The Stories of Immigrants
As a child of
generations of immigrants and a victim of a civil war, I am always fascinated
by the mitigating causes of the journey these people make whether for economic
reasons, driven by war or natural catastrophes. The poems below reflect these experiences
and my attempt to get into the marrow of their ordeals and interpret them.
The Nation Builders
Brown men crowd an island
hilltop,
voice French-Creole and
Spanish,
not the English patois of generations
assembled there before them.
Belittled by nicknames,
lynched by contemptuous
stares,
condemned as job snatchers,
pounced on by immigration,
they are herded into vans,
shackled like cattle.
Shrouded in life’s
hardness,
they shrug off morning’s
crispness,
ignore the later sun’s
searing sting.
Hungry eyes, straining
downhill,
scout for trucks crawling
up.
Like mongoose out to kill,
they charge the first that slows
down.
The man, his engine still running,
shouts, “Two days wuk for
four.”
Men scramble, shove,
become acrobats, settle
into place
speed to hard work and low
pay.
The disappointed
remain on the look-out,
wait their turn.
They are builder of island
nations.
They are fathers of leaders
who see
with the eyes of the
disenfranchised.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 05.09. 2009
The Antigua and Barbuda Review of Books, Volume 5, Number 1, 2012
The Antigua and Barbuda Review of Books, Volume 5, Number 1, 2012
Streetsweeper
In this haven I clean paths in parks, sweep streets.
Red stains splatter the ground
where berries fell after last night’s storm.
They are not the blood smears
of brothers accused of betrayal.
Hear-say alone is enough
to crush bones back home.
I joyfully sweep up berry seeds.
They are not broken fingers, or toes.
I wash the walkway, breathe in unpolluted air.
It is free of gasoline fumes spewed
by military trucks heading to frontier towns
to crush the voices of discontent.
My heart dances with joy
at the sight of red stains, not blood.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 11.10. 10
Off the Coast, Winter, 2011 www.off-the-coast.com
Off the Coast, Winter, 2011 www.off-the-coast.com
At the Mercy of Gods
(http://www.stsomewherejournal.com/)
We come in waves.
Our boats, tiny specks
on dark, fathomless oceans.
Driven away by devouring drought,
scattered by quakes, typhoons, cyclones, wars,
we flee, fish in a storm.
Propelled by dreams,
we would walk on water
if
miracles could be bought.
We are swallowed
by sea gods demanding sacrifices.
Our dreams are coveted by
Agwé, Osiris, Poseidon
Do the gods conspire?
Jealous Wind and Sea pillage our crops
withhold rain, wake Vulcan, fan his flames.
Belligerent Mars whispers in man’s ear,
demands he bathes in his brother’s blood.
Gods cackle at fleeing men.
Ants
in their eyes,
they
set howling death upon us.
Our exhausted Creator sleeps.
The
Nakedness of New
In this place there are
no monuments to my history,
no familiar signs
that give me bearings,
no corner shops
where food can take me
on a journey home.
Fresh-faced
in an old country,
the new lingo
is a gurgle in throats.
Strange words assault my ears,
throw me off balance.
I seek refuge in mother-tongue
wherever I find or hear it.
Hunger for my people’s voices
has forged odd friendships.
But they have begun to fray
and I cling to shreds.
Cold stares gouge an open wound.
Winter’s icy fangs bite deep down.
A “foreigner” is dust in the eye
and many believe I have come
to plunder their treasures.
Come, hug the cold away,
rock me in your arms,
clothe me in your warmth,
tell me everything will be okay
Pull me back from the cliff’s edge.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 05.06.10
www.liberiaseabreezejournal.com
Uninvited
She can’t say no
to armed hitchhikers
in military uniforms
when they wave her down.
She could speed up
and feel the hail of bullets
slicing through the car frame,
piercing her body.
She wouldn’t live to tell the story.
So she stops and smiles,
pretends to be polite,
even though she could be one
minute away from becoming a ghost.
All four climb in.
Guns, pointing perilously out windows,
gape at fleeting scenery.
Stone-faced soldiers stare
straight ahead as if on a
special mission.
She feels her knees
wobble under her skirt.
Her mind in overdrive,
she sees her body
like a large rice sack
lying on the roadside
next to firewood,
raped, mutilated, lifeless.
The voice beside her
cracks the silence,
interrupts her deathly vision.
“Stop, we getting down here, ma.”
From Check Points and Curfews © Althea Mark-Romeo 11.06. 2009
www.liberiaseabreezejournal.com
www.liberiaseabreezejournal.com
Hi Ms. Mark-Romeo, enjoying your poems this morning!
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