Poems by Karen Williams
Haiti Anthem
Staccato clatter in the night
Ping, ping, ping the almonds
on my tin roof
could be
they are throwing stones
at me, the Blanc
startled to wakefulness
by wretched screeching
in still dark morning
hogs dragged to death
outside my window
slaughter in the market
and the day begins.
flies stick to
a blood soaked
butcher block and
skeletal curs lick
the corpse.
Anguish wails, in the
street, pole bearers
dance the tiny coffin
and zig-zag from morgue
to cemetery, they cannot
outwit thieving spirits.
The hollow pan drum
clatter of spoon
on empty plate
a child
begs on my stoop
pour un ti morsel
A mango rumbles
down my tin roof
the thunder of gun shot
begins the race; naked,
the toddler stumbles behind
a squealing piglet to the fruit.
How can I sleep at night?
Mosquitoes whine louder
than countless bullfrogs bellow,
out of primordial squalor
where neighbors dance to
the rhythm of voodoo
beat out on goat skin
stretched taut
with anger
until the ragged plumbed cock
chokes his cry
to the persistent morn.
(Nsanje Malawi, 1980)
Bat guano leaks through
the ceiling onto pages of my notebook
writing it’s own story.
School boys jump up
to move the desk of their teacher,
carry my books for me, call me Madam.
In the ass end of this country, in the still dark morning
they come, uniformed in frayed white shirts (dotted with pin prick
holes from the sparks of coal irons).
Where we study Solzhenitsyn, browned pages falling
from one single copy and 40 boys sit at shared wooden desks cannot hear
Staccato clatter in the night
Ping, ping, ping the almonds
on my tin roof
could be
they are throwing stones
at me, the Blanc
startled to wakefulness
by wretched screeching
in still dark morning
hogs dragged to death
outside my window
slaughter in the market
and the day begins.
flies stick to
a blood soaked
butcher block and
skeletal curs lick
the corpse.
Anguish wails, in the
street, pole bearers
dance the tiny coffin
and zig-zag from morgue
to cemetery, they cannot
outwit thieving spirits.
The hollow pan drum
clatter of spoon
on empty plate
a child
begs on my stoop
pour un ti morsel
A mango rumbles
down my tin roof
the thunder of gun shot
begins the race; naked,
the toddler stumbles behind
a squealing piglet to the fruit.
How can I sleep at night?
Mosquitoes whine louder
than countless bullfrogs bellow,
out of primordial squalor
where neighbors dance to
the rhythm of voodoo
beat out on goat skin
stretched taut
with anger
until the ragged plumbed cock
chokes his cry
to the persistent morn.
Rain Falling on Tin
Bat guano leaks through
the ceiling onto pages of my notebook
writing it’s own story.
School boys jump up
to move the desk of their teacher,
carry my books for me, call me Madam.
In the ass end of this country, in the still dark morning
they come, uniformed in frayed white shirts (dotted with pin prick
holes from the sparks of coal irons).
Where we study Solzhenitsyn, browned pages falling
from one single copy and 40 boys sit at shared wooden desks cannot hear
my teachings, rain a drum pounding, their heads down.
Where President Banda is for life and we dare
not discuss politics, wide eyed smiling, shining black
broad muscled, 25 year old “boys” still in secondary school.
Praying to god and to the spirits because they have seen
hyenas turn into witches and fly through the night
in baskets meant for winnowing the rice.
Where it is the only rain to fall in one year
because God has forgotten us and if only
our for fathers had been slaves, we would be Americans now.
I love your eyes, your voice like music they write in love
letters to me and I lie to them and say,
You can be anything you want.
Where President Banda is for life and we dare
not discuss politics, wide eyed smiling, shining black
broad muscled, 25 year old “boys” still in secondary school.
Praying to god and to the spirits because they have seen
hyenas turn into witches and fly through the night
in baskets meant for winnowing the rice.
Where it is the only rain to fall in one year
because God has forgotten us and if only
our for fathers had been slaves, we would be Americans now.
I love your eyes, your voice like music they write in love
letters to me and I lie to them and say,
You can be anything you want.
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