i am the darker brother.

WHEN WE SPEAK TRUTHS
OUR OPPRESSORS REFUSE TO LISTEN
MELODIC WORDS CHOKE UP IN OUR THROATS
DON’T EVEN BECOME WHISPERS
THEY TRICKLE BACK DOWN OUR WINDPIPES
CUT OFF OUR OXYGEN SUPPLY
THEY BLIND US WITH STIFLING RAGE
EAT AWAY AT OUR FLESH
FESTER LIKE SORES ALL OVER OUR SKIN
BRANDED BY LABELS
SHACKLED BY HANDCUFFS
SEDATED BY DRUGS AND RELIGION
THESE UNFORMED DEFORMED POEMS CAUSE US
TO LEAVE THIS WORLD
TEN YEARS BEFORE OUR TIME
OR THEY SIMPLY DIE BEFORE THEY ARE BORN
THERE ARE NO POEMS FOR AFRICAN AMERICANS

—joseph long, there are no poems for african americans.

Emotions fell overboard as
Your eager tongue washed by body
Waves of ecstasy pounded and
I drowned in your caress.

—errol a. edwards, going down.

I was taught
men marry women
have two point five kids
ranch homes in suburbs
with impossibly green lawns
surrounded by
pristine white picket fences
shop at pathmark and k-mart
buy tools from sears
go to church every sunday
pray for salvation
find mistresses when bored

I was told
it was wrong to
love another man
touch the way I do
mingle spirits and fluids
feel okay about who I am
listen to my heart
expose the real me
admit to being gay

I was warned
that if I swallowed my
unconventional desires
slept with a man
satisfied wants
fulfilled needs
I would burn in hell
fry forever

So
I tell them
“Start the barbecue”

—rory buchanan, barbeques.

People don’t yawn where I come from
the way they yawn around here
with
the hand over the mouth

I want to yawn without a lot of fuss
my body doubled up
in the smells that torment the life
I’ve made for myself
out of their ugly dog of a winter
out of their sun that couldn’t
even
warm up
the coco juice that i used to gurgle
in my stomach when I woke

Let me yawn
with my hand
here
on my heart
obsessed by all those things
that in one day one single day
I turned my back on

—léon damas, good breeding.

three centuries dragged their boots
over your night-black face
and left great pools of pain
your head like a calabash gourd was steeped
int he western poison
forced in by edicts
by lashes of leather
and handcuffs of nickel
back in those days…
the rocks had no soul
and kisses were bitter
and you had to pluck hard
at the rainbow strings
on the guitar of time
to hear the jazz
your blood was craving
ah but now the time as come
my people
when you have
to wash your wounds
int he rum of youthful madness
the time has come my people
when you have
to run from the master’s carnival
and plunge your ebony arms
into the clay flesh of your path
to hang your drums
in the place of silences
to shatter the howling of the dogs
ravishers of civilization and listen for the message
of all the galaxies

—joseph polius, awakening.

I’ll go off all alone one day
with no goodbyes to those I love
I’ll go off with my heart that used to be so heavy
I’ll separate myself from life
softly
like a ripened fruit
and hardly will the ones who love me
even realize I’m gone
already I”ll be far away
far out beyond my agony
I shall have ceased long since to be a man

only to be a bit of earth
a bit of earth spinning
spinning
round and round
in the sun…

—auguste desportes, departure.

Africa my Africa
Africa of the bold warriors roaming ancestral plains
Africa whose praise my grandmother sings
Beside her distant river
Never have I known you
But my glance is filled with your blood
Your fine black blood scattered over the fields
Blood of your swear
Swear of your toil
Toil of your enslavement
Enslavement of your children
Africa tell me Africa
Can this be you this back that bends
To cringe beneath the burden of humility
This trembling red-striped back
That says yes to the lash along the noonday path
I heard a voice gravely reply
O my impetuous son that robust tree
That young tree standing there
Proudly alone among the white and faded flowers
That is Africa your Africa growing again
Growing again patiently stubbornly
Your Africa whose fruits little by little
Take on the biting taste of liberty.

—david diop, africa.

Sun behind, shadow before!
A gourd sitting on a head held proud,
A breast, a bit of loin-cloth quivering,
Two feet that wipe the pattern from the sand.

—annette m’baye, silhouette.

There are hearts that beat in time
with suffering

Hears that beat the rhythm
of joy

Hearts that sob

Hearts in ecstasy and draped
with flags

Hearts that are thirsting

Hears that are helpless…

No more are these the hearts once loved
They have been cast from every
city town and village.
But wait.

these are the hearts that will build
The Temple of the coming world.

—joseph miezan bognini, hearts.

fire and stream I mean
the sea to drink up following the shore
feet and hands
deep in the heart to love
this stream within the peoples me again
around the fire did I so much as tell you
of my race
here and there a river flows
flames are the glance
of those who gloat upon it
I told you of my race
and it remembers
the molten strength of bronze drunk hot

—gérald féliz tchicaya u tam’si, brush fire.

We shall go off
Beyond the cactus-trees
We shall of off at dawn
Before the stars have faded away
Before the words have turned to rust
We shall go off
Over the pathways that lead among the regions of decay
Beating the tom-tom-tom of Joy
To make the barren breast delight
The awkward stumps come flourishing back to life
To make the Lion pasture with the Lamb
And the urchin run behind his rolling hoop
We shall go off
Beating the tom-tom-tom of Joy
For those who are saved
So that one and all
May eat the same couscous
In the humble hut of Love

—charles ngandé, we shall go off.

Girl of the full firm bosom, of loins more fertile than the banks of Nile,
I shall wait for you in my endless orchards, when the mangoes waft their perfumed breath like incense-burners,
And when the wind waves giant fans and spreads its subtle gifts.
Then, in Bairam, early one evening you will come, black beauty, behind your veil of white.
I shall welcome you amid the wedding chants and rhapsodies of the blood.
I shall be dressed in dreaming, but no mirror in my hut,
Only the green of your eyes to drown that longing in.

—siriman cissoko, girl of the full firm bosom…

With one ear
turned
toward centuries
drowning
along the darkened
road of time

Oh! Naftaye
you told me tales
about my culture’s past
Thought made drunk
on my Somali race

And like
that fine sand
in the hollow
of a hand
you slipped
into the past
where only the spirit
can go
gleaning

—william j.f. syad, yesterday

Sunlit chain my heart wears round its neck
my childhoods are strung out like living stones

Childhoods scattered
on the wind of the hills on the heat of the sand
skipping along my tousled yesteryears
and on your lips there hung the warm delights
of guavas bursting ripe in burning summer heat
Childhoods unchecked
dragging your bare heels against all restraint
holidays crumbed in your fingers
breaking the laughter against the wall of hours
Childhoods turned golden
int he hazy sunlight of the salt-mist shores
your restless dreams scoffed at the future
already building cities in the sand
Childhoods scowling
on the benches of school
where singing in patois was not allowed
but where you learned—so bitterly well-behaved—
how to do problems without making blots…

Childhoods pampered
Childhoods scolded
Childhoods that today regret
not having tasted in their obedience
more forbidden fruits

Sunlit chain hanging tonight about my heart
my childhood memories are too happy for me now.

—jocelyne étienne, in time’s tender age.

deep in your cheeks
your specific laughter owns
all things south of the ghosts
we once were. straight ahead
the memory beckons from the future
You and I a tribe of colors
this song that dance
godlike rhythms to birth
footsteps of memory
the very soul aspires to. songs
of origins songs of constant beginnings
what is this thing called
love

—keorapetse kgositile, origins (for melba).