| Iron Flowers
sluggish, semi-stagnant
the water in Haitian gutters,
small gullets, trickles green
sewerage green, here even
the dirt is poor and
there is cloying dullness
camouflaging even strongly
persistent colors
in squared, white-walled
cemeteries
funeral flowers are made of
painted iron/i see no roses
rising through this Port
Au Prince poverty
i hesitate to take pictures
it is like thievry
almost like
i am stealing precious light
that these, my brothers and
sisters,
need to live * * *
* * 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 * *
* * * |
