Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

Ghede

Enlarge poem

PaPa Ghede grins and whips his coat tails, puffs his cigar and sinks down into the cosmos,
who knows how these prayers are answered?
When we said: “ MaMa we cannot go on living this way”
who knows what is really going on up there, in here, over there.
Heard some black people was shakin like mad up north.
Heard they found Walter Rodney’s skull in a shallow grave right next to Toussaints black heart and De Salines righteous foot.
Heard they released the ones who killed bishop.
Heard they learning to forgive again.
Nothing new, nothing new.
Afrika alive in the west but barely.
More pictures of black children with distended bellies and dust on they foot, barely.
More pictures of tribal war over a tin of milk and some rice, but barely, but barely.
More trivializing the issue as aid rushes in from all corners and cameras, but barely mama jus barely.
More pictures of black bodies piling at the side of the road.
More white nations climbing these rotting towers of Babel to try to talk to God to see if he really looks like their grandfathers thereby confirming creationist theories and willie lynch.
And when they come they don’t leave.
Because we can’t walk on our own,
without a red hand, a white man and a blue brace.
Which is why we cant seem to federate, reperate,or repatriate.
Which is what you get for being black brave bold and brazen.
Which is what you get for mashin up all france things, but don’t study that you will pay them back.
Which is what you get for doing all that who do voodoo that you do.
Never mind their ancestors worshipped their own pantheon of gods.
Thor in Vallhalla does not look like Ghede and will not speak to him on account of the way he dances.
Which is what you get for not believing in the one god and the son and the spirit and the saints and the priests and the rosary beads which is looking like an Ileke but it is nothing so nothing so at all.
And too besides who ever heard of gods who actually visit when called.
Sit down in your soul seat and make yuh soul dance to an old beat.
No, you will kneel and hail mary.
Your Gods are either to Phallic or too round.
Both of which disrupt my paper thin sensibilities.
Get in line or I’ll put you there!
A 15 year old girl was found two weeks after the disaster…alive.
A 200 year old nation was found to be still eking out an existence off of music and mud cakes.
But all that is about to change because when Uncle Sam rattles your bones, Ghede knows,
he never forgets to do the math,
In the aftermath.

Muhammad Muwakil

Featured Poem:

4am in Belmont

Enlarge poem

It’s 4 am,
Amen, I still alive.
Belmont didn’t take my life last night.
I jump up twice out my sleep.
Thought a man was in my house.
Because where I from we don’t sleep easy.
In the house is just granny and me and,
she always afraid somebody go steal she tings…
But is really she life she fraid for.
Go back in your bed sun, the sun aint start rising…God, granny i writing!
Son is half past one.
No granny is 4am, can’t you smell d blood?
Can’t you hear that one persistent dog that has been barking since yesterday?
The bitch jus happy to be alive this morning.
Instead of barking I praying because I understand exactly what that dog feeling.
Demons prowling.
Cocaine itching under the skin.
So they sinning to sniff other people sweat and tears away.
Cocaine has no friends.
Especially in Belmont when is 4am,
and is almost like i could hear the scrape of a spoon at the bottom of an empty condense milk tin as mothers in the valley road try to make miracles before the babies wake up.
Is the second day of school and the lunch kit new but it have nothing to put in it.
And the school book fresh off the shelf but they afraid to even look in it.
The ghetto afraid to have her heart broken by assumptions she made before.
Too many over educated cocaine dealers under street lamps.
Our futures are not secure tomorrow is not promised to beasts or men.
Especially in Belmont when is 4am.
Roosters screaming their lungs out trying to call up the sun up but like he an all wouldn’t listen.
And it will take more than the blaring of cocks to wake my people up.
There are nineteen locks on my house not counting the bolts on the windows.
Because in those few hours before sunrise gunshots usher souls away, from the realm of men…I want you to understand me brother is 4a…m.
So, buy a dream from a coke head and stitch it on to the fabric of your being to begin to understand the meaning of the mayhem.
And pray for your life forever and ever amen, in Belmont when it’s 4am.

muhammad muwakil

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Biography

Muhammad Muwakil is currently enrolled at the University of the West Indies pursuing a degree in English Literature with a minor in International Relations. He has been performing spoken word poetry in Trinidad for the past five years, and is heavily involved in the spoken word poetry movement in Trinidad and by extension the Caribbean region.

In 2007 he performed at the Calabash Literary Festival in Jamaica, and in 2009 his work was published in the Casa de Las Americas annual review. Muhammad is also an actor and has been involved in several major productions. In 2008 he won the Cacique Award (the highest award for acting in Trinidad) for best supporting actor, for his role in the production entitled Bitter Cassava.

He believes his work is an essential ingredient in the struggle of the African Diaspora in reconnecting with itself and the continent. It is one of his main goals to use this work to make people more aware of their past, their present situation and what we need to do to secure our collective future.

Muhammad Muwakil

muhammad muwakil
muhammad muwakil

Biography

Muhammad Muwakil is currently enrolled at the University of the West Indies pursuing a degree in English Literature with a minor in International Relations. He has been performing spoken word poetry in Trinidad for the past five years, and is heavily involved in the spoken word poetry movement in Trinidad and by extension the Caribbean region.

In 2007 he performed at the Calabash Literary Festival in Jamaica, and in 2009 his work was published in the Casa de Las Americas annual review. Muhammad is also an actor and has been involved in several major productions. In 2008 he won the Cacique Award (the highest award for acting in Trinidad) for best supporting actor, for his role in the production entitled Bitter Cassava.

He believes his work is an essential ingredient in the struggle of the African Diaspora in reconnecting with itself and the continent. It is one of his main goals to use this work to make people more aware of their past, their present situation and what we need to do to secure our collective future.

Ghede

Enlarge poem

PaPa Ghede grins and whips his coat tails, puffs his cigar and sinks down into the cosmos,
who knows how these prayers are answered?
When we said: “ MaMa we cannot go on living this way”
who knows what is really going on up there, in here, over there.
Heard some black people was shakin like mad up north.
Heard they found Walter Rodney’s skull in a shallow grave right next to Toussaints black heart and De Salines righteous foot.
Heard they released the ones who killed bishop.
Heard they learning to forgive again.
Nothing new, nothing new.
Afrika alive in the west but barely.
More pictures of black children with distended bellies and dust on they foot, barely.
More pictures of tribal war over a tin of milk and some rice, but barely, but barely.
More trivializing the issue as aid rushes in from all corners and cameras, but barely mama jus barely.
More pictures of black bodies piling at the side of the road.
More white nations climbing these rotting towers of Babel to try to talk to God to see if he really looks like their grandfathers thereby confirming creationist theories and willie lynch.
And when they come they don’t leave.
Because we can’t walk on our own,
without a red hand, a white man and a blue brace.
Which is why we cant seem to federate, reperate,or repatriate.
Which is what you get for being black brave bold and brazen.
Which is what you get for mashin up all france things, but don’t study that you will pay them back.
Which is what you get for doing all that who do voodoo that you do.
Never mind their ancestors worshipped their own pantheon of gods.
Thor in Vallhalla does not look like Ghede and will not speak to him on account of the way he dances.
Which is what you get for not believing in the one god and the son and the spirit and the saints and the priests and the rosary beads which is looking like an Ileke but it is nothing so nothing so at all.
And too besides who ever heard of gods who actually visit when called.
Sit down in your soul seat and make yuh soul dance to an old beat.
No, you will kneel and hail mary.
Your Gods are either to Phallic or too round.
Both of which disrupt my paper thin sensibilities.
Get in line or I’ll put you there!
A 15 year old girl was found two weeks after the disaster…alive.
A 200 year old nation was found to be still eking out an existence off of music and mud cakes.
But all that is about to change because when Uncle Sam rattles your bones, Ghede knows,
he never forgets to do the math,
In the aftermath.

Featured Poem:

4am in Belmont

Enlarge poem

It’s 4 am,
Amen, I still alive.
Belmont didn’t take my life last night.
I jump up twice out my sleep.
Thought a man was in my house.
Because where I from we don’t sleep easy.
In the house is just granny and me and,
she always afraid somebody go steal she tings…
But is really she life she fraid for.
Go back in your bed sun, the sun aint start rising…God, granny i writing!
Son is half past one.
No granny is 4am, can’t you smell d blood?
Can’t you hear that one persistent dog that has been barking since yesterday?
The bitch jus happy to be alive this morning.
Instead of barking I praying because I understand exactly what that dog feeling.
Demons prowling.
Cocaine itching under the skin.
So they sinning to sniff other people sweat and tears away.
Cocaine has no friends.
Especially in Belmont when is 4am,
and is almost like i could hear the scrape of a spoon at the bottom of an empty condense milk tin as mothers in the valley road try to make miracles before the babies wake up.
Is the second day of school and the lunch kit new but it have nothing to put in it.
And the school book fresh off the shelf but they afraid to even look in it.
The ghetto afraid to have her heart broken by assumptions she made before.
Too many over educated cocaine dealers under street lamps.
Our futures are not secure tomorrow is not promised to beasts or men.
Especially in Belmont when is 4am.
Roosters screaming their lungs out trying to call up the sun up but like he an all wouldn’t listen.
And it will take more than the blaring of cocks to wake my people up.
There are nineteen locks on my house not counting the bolts on the windows.
Because in those few hours before sunrise gunshots usher souls away, from the realm of men…I want you to understand me brother is 4a…m.
So, buy a dream from a coke head and stitch it on to the fabric of your being to begin to understand the meaning of the mayhem.
And pray for your life forever and ever amen, in Belmont when it’s 4am.

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (0)
  • Pride (1)
  • Optimism (1)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (1)
  • Reflection (1)
  • Captivation (2)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (1)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Ghede

Enlarge poem

PaPa Ghede grins and whips his coat tails, puffs his cigar and sinks down into the cosmos,
who knows how these prayers are answered?
When we said: “ MaMa we cannot go on living this way”
who knows what is really going on up there, in here, over there.
Heard some black people was shakin like mad up north.
Heard they found Walter Rodney’s skull in a shallow grave right next to Toussaints black heart and De Salines righteous foot.
Heard they released the ones who killed bishop.
Heard they learning to forgive again.
Nothing new, nothing new.
Afrika alive in the west but barely.
More pictures of black children with distended bellies and dust on they foot, barely.
More pictures of tribal war over a tin of milk and some rice, but barely, but barely.
More trivializing the issue as aid rushes in from all corners and cameras, but barely mama jus barely.
More pictures of black bodies piling at the side of the road.
More white nations climbing these rotting towers of Babel to try to talk to God to see if he really looks like their grandfathers thereby confirming creationist theories and willie lynch.
And when they come they don’t leave.
Because we can’t walk on our own,
without a red hand, a white man and a blue brace.
Which is why we cant seem to federate, reperate,or repatriate.
Which is what you get for being black brave bold and brazen.
Which is what you get for mashin up all france things, but don’t study that you will pay them back.
Which is what you get for doing all that who do voodoo that you do.
Never mind their ancestors worshipped their own pantheon of gods.
Thor in Vallhalla does not look like Ghede and will not speak to him on account of the way he dances.
Which is what you get for not believing in the one god and the son and the spirit and the saints and the priests and the rosary beads which is looking like an Ileke but it is nothing so nothing so at all.
And too besides who ever heard of gods who actually visit when called.
Sit down in your soul seat and make yuh soul dance to an old beat.
No, you will kneel and hail mary.
Your Gods are either to Phallic or too round.
Both of which disrupt my paper thin sensibilities.
Get in line or I’ll put you there!
A 15 year old girl was found two weeks after the disaster…alive.
A 200 year old nation was found to be still eking out an existence off of music and mud cakes.
But all that is about to change because when Uncle Sam rattles your bones, Ghede knows,
he never forgets to do the math,
In the aftermath.

Comments

Your email address will not be published.