 |
| Poetry anthologies published |
Without dreams
we are
nature in a drought,
dried souls
falling into dust.
© Althea Romeo-Mark
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| The Nakedness of New 2019, Create Space Independent Publishing, North Carolina, USA |
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
At the Mercy of Gods
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
who wish to conquer man and land.
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.
© Althea Romeo-Mark
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| If Only the Dust Would Settle,2009, AuthorHouse UK. Milton Keyes |
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 a 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.
(c) Althea Romeo-Mark
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| Beyond Dreams: The Ritual Dancer, 1989, Sabonoh Press, Liberia (West Africa)
Ma Massa
I
She has carried her share
of life’s burdens.
Her breasts, flat on chest,
are not those seen in Playboy.
When she opens and reties her lappa*
her wrinkled, stretch-marked stomach,
seen fleetingly, says she has done her duty
Her face bears few signs of aging.
People simply say, “she is tight.”
She works hard,
fries Kalla* and doughnuts at five a.m.,
gets children off to school.
Eight of them have survived
through God’s grace and country medicine.
She sends her wards off.
One carries a big basin of kalla and doughnuts
that weighs down his small head.
Another pushes a wheelbarrow
loaded with assorted dukahfleh.*
Ma Massa follows them
with a train of helpers toting
pigs’ feet, salted meat, smoke fish,
boney*,bitter balls*, peppers,
small packets of macaroni and bene seeds,
the odds and ends that bring dividends.
She won’t forget the out-dated newspapers
and cement-coated wrappers,
the toddler holding on securely to her lappa.
II
At the market when business is slow,
her friends scratch and plait each other’s hair,
the finishing touch, a debonair look,
that defies sidewalk salons,
prevents costly dents in pockets.
They exchange news, good or bad,
sing each other’s joy,
wail each other’s sorrow.
They cook their rice and soup
and feed and change their young,
sweat it out in the sun
calculate the day’s intake.
III
The sound of chopping wood resounds.
Gray smoke lazily slinks out
Ma Massa’s country kitchen.
The smell of burnt palm oil
captures noses, dances around
the nearby houses.
Evening, brightened by the kitchen fire,
unveils mouths smeared with palm oil
and bulging with rice,
fingers crawling round greasy pan
in search of last rice grains.
Ma Massa’s face
is tired but serene,
speechless among
the screaming,
happy, angry, sleepy
children’s voices.
(c) Althea Romeo-Mark
|
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Two Faces, Two Phases, Speed-o-Graphics Press, Monrovia, Liberia, West Africa |
Been Gone Too Long
Who are you, white man in black skin
who claims to be my brother,
who claims to know our ways,
yet cannot eat my food
or share the hospitality
of my hut?
Who are you, white man in black skin
who is an alien in my compound,
a stranger in our village
who wishes to escape
the land of his father,
who turns away from
the mirror of truth.
Who are you, white man in black skin?
© Althea Romeo-Mark
 |
| Palaver, 1978, Downtown Poets Co-op, New York, USA |
Ole No-Teeth Mama
Ole, no teeth mama
sucking sugar cane
an’ lickin’ stray juice
off the side of ‘er mouth
knows everything.
You can see it
in ‘er eyes,
they’re heavy an’ grey
an’ deep set,
threatenin.’
She seen
ma girl Geraldine
climbin’ out ma window
every mornin’
through dem cracks
in her splintered door
while stoopin’ on the floor.
She stares at me real hard.
Her eyes are double knotted ropes
teasin’ ma neck
when I turn the corner
on the street
where she sits
an’ spits tobacco juice
between ‘er cane chewin’.
She be chewin’
some hard thoughts.
One day she goin’ tell
‘cause ‘er eyes gettin’ harder,
cold as blue marble
‘an she goin’ spill ‘er guts out
on that death bed,
an’ every word she speaks
is gospel truth.
© Althea Romeo-Mark
 |
| Shu Shu Moko Jumbi: The Silent Dancing Spirit, Department of African Affairs Monograph Series, Vol 1, No.3, Kent State University, 1974 |
Nager Man
Bokrah 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.
*Bokrah is a West Indian term for white land owner.
© Althea Romeo-Mark
Born in Antigua, West Indies, Althea Romeo-Mark is an educator and writer who grew up in St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. She has lived and taught in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, USA, Liberia (1976-1990), London, England (1990-1991), and in Switzerland since 1991.
She writes poetry and short stories and has been published in the Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico, Antigua and Barbuda, The Bahamas, Barbados, USA, England, Germany, Norway, Portugal, Colombia, India, UK , Kenya, Liberia, Romania and Switzerland. Her last poetry collection, The Nakedness of New, was published in 2018.
She was awarded the Marguerite Cobb McKay Prize by the Editorial Board of The Caribbean Writer in June, 2009 for publication (short story “Bitterleaf,”) in Volume 22, 2008. She was awarded the Arts and Science Poetry Prize for poems published in POEZY 21:Antologia Festivaluluiinternational Noptile De Poezie De Curtea De Arges, Curtea De Arges, Romania, 2017.
She was one of thirty-five poets invited to attend the International Festival-Poetry Nights in Curtea de Arges, Romania (2017). She participated in the 10th Anniversary Conference of the Antigua and Barbuda Review of Books, Antigua (2015); was one of several guests poets at Kistrech International Poetry Festival in Kissi, Kenya (2014); participated in Tag der Poesie, Basel, 2013, and was one of a hundred guest poets invited to read at the XX International Poetry Festival of Medellin, Colombia(2010).
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