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| Caribbean |
The
Vengeance of Gods and Spirits
Poseidon is getting back his own
for land deprived of long ago
by furious, ancient gods
who froze waters in the north and
south.
Island nations do not know
what that quarrel was about.
But Helios no longer spares the sun
and, Poseidon, freer to roam,
batters and eats our shores.
Houses hang on precipices of eroding
soil.
Aguoeh, the sea spirit has not taken
our side.
Met Agwe has lost his way.
They watch as Vulcan and Agwe Flambeau
set our homes and land aflame.
Will our island nations cease to be?
How great is our offence?
Have we marred beautiful Heaven,
stifled wind’s freedom?
Have we made Mother-earth anemic,
sucked life out her bosom?
If we promise to mend our ways.
Christ, Buddha, Allah and Loa may
intervene.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 15.5.15.
*Poseidon- god of the sea
*Vulcan-god of fire
* Loa (also spelled Lwa or L'wha)
are the spirits of Haitian Vodou and Louisiana Voodoo.[1] They are also referred to as Mystères and the
Invisibles and are intermediaries between Bondye (French: Bon Dieu, meaning "good
God")—the Supreme Creator, who is distant from the world—and humanity.
*Met Agwe is
the Loa of direction. His territory is the winds and the currents, waves and
depths of the oceans. He helps sailors find their bearings when lost at sea. He
provides inspiration and guidance whenever an individual needs them in times of
turmoil, loss, or indecision over the sea, fish, and aquatic plants, as well as
the patron Loa of fishermen and sailors
* Agwe Flambeau
is from a realm of boiling water, like a hot springs or an underwater
volcanic eruption.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agwé
Poem published in the 2015 issue of Caribbean-American Heritage Month Literary Magazine, page 13 Published by the Institute of Caribbean Studies and features short stories and poems by Caribbean authors on the theme global warming.
http://issuu.com/instituteofcaribbeanstudies/docs/cahm_magazine_2015
Departure/Arrival
I
Departure
We are driven away from English
Harbour,
watch the village flee into distance:
its sea-splashed coves,
its tiny island houses, some
thatched,
some wearing sun-glinted, galvanized
roofs,
its brown men on cane-stacked donkeys,
pickers plucking cotton and the smells
of
callaloo, pepper-pot and dukanah
teasing the sweltering air.
It is the beginning of losing part
of ourselves.
II Arrival
Father makes a heroic figure
guiding the landed plane on the
runway.
We watch as its swirling fans settle
into standstill.
Valises in hands, we disembark to
new landscapes.
Our old island home is transformed
into an idyllic realm.
Its scenes become locked-away
treasure taken out
with flourish and shared at special
gatherings.
Our hands dance in the valleys and
hills of loud recalling.
© Althea Romeo-Mark Revised
26.02.2015, revised 12.03.15
English
Harbour- a natural harbor and settlement on the island of Antigua.
Callaloo,
pepper-pot and dukanah- food specialties of the Caribbean
http://www.persimmontree.org/v2/summer-2015/international-poets/
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| Another of many departures and arrivals Haiti (extreme left) age 16 , part of a methodist mission. |
Haitian
Memories 1960s
I
Port-au-Prince
Papa Doc,
threatened,
forbids snapshots
of his mansion.
Men in dark
glasses
glare behind
giant steel gates.
Our sneakers
brand us American.
A beggar, spying
foreigners,
pinches her baby to
bait our pity
but we do not
fall prey.
Curses pummel our
ears.
Overrun by a
swarm of vendors,
we flee without
paintings and carvings
that speak of
Mother Africa.
An invitation to
a voodoo ceremony
parades zombies
in our heads.
Our shuddering
senses shout no.
II Journey
to Petit Goave
Long ride.
Overcome by
sleep,
we lean on
strange shoulders.
But the bus
bounces and we are shaken,
stomach stirred,
car sick.
Flood swallows
roads.
Rivers scale
embankments.
We disembark in
the dark,
scan banks for
alligators
we’ve been
cautioned about.
We climb on and
off again
as bus drivers test
the safety of the
river-road’s depth.
Arriving at
midnight,
we listen for the
echoes
of drums in the
hills
that fantasy
foretold,
but fall asleep
betrayed.
III.
Petit
Goave
Heads filled with warnings
of island magic,
we dare not walk bare foot.
Do not want to return home
the jackasses they have warned
we would become.
IV
Petit
Goave: The Darkest fudge
It is only mud.
It will do for now,
for they are alive,
and feign it’s
the darkest fudge.
They eat the clay
from which
life comes.
It is sweet.
IV
Petit
Goave :Naked Truth
The plight of the poor
is a weight
we have never carried.
We bend steel, mix mortar,
build a foundation for a church.
Provide food for the soul.
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| Learned to bend steel to build a foundation for this church in Petite Goave, Haiti. |
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| Made a Haitian friend, Celeste. I wonder where she is now? Is she still alive and a grandmother like me. |
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