The following poems look at the lessons of fear and its function as a disciplinary tool in teaching children to be good and worthy of God's blessings. Simultaneously, joy is spread and spirits are lifted in these pagan-like celebrations that remain within the Christian realm.
Jam Bull at Caribbean Christmas
Villagers, drunk on
Christmas spirit and rum,
whine up to scratch-band’s
scraping graters
and banjo-twangs,
the ting-a-ling of
metal beating metal.
John Bull trails
the pling and plang,
the rake and scrape
of washboards and
rattling gourds,
the sweet voice of flute.
He spins and shakes
his menacing cow head,
prances, swings and lashes,
his plaited bull whip.
Some villagers
jump back in fear,
Others goad and cheer.
Children,
their screams piercing the air,
hide behind mothers’ skirts
and under dresses.
Some parents,
faces weaned of sympathy,
warn “Jam-Bull has come
for naughty children.
He’ll grab you with
his hairy paws,
haul you away.”
And children,
chests heaving,
tears stifled,
faces fear-strained,
are suddenly cloaked
in silence.
Jam Bull
dancing in the circle
waits for his moment
to spring and snatch
last year’s batch of
the badly behaved.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 10.12.13.
* But
Jam Bull, or Dancing Bull, came to the islands more than a century ago.
The costumes originated in Africa and may seem like antiquated relics in today's flashy parades. The Caribbean Jam Bull masquerade is similar to its African ancestor.
The costumes originated in Africa and may seem like antiquated relics in today's flashy parades. The Caribbean Jam Bull masquerade is similar to its African ancestor.
http://stthomassource.com/content/arts-entertainment/things-do/2002/10/11/jam-bull-performers-discuss-art-form
Liberian
Devil Dances for Coins
The long-faced mask frowns.
Its huge O-mouth made for gobbling.
Gigantic eyes gawk at
crowd gathering
round its sky-scraper legs
that leap backwards and forward
under spun out grass skirt.
.
It is not a nightmare.
The child’s curdling screams
tear everyone away from
Christmas dinner.
Fufu and soup
are left for flies
to feast on
in the afternoon heat.
The terrified child
waits to be rescued,
while the music of
merry musicians
bringing Christmas cheer
seeps into adult ears.
It is not Old Man Beggar.
but a country devil dances
in the front yard
for coins, food,
no “cold bowl.”
and cane juice.
“This is not the real devil,”
soothing voices finally say.
And order is restored
to the child’s world.
But in the hinterland
the real country devil threatens
and women, children,
and the uninitiated,
cower behind closed doors.
*Old Man Beggar –Liberian antithesis to Santa Claus.
He is accompanied by drummers and doesn’t bring gifts. But he tells stories and expects some form of
a thank you in return.
*Cold bowl-Liberian expression for left overs or
yesterday’s food.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 10.12.2013
A West Indian Celebrates
Christmas In Switzerland
Advent beckons in Basel
City.
I prepare my calendar,
hang my Christmas wreath.
Santa Klaus is dressed in red.
His helper Schmutzli is cloaked in brown.
They warn the great day is near.
Some youngsters’ faces light like candles.
Others wear frowns.
My mind sails to sunny islands, childhood.
Johnbulls covered in coarse burlaps sacks,
heads big like brown bears, prance around the villages,
spring and crack whips at naughty children,
who flee in fear into mothers’ arms.
My thoughts journey back
to my new home near the River Rhine,
join the children feasting on juicy mandarins,
brittle peanuts and lebkuchen,
December 6th snacks.
In the city, the Three Kings beat their staffs.
At home I dress my tree. Excitement
builds with every tinsel, red bell
hung.
A silver angel perches at its crown.
I immerse myself in Christmas songs,
last minutes shopping, wrap gifts,
sip Gluehwein, prepare ham, turkey,
sweet potato pudding.
At a midnight service, I
celebrate
Christ’s coming, pray and think of family
far away under the umbrella of the tropical sky
There, Christmas carols ring the air
as choruses sing before gates.
Banjos and maracas compete with harmonicas.
I hunger for guava berry, the local sherry,
the beach where we make merry,
drink ginger beer and sorrel,
eat raisin buns, coconut tarts, papaya pastry.
Awaken by the heartfelt hymns,
I abandon the sun. Outside the church,
snowflakes powder the ground.
And I, warmed by the joy of Christmas,
feel home.
www.zurichexpats.com
Eine Karibin feiert Weihnachten in der Schweiz
Advent lockt in der Stadt Basel
Ich bereite den Kalender vor,
hänge den Weihnachtskranz auf.
Sankt Nikolaus ist rot gewandet,
Sein Helfer Schmutzli in brauner Pelerine,
Sie künden an, dass nah der grosse Tag .
Junge Gesichter leuchten wie Kerzen.
Andere runzeln die Stirn.
Meine Sinne segeln zu sonnigen Inseln, Kindheit.
Johnbulls verhüllt in groben Jute-Säcke.
Mit Schädeln, mächtig wie Braunerbärenkopfe,
tollen durch die Dörfer, hüpfen
Geisseln knallend nach frechen Kindern,
die angstvoll in Muttern Arme fliehen.
Meine Gedanken ziehen mich zurück
Zum neuen Heim nahe dem Fluss des Rheins
Gesellen sich den Kindern, die mit Mandarinen,
knusprigen Erdnüssen und Lebkuchen feiern,
Genüssen des 6.Dezembers, des St. Nikolaustags.
In der Stadt pochen die Drei Könige
mit ihrem Stab
Zuhause schmücke ich den Baum.
Begeisterung schwillt mit jedem roten Glocke,
Lamettafaden aufgesteckt
Ein Silberengel thront auf der Spitze des Baum.
Ich tauche ein in Weihnachtslieder,
mach allerletzte Käuf, pack Geschenke ein,
schlürf Glühwein und bereite Schinken, Truthahn
Pudding von Süsskartoffeln.
Ich feire in der Mitternachtsmesse
Die Ankunft Christi, bete und denke an Familie
Weit weg, unter dem Schirm des tropischen Himmels.
Dort klingen Weihnachtslieder durch die Luft
als Chöre vor den Pforten singen
Banjos und Maracas wetteifern mit Harmonikas.
Mich gelüstet nach Guaven-Beeren, lokalem Likör,
den Strand, auf dem wir dem Vergnügen fröhnen’
Ingwer-Bier und Beerensaft geniessen, ,
Rosinenbrötchen, Kokostörtchen und Papaya- Schnitz.
Vom Traum gerissen durch den innigen Hymnus
Lass ich die Sonne sein.
Denn vor der Kirche Schneeflocken pudern schon den Grund,
Und ich, erwärmt durch Weihnachtsfreude,
fühl mich
daheim.
Übersetzung:
Suzy Grueter und Irene Kaesermann
*Switzerland’s
black-cloaked Schmutzli, also known as “the Whipping Father,” arrives each
December 25th to beat and abduct children. Swissinfo says:
Known as
Schmutzli in the German part of the country and Père Fouettard (from “whip”) in
French, Samichlaus’s alter ego usually carries a broom of twigs for
administering punishment to children.
Nice poems.
ReplyDelete