Friday, February 21, 2014

FEBRUARY IS BLACK HISTORY MONTH. ON THIS BLOG, I WILL BE CELEBRATING, BLACK POETS, LIKE MYSELF, WHO HAS TRIED TO PRESERVED OUR HISTORY, THROUGH THE SPOKEN WORD.

 In Recognition Of Black Poets And  Their Contributions To Black History.
The Poems, 'On Africa' (The Diaspora), 'Speak!' and 'Black Love', are from the book, 'Whispers of the Wind', by this author.


                                                              On  Africa (The Diaspora)
                                                   Out of the dark soil of Africa 
                                              we came
                                              with our babies and with our songs
                                              we came
                                              in ships without number
                                              we came
                                              from giants who now slumber
                                              we came
                                              trusting like fools
                                              we came
                                              stolen and shackled
                                              we came
                                              betrayed by our brothers
                                              we came
                                              we were theirs for the taking
                                              we came
                                              we came with gold in our ears, and
                                              with jewelled feet (though it looked like iron shackles)
                                              we came
                                              walking proudly, standing tall and fierce
                                              we came
                                              each step unsure, unsteady, each moment in doubt, still
                                              we came
                                              by the millions
                                              we came
                                              some of us were drowned, but
                                              we came
                                              fighting, still
                                              we came
                                              to unknown lands, far from our home
                                              we came
                                              with strange and new customs that govern us
                                              we came
                                              we stood tall, erect and proud, never bowing down
                                              in the face of adversity
                                              we came
                                              we took our place in history, nothing new!
                                              we came
                                              we were there long before, standing beside the
                                              brave ones,
                                              we came as the proud ones, the beautiful people
                                              who did not bowed down
                                              we came
                                              our grandmothers too came, with stories from old,
                                              from Africa
                                              they told us about Anansi, the spider and trickster
                                              and other tales
                                              we came
                                              we learned to be like Anansi, the trickster
                                              we came
                                              they came to teach the young ones of their past,
                                              not as the present looked to them
                                              they were not slaves, but mothers and wives and
                                              sisters, even queens and kings
                                              they came
                                              entire royal families came, their heritage lost forever
                                              because they came 
                                              all of this, so that the other could gain
                                              we came
                                              but if we remember our past, we would not think
                                              that it is okay, to be a slave
                                              the black slave today, is in mental slavery
                                              our brothers in Africa, are greedy and selfish
                                              (nothing’s change)
                                               we cannot blame the white man any longer
                                               if he thought that you were stupid
                                               when did you prove him wrong?

                                              All men are created the same in the eyes of god.

  Copyright: 1999, revised 2011, by Valerie Tsigi Guillaume




                                                          Speak!

                                                        they say
                                                        that
                                                        I
                                                        should not
                                                        speak
                                                        or else,
                                                        they
                                                        shall cut out my
                                                        tongue and set the
                                                        dogs on me, or
                                                        lock me
                                                        up
                                                        but I
                                                        must  speak
                                                        for the tongue
                                                        has its own
                                                        rhythm
                                                        mine said
                                                        tell them what
                                                        you saw and heard
                                                        leave it upon stones
                                                        for the people
                                                        to judge
                                                        I
                                                       don’t argue
                                                       with my tongue
                                                        for my life
                                                        depends on
                                                        it

Copyright:  1999, revised 2011, by Valerie Tsigi Guillaume

                                                         Black Love

                                           Fearless, passionate, original
                                           and quite frankly awesome
                                           intellectual, intimidating and
                                           oh yes! captivating
                                           it is fearless as an eagle seeking its prey
                                           it is gold dipped in chocolate, or
                                           chocolate covered in gold, so I am told
                                           fresh and new, like a bowl of cherries
                                           though it is passed down through many generations
                                           it is still sweet and delicious, like the pomegranate
                                           only more delicious
                                           as tempting as the strongest wine
                                           that goes down smoothly, and which
                                           leaves stains upon one's lips, after
                                           they have drunk, or tasted of it
                                           the most delicious fruit, which also grows
                                           in our own soil and which is nourished
                                           by our laughter and our tears
                                           it is as bold as the lion and as rich as
                                           the gold mines of South Africa
                                           it is all of this and more
                                           it is the sweet smell of our mammy's bosom
                                           and the richness of our papa's sweet body (after
                                           a hard day of labour)
                                           that have legs made of iron and covered in bronze
                                           and knees made of candy cane and arms
                                           so big and strong, they can cut down any tree
                                           it is our grandmother's laughter, full of years
                                           of wisdom, which makes one both merry
                                           and sad at the same time, even mad, mad as hell
                                           it is the sweat, blood and tears of our people
                                           mothers and fathers, whose backs are bent low
                                           from heavy labour, but not broken
                                           it is the laughter of our babies
                                           on our backs, though their bellies
                                           be only half full
                                           see Africa crying for her children lord
                                           it is the swing of our hips and the
                                           rhythm of our walk
                                           it is the voluptuousness, of our figure and
                                           our rambunctious nature (we are a reckless
                                           people, so stand back)
                                           it is our mindfulness of our past, filled with
                                           glorious achievements and our knowledge
                                           of the future, filled with wonderful, yet undefined
                                           things, most awe inspiring
                                           it is the present, not conforming, yet confirming
                                           you have had to be there, to understand
                                           what black love is, for black love
                                           is the people themselves
                                           

Copyright: 1999, revised 2011, by Valerie Tsigi Guillaume

                                    


                                          


                                                

       

                                                       


ONTARIO JUDGE, RACHEL GRINBERG AND JUSTICE OF THE PEACE, DIANE MCALEER, UPHOLDS RACISM, IN THE CANADIAN COURTS.

A PUBLIC DEMAND, FOR RECORDINGS, IN CANADIAN COURTROOMS, TO PROTECT THE RIGHTS, OF VULNERABLE PERSONS, APPEARING, BEFORE THE COURT. A To...