Magda
If you see her,
chocolate faced-Magda,
she makes a woman proud
the way she wears
her age, her hats.
Magda’s life is church
her son, Raphael
a collection of hats
paraded on Sundays
and Cuthbert, the husband
she mostly hates.
In church the Holy Ghost
takes her dancing up and down aisles
to beats that rival nightclub bands
a disco queen in trance
her hat hanging on,
barely.
Raphael is sometimes there.
He comes along
when she pleads with him
and on her knees begs God
to stop her son’s drinking.
A hoard of hats
stacked according to colors
fills a glass cabinet
where you’d keep your best china.
Magda’s battled Cuthbert
since she sturdily walked him up the altar
he promising to look after her
and Raphael
and buy her hats
she’s always carried off
like a peacock ‘til now.
Her face still smooth chocolate,
hat tilted on her head
she hobbles along
on two walking sticks,
Raphael’s drunken abuses
rubbing Cuthbert’s nerves raw,
she always forgiving
overlooking his excesses.
When church members visit,
the Holy Ghost isn’t tame.
She becomes a contortionist
in her chair, swirling back and forth,
hat’s secured with a pin.
And Raphael found dead in a chair
with Bacardi rum in his hand
always in Magda’s prayers,
his memory igniting fires
between her and Cuthbert.
Their love long dead,
Magda’s got the Holy Ghost
walls plastered with pictures
of Raphael and a cabinet
full of hats she’d die for.
MAGDA
Wenn du sie siehst,
die schoko-gesichtige Magda,
macht sie Frauen alle Ehre,
so wie sie ihr Alter trägt,
ihre Hüte.
Magdas Leben is die Kirche,
ihr Sohn, Raphael,
eine Sammlung von Hüten,
an Sonntagen vorgeführt,
wie ihren Mann, Cuthbert
den sie meistens hasst.
In der Kirche bring der Heil’ge Geist
Sie zum Tanzen, rauf und runter durch Schiff,
zu Klängen, die Nachtclub-Bands rivalisieren –
eine Disco-Königin in Trance –
den Hut auf – gerade noch.
Manchmal is Raphael dabei.
Er kommt mit,
wenn sie inständig fleht
und Gott und Knien bittet,
des Sohnes Trunksucht zu stoppen.
Ein Hort von Hüten
Nach Farben geordnet,
füllt eine Vitrine,
wo sonst das gute Porzellen hingehört.
Magda bekämpfte Cuthbert
Seit sie ihn entschlossen zum Altar führte:
Er versprach, für sie
und Raphael zu sorgen
und ihr Hüte zu kaufen, die sie
davontrug, einem Pfau, gleich,
immer noch.
Ihr Gesicht wie zuvor schokoglatt,
Hut schief auf dem Kopf,
humpelt sie einher
an zwei Krücken.
Raphaels Trink-Auswüchse
Reiben Cuthberts Nerven blank,
sie stets vergebend,
sieht über die Exzesee hinweg.
Bei Besuch aus der Kirchgemeinde
Bleibt der Heil’ge nicht wirkungslos,
sie windet, verrenkt sich auf ihren Stuhl,
schaukelt hin and her,
Hut festgezurrt mit einer Nadel.
Und als Raphael tot im Sessel liegh,
eine Flache Barcardi in der Hand-
In Magdas Gebeten seit je –
Schlagen Erinnerung hoch,
werden zum Brand zwishen Cuthbert und ihr.
Ihre Liebe längst tot,
wird Magda gepackt vom Heil’gen Geist,
Wände gepflastert mit Bildern von Raphael
Und eine Vitrine voller Hüte,
für die sie sterben würde.
Übersetzung: Irene Kassermann/Suzy Grueter
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'Nager Man' and 'Poverty' are discussed in the latest edition of the Antigua and Barbuda Review of Books - in an article by Edgar Lake who describes the poems as "prophetic" and "visionary".
Poverty
De sun come
idlin’ over de mountain
removin’ de shadow
from de tree limbs
revealin’ de pickinagers*
playin’ in mud
an’ eatin’ dirt
like ‘is dukahna*
an’ salt fish
an’ dey wishin’
dat de dirt stains
wus grease stains.
Nager Man
Brokrah man lashing
whip pon back.
Nager man lashing
whip pon back.
When slavery done gone
long time.
Colonialism, independence,
cultural identity.
Nager man lashing
whip pon back.
*Brokrah man is a white land owner.
*Picknagers: little black children
*Dukahna: a dish made of plaintain or sweet potato cooked in banana leaves.
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A Summer Pleasure II
Last night after walking home through downtown Basel and along the River Rhine, I joined friends at Beach City, a local entertainment facility or night club located on the roof of a nine story building. Since there is no beach with white sand in Basel, the management of Beach City has brought the beach to us. There is a saying which goes something like this, "If you can't take Mohammed to the mountain, bring the mountain to Mohammed."
The facility is layed on like a beach, sand and coconut trees and everything that gives you a Pacific or Caribbean island feel. The sand is real, and there is a swimming pool too where one can jump if it gets too hot or if you have had too much to drink and you are out of your mind. You can choose to take your sandals off and walk around, lie down in the sand on a beach towel or relax in a lounge chair or play beach volleyball if that suits your fancy. For other folks like me, who come from the Caribbean, this is no substitute, only the real thing would do, you might not be in the mood to get sand in your shoes. If you are not from the Pacific or the Caribbean, the atmosphere is tropical, young and rather fantastic. There is music blaring of course, and lots of young people enjoying the evening after a day's work or just meeting up with friends as I was doing. Perhaps ninety percent of the people were under thirty-five and made me want to be young again, but only that. I do not wish to relive the follies of youth.
So if you didn't want to dig your feet in the sand, there were other areas where you could sit around a table and chat if you could compete with the music in the background. There were lots of backless seatings for the young, and we older folks had to find seatings with backs since we didn't want to further strain what is left of our deteriorating "Rücken." Surveying the area, one could see that is was rather huge and spread out under the stars. So that we could have done some star-gazing if we wished to do so. And some people did. There was no entrance fee and the coke I drank seemed rather reasonable at five Franks. It was rather a pleasant way to round off what began as a beautiful evening.
A Summer Pleasure
I just walked home from Guterstrasse, through downtown Basel and along the Rhine River to my home near it. It took me 55 minutes. I can only do this in the summer when I have less teaching hours. It felt really wonderful walking through the city and watching people drinking and eating in sidewalk cafes and restaurants. Along the Rhine from the Mittler Brücke (Middle Bridge) to the Dreirosen Brücke ( Three Roses Bridge) there were people taking sunbaths on the many steps which lead into the River. The edge of the river was also crowded. Some small boats were riding the lazy waves. Good swimmers swam while others fished. I was surprised at the amount of people there lying on the grass, or sitting at picnic tables. I passed an African man lighting a coal pot as he prepared to barbecue meat and chicken for his friends. He was not the only one. The smoke and smell of barbecuing filled the air. The restaurants along the Rhine were crowded with people standing in lines waiting to be served. The food at these restaurants must have been very good. While many were eating, others were walking their dogs, or pushing prams or simply walking hand in hand enjoying the warm summer evening before the sun disappears around 9:30 p.m. I finally arrived home at 8:35 p.m. I have to do this more often.
Check Points and Curfews
I
The Birthing of Check Points
A man with whom
we share a common ancestry,
claims he has been anointed by God.
We do not see with his eyes.
His disciples, anointed by witches’ oils,
have become invisible,
devour enemy warriors,
drink their blood,
have made themselves invincible.
They leave ashes
where quiet villages stood.
The spirit of revenge
flirt with many hearts
as churches, the sanctuary
of the
wretched, gather skeletons.
IV
Curfew
Imprisoned dust to dawn,
women dare not go in labor.
We dare not get bitten by
snake or scorpion. We dare not fall into
a hallucinating malaria fever.
The trip in wheelbarrow
to the nearest healer,
will be our death warrant.
The village comes to life
when the cocks crow.
We close our doors when
chickens nod in their coop.
Do not give the soldier an excuse
to be ”boss-man,” do not give him
a reason to test his weapon.
There might be no time
to place a cross on your grave.
We do not want you buried
like diseased cattle.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 1995 Revised 11.06.09
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Moko Jumbi
I
The masked thing dances.
Long stilt legs leap,
sway and swing in abandon
to the tune of steel pans.
.
Peacock proud,
it lifts its colorful can-can,
spins and swirls its
layered rainbow.
II
The young ask,
does the devil hide behind the mask?
Will it kick and growl
if we touch it?
Will we melt like metal,
disappear before its steely stare?
Will it banish us to hell?
Should we take refuge?
III
The country devil in you is long dead.
You, who doled out death
to women and the uninitiated,
now mock your ancestors.
Women, under the spell
of bacchanal,
dare you to strike
the deadly blow.
Does the spirit world
cry for its loss?
You now stir laughter
and not fear.
Jumbi, you jam with us,
mock your past,
mask your loss
in the revelry of carnival.
© 07.06.2009 Althea Romeo-Mark
A moko jumbie (also known as "moko jumbi" or "mocko jumbie") is a stilts walker or dancer. The origin of the term may come from "Moko" (a possible reference to an African god) and "jumbi", a West Indian term for a ghost or spirit that may have been derived from the Kongo language word zumbi. The Moko Jumbies are thought to originate from West African tradition brought to the Caribbean.
A Moko Jumbie character may wear colorful garb and carnival masks. They also frequent festivals and celebrations such as Caribbean Carnival.
Wikipedia