individualities
do differ
but
essences, our
essences
rise and converge
IV.
go
beyond the boundaries,
where
we're coming from
matters
matters
so much more
than
where we've been
where
we were born
if
we fail to recognize
that
there is no one
human
who is totally foreign
then
we ourselves will
fail
to become anyone
oh
Haiti, Haiti
Haiti,
heart of hurt
Haiti,
heart of hope
you
hit so hard
at
the meanings of life
the
call of
conch
shells
caper
so softly
cross
our verdant
land,
cross valley
cross
water, Haiti
everywhere
we
hear your history
somewhere
slightly west
of
here, in Jamaica, we say
i
and i
i
and i
meaning
I am
i
and I am
you
and you are i
and
you are you and
it
is getting late
and
I fall asleep
awakened
by
this important
Haitian
hiatus
and
become a
different
person
more
conscious
of
all I am |
At the time I had no
idea how true a statement I had made regarding becoming "a
different person." Ahidiana had survived the split in the
Black nationalist movement which might crudely be characterized
as the cultural and/or revolutionary nationalists versus the
neo-marxists. By the early eighties we begun to sense a
development which we had not foreseen but which, in retrospect,
had been accurately forecasted by Fanon in the Wretched of the
Earth. Essentially, the Black Liberation struggle fractured and
much of the energy that had previously gone into organizing
oppositional activities and alternative institution building was
now going into participation in electoral politics and reform
oriented activities.
The
first successes at getting Black politicians elected inevitably
led to more and more, and more and more, and more people jumping
on the electoral platform. The Congress of African People gave
way to the National Black Political Assembly. It was as if the
whole Black nation had been persuaded that the best course of
action was working for reform from within rather than continuing
to work at building alternative institutions outside of the
system. Yes, we really were becoming different and most of our
nationalist oriented organizations, Ahidiana included, did not
survive past the mid-eighties.
In
June 1980 we produced my last Ahidiana book,
Our Women Keep Our
Skies From Falling. It was my most radical and effective
work. The title was a paraphrase of the Chinese line that
"women hold up half the sky." The essays reflected our
most thorough going critique of sexism. By then we were
presenting lesbians at our annual Black Women's Conferences.
This
book was popular in women's groups across the country. Both
complete essays and excerpts were reprinted in newsletters and
anthologies. Some of the essays were published in major Black
journals of the period, including The Black Scholar and Black
Books Bulletin. But even more popular than the essays were
two of the poems: "Pa Ferdinand" and "...And
Raise Beauty To Another Level Of Sweetness". Each poem has
a story.
Skies
was dedicated to my father. People would ask how did I come to
such a point of view as expressed in my writings. I would
invariably point to my father. From the civil rights days on, he
actively supported me and my brothers. When I joined FST he told
me with pride how he had been involved in drama at one time.
When we went into revolutionary struggle at SUNO, including
arming ourselves, he supported me. But more than all of that, he
always evidenced a respect and love for Black women that never
failed to inspire me. He would bust our behinds at a moment's
notice, but he never struck my mother, in fact, seldom even
raised his voice even though he was quite sarcastic in talking
about some of her teacher friends whom he kindly described as
"phony."
On
the back of Skies there is a portrait of him and me
standing next to the pecan tree in our back yard which he
planted when we first moved there in the mid fifties. He was so
proud of this book and I was proud of him. "Pa
Ferdinand" was selected by Ruby Dee and included as part of
the text of an article she wrote in Ebony magazine whose
readership is over a million.
"Raise
Beauty" is altogether different. It was actually written as
an advertisement for a special Black woman's issue of The
Black Collegian magazine. There was no particular person or
incident inspiring this poem other than my publisher directing
me to develop something "different." The brochure
advertising that issue was sent out to recruiters in major
corporations across the country. I didn't care whether they
understood the poem or not, I wanted to make a statement of
support for Black women. Over the years, church groups and
community organizations would reprint the poem.
The
community's acceptance and use of both "Pa Ferdinand"
and "Raise Beauty" embody the most profound examples
of what we considered to be the usefulness of revolutionary
Black art, whether a personal statement such as "Pa
Ferdinand" or a straight out political statement such as
"Raise Beauty." These, and other poems like them,
achieved the broad community acceptance and usage which was the
goal of my writing.
|
PA
FERDINAND
(on
this man's foundation i build
my
political support of feminism)
my
father
is
a solid stepper
amid
a generation
of
soft shoers
&
scuffling shufflers
was
young with
WW
II, did not die
nor
get discouraged
but
rather fought
on
both fronts
and
unflinchingly brought
the
fight back
home,
after
korea
a
country boy
who
walked miles
for
school & job
he
married the minister's
daughter
(who was
a
school teacher)
but
never went
out
to lunch for
class
or church,
could
sing but usually
kept
his baritone
at
home
i
remember him home
making
us work
rising
with the sun
and
planting food
in
the city
i
remember him home
waxing
floors
on
his knees
and
requiring his sons
to
follow his lead learning
to
cook and clean
but
mostly
i
remember him man
teaching
me
consistency:
the
importance
of principle,
the
necessity of
struggle
and the
immense
beauty
of
interrelating
with
a good woman
what
more could
a
son receive
from
a father
than
the realness
of
life lived
like
a conscious
African(american)
man!
sho-nuff
simply doing
his
duty, in his own
context,
in his own
space
and time. |
* * * *
*
|
...AND
RAISE BEAUTY TO
ANOTHER
LEVEL OF SWEETNESS
You
are a fresh flower
bursting
boldly
into
a hard world
with
a softness
strong
as steel
Reaching
for sunlight
you
raise yourself
up
from down under
out
of the degrading dirt
society
has so routinely
dumped
on women,
you
have transformed
manure,
muck and mire
into
fertilizer
Springing
self assertedly
past
winter weather
you
bring a sweet fragrant
incense
and inspiration
into
musty places
stale
with the stuffiness
of
misogynic sexist
status
quos
You
blossom, you bloom,
you
expand and grow,
raising beauty
to
a bedazzling higher
and
healthier level of
light,
life and love
Grow
on Black rose
Black
woman grow on! |
Ahidiana continued to publish pamphlets and journals.
Much of my time was taken up with political organizing. The
movement was reaching a point of transformation. When Black
power zigged toward electoral politics, I zagged. Shortly after
Ernest Morial was elected the first Black mayor of New Orleans,
I was one of the leaders of a take over of the mayor's office
around the issue of police brutality. That was the culmination
of one phase and the beginning of another.
By 1983 I left The Black Collegian. And that was
just the beginning. Piece by piece, the foundation and
inspiration for my artistic work crumbled and I was forced to
reexamine everything: everything I believed, everything I had
achieved, and every dream I had ever conceived. Although I would
write a great deal, it would be a long time before I would
publish another book of poetry. In retrospect, I understand what
happened, but at the time it was all touch and go, day to day
struggling to survive. * *
* * * |
