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They Call me Shangaan, but I’m Hlengwe
You “original Swatis” as you call yourselves what poor ignorant creatures you are! The verge of foolishness has covered your faces you call me Shangaan because you think you are insulting me Don’t you know that the Shangaans are an ethnic group of Africans just as you too are an African with your own ethnic group? I know where I come from, and it is not from the Shangaans I am a descendent of Chauke the seed of Bhangwana, the father of my clan I am one with the blood that runs in the Mabaso and Xahumba, the Hakwana, Muhlengwe and Xinyori I come from the Hasani and…
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Mapping Eswatini
1 Mountains Speak Our plane flies Over the Makhonjwa Mountains, Which formed the valleys and gorges of Swaziland. I marvel at how they carry age, Billions of years, stratified layers Beneath the green-hued rock. And I think of home Over eight thousand miles away, The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, Lush green in summer, Waiting for this new day to arrive. These misty African mountains, Cradling humanity, confound speech. We have come to bring words, But I can hardly untie my tongue In the presence of their majesty. 2 Minerva Lab Theater, Mbabane We had come to bring words To the center of Swazi culture,…
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The Unbearable Blackness of Being
Nietzsche saysit has alreadyhappenedthat it willhappen againad infinitumin factthis heavinesshe says isunbearably unavoidable but the sophistknows i ammade of stardustthere willonly, ever beone of memy life isnot cheap i am beautiful and i am black i know whyi frighten youwhen i steponto the elevatorso from timeto time imust remind myselfthat my blacknessis too brightto gazedirectly into ask the greeksabout the unbearableblacknessof my beingthey thoughti was a godas plato andherodotus walkedamong us, theythought myskin was otherworldymy head, wondrouslywoolly or smoothas the faceof the sunmust have beencrowned in celestial glorythat as my handstretchedto the sky, itheld the whatand the whyas i circumscribedthe heavens inthe palm ofmy hand, thatmy fingerpointed to wherewe came…
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Black Hoodie (for Trayvon Martin)
Trayvon, the week the jury foundGeorge Zimmerman “Not guilty”for killing you, I had traveled to Oregonall the way from Catskills. The morningof the verdict I hiked into redwood forestwith a man I first met when I was notmuch older than you the night you died.I wanted to walk up to the mountain laurel trailbecause I love wild laurel even when it’s notblossoming. Perhaps you had heard ofenchanted forests when you were a little boy …the redwood forest was like that,a greening deepness shawled with moss,the great-girthed trees seeming to touch sky.The immense agate of forest shimmeredwith blues among leaves lit to emerald,roots rising up like runes over the trail.Near a…
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Joan Little
Joan Little The wind in Washington County carries.No one keeps to themselves. Rumorssoil. A caterpillar looks like a worm, and a worm, like a snake; fact is everything that crawls ain’t looking to be a butterfly. But, whytake a garden rake to a bird? It’s no secret, cops welcome a reason to kill anything. Ask the people they cage. Only crows bred in captivity collectthings. Corvids, they say – nature’scompulsive hoarders. Whatis a jeweled ring in the beakof a thief? A confession. Whatthey come to call a hoard of crows? A murder. We are not the only ones to speak over our dead. How she carried on…