on haiti

By the poet Kalamu ya Salaam

Iron Flowers

sluggish, semi-stagnant
the water in Haitian gutters,
small gullets, trickles green sewerage green,
here even the dirt is poor
and there is cloying dullness camouflaging even strongly persistent colors  
in squared, white-walled cemeteries
funeral flowers are made of painted iron
i see no roses rising through this Port
Au Prince poverty  
i hesitate to take pictures
it is like thievry
almost like i am stealing precious light that
these, my brothers and sisters, need to live

*   *   *   *   *

Tomorrows' Toussaints           

this is Haiti, a state           
slaves snatched from surprised masters,           
its high lands, home of this           

world's sole successful           
slave revolt, Haiti, where          

freedom has flowered and flown           
fascinating like long necked           
flamingoes gracefully feeding           
on snails in small pinkish           
sunset colored sequestered ponds despite the meanness           
and meagerness of life           
eked out of eroding soil           
and from exploited urban toil, there           
is still so much beauty here in this           
land where the sea sings roaring a shore           
and fecund fertile hills lull and roll           
quasi human in form            
there is beauty here           
in the unyielding way           
our people,           
colored charcoal, and           
banana beige, and           
shifting subtle shades           
of ripe mango, or strongly           
brown-black, sweet           
as the suck from           
sun scorched staffs           
of sugar cane,           
have decided           
we shall survive           
we will live on            
a peasant pauses           
clear black eyes           
searching far out over the horizon           
the hoe motionless, suspended           
in the midst           
of all this shit and suffering           

forced to bend low           
still we stop and stand           
and dream and believe            
we shall be released           
we shall be released           
for what slaves           
have done           
slaves can do            
and that begets           
the beauty            
slaves can do

wintry impressions...

The sky is white. The color of the snow. The whole world pale. Trees puncturing the whiteness, frail and faint. The winter fog laying heavily on barns, trees, and fenceposts, coating everything in a white film.
I drive. Past familiar country roads. Past broken down tractors. Past little farmhourses, chimneys bellowing smoke. Cows mellowed under the foggy influence.
My brain drifts. Brought to reality only by sleepy little voices. Requesting apples, toys fallen on the floor, a new song on the radio.
My soul aches. Longing. Hazy desires, unmet. Many, oh so many, have been met...and yet...I long. Soldade.
I am restless. Driving this road. I want to keep driving. To see where it takes me. Let the fog and haze envelope me. So comforting, that presence, pressing down on all sides. Like a blanket after a long day, caressing my cheeks, softening reality. Afterwards, blue skies of Minnesota winters feels harsh, the sun a cold bright light.
Give me soft grey. Let me stare at distant forest lines on the horizon and dream. Without words. Soft thoughts, impressions, as the trees are softened by the mist. Dreams that beckon.
Dancing children. Dusty streets. Vendors shouting. Jungle sounds. Sunsets over the desert. Clear blue lakes. Aqua seas. White beaches. Cobbled streets. Laughter echoing as the stars come out. Calls to prayer. Silence shattered by the crackle of gunfire.  Crops growing in moist fields. Mist over rounded islands, jutting out of the water. Oh, an infinite number of places, faces, tongues. Oh, to venture into the unknown. To become one again who is now buried and forgotten. The brave. The strong.
And yet. Oh, how the present self is stretching too. Feeling skin settling onto tired bones, that still reach to hug and caress. Finding voice, becoming more than ever conceived. Learning to speak again, this language of motherhood. Expressing the inexpressible joy. Bathtime squeals, two fuzzy heads bent over books, dishes cleaned, sleepy sighs, rising bread.
New self emerging from the fog. Rubbing eyes, blinking in the sunlight, yawning, stretching these new muscles. And now, strength pulsating into eager limbs...running down the present path, into the unknown.

an explanation of the word soldade.

soldade is a brazilian portuguese word. a brilliant beautiful word. it kind of roughly translates "a longing for something unseen, unknown, or remembered", "nostalgia" maybe...its a feeling one gets. an aching sort of longing. maybe even like "deja vous" a feeling you get that you cant quite put a finger on. there is a wildness to it. something passionate behind it.
we all get these moments. right?
i get this when i see fingers of ice against a black night sky. when i close my eyes in the sunshine, sipping coffee, as my babies play at my feet. when i open an old box filled with treasures gathered from around the globe. the smell of birch bark, which takes me back to siberia. the scent of cigarettes early in the morning, mixed with traffic smells. the sound of rain on a tent. these sort of multi-sensory moments. that make us remember, forget, long...
longing is an essential part of the human spirit though isnt it? that passion that takes us through the mundane. diapers to be washed. cheerios to vacuum off the floor. grubby fingers. aching backs. hours to bill. and etc. etc. etc. the mudane seems to never let go. the extraordinary always around the corner, over the rainbow maybe. yet....i aim to find the extraordinary in the mundane. it needs to be hammered down. noticed. taken apart and observed for what it is. embraced. you know?
i have grubby fingers that depend on me for washing. little rosy bottoms to wrap up in fuzzy clean diapers. little fingers to throw cheerios on the floor. little bodies to carry around that lead to said aching back. it sounds trite but, god, what a miracle is that! mothering never struck me as an adventure. but what an adventure it is!
so, what makes you "tenho soldade"?