Duende, p.32
Duende, page 32
they know is out there somewhere;
where? they don’t know where
they will follow black birds, storms, ships,
pass jamaica, cuba, enter the gulf of mexico searching for It
out there somewhere, northwest
in the direction are black birds are flying
VIII.
SONG OF THE HOODOO SPIRIT CRABS
we are crossing another big salt water
we are moving, going forward
after shedding our old shells, we have brand new pincer claws,
we can crawl sideways, backwards, go forward,
sometimes we can lift up from the bottom of the sea,
swim on top, later we will fly—some of us
already fly as mist—ike birds, but now we are crawling
northwest, following black birds;
where? we don’t know where, but we are going
searching for where we think It is,
going where we think the promise is,
we are going forward with memories of the old mixed with the new,
we are looking to find another way, a third way,
leading us into the future
where we will find It, the promise.
where? we don’t know where
but we are going, seeking the promise
that is our future out there somewhere,
where? we don’t know where
but we do know It is out there somewhere,
we will find it, and we will be reborn
again & again, we will be reborn
IX.
THE NEW WORLD: MOVING NORTH
hoodoo crab spirits following wherever slave vessels take them
carrying kin folks sardine-packed in ships crossing the gulf of mexico
loaded with moaning black human cargo in dark stinking holds,
wasting away in wretched vessels
some leaped overboard dangling chains from their bodies,
sink to the bottom of the sea, become ghost spirit voices—
black men, women, children—gave up the living ghost,
joined translucent ones, who used to share
the same skin color as black birds—crows—
free white humans traveled on these boats sailing
dark storm clouds cruising over blowing northwest were omens
predicting the future driven by waves almost tall as those
constantly rolling violently across the atlantic
were now thrashing warnings over the gulf of mexico,
& hoodoo spirit crabs howl deep inside themselves what
will become spirituals, yowling until they are weary,
they grow quiet, inaudible, when the gulf water calms,
they make their way forward towards where they think land might be,
where the promise might be found, where now they see black birds—
crows—flying northwest over the gulf, perhaps to rest,
where this mass of water begins to bleed, enter—
fuse into another entity of water
a narrow slit of earth—an open mouth, a vagina
carved into the head of a body of land sprawling northward—
where a snaking tributary is flowing south,
emptying out into the gulf,
the snaking figure of muddy water—the misissippi river—
near the place where new orleans was raised,
birthing the mystery of congo square
where african drum rhythms roiled the air
& mardi gras carried cold-blooded voodoo
ceremonies from haiti, bringing marie laveau, rapture,
funerals to st. louis cemetery number one,
new orleans, rambunctious partying city
where in the electric air buddy bolden creates fusion
at storyville, spiritual-gospel, ragtime, blues birthing
jazz as he his cornet caressed libidos of panting ladies
who love him sassy, profane, the way he strokes their imaginations
in bedrooms, in their kitchens, his tongue probing
their fantasies in the midnight hours,
as louis armstrong spits out legendary
trumpet licks, solos so hot & brash he turns
daylight into midnight on saturday afternoons,
while jelly roll morton tickles magnificent piano runs,
& king oliver cooks gumbo in his creole band
so many hoodoo crab spirits evoke mystery, magic
here in the king of zulus marching funeral bands,
prancing voodoo rhythms of legba, erzulie, agwe, feeling It
but It isn’t abundant enough here yet, so
kept moving north through silt, mud-covered graves
down deep in mississippi river bottom spirit, bloods
crawling sideways toward—
where? they don’t know where
hooking their spirits onto underbellies of ships
heading north now underwater beneath skies
where black birds—crows—fly, the color of these birds
was once the shade of their own skins before they became life forces,
hoodoo spirit crabs—pink during day hours,
gray as time grew darker like african ghost spirit crabs
crossing the atlantic, caribbean—before time
draped a cape of twilight & the one-eyed cyclop
posing as the moon peeked down, before night spread
its immense winged garment of blackness across the sky—
a deep black expanse brilliant with stars embedded
like millions of brilliant diamonds
as wolves howled everywhere at this spectacular display,
hoodoo spirit crabs kept moving north, as crows flew towards—
where? they didn’t know where, though they stopped
sometimes near river boats anchored at natchez,
and crawling sideways, wandered around looking for sovereignty
hoodoo crab spirits find spaces where blues music
can be born in the womb of the delta, where it flourishes
around greenwood, mississippi, here the rivers—
the tallahatchie, the Yalobusha—marry, becoming the yazoo river
here where cotton is king & the low down blues flower
in the field hollers of the delta and the cradling voices
of robert Johnson, before he dies at age 27—
hear-tell from a mysterious poisoning
by a jealous, jilted woman—answering his own
genius antiphonal guitar licks,
just like back home in africa—
barking voice of sun house, black bottomed trills of ma rainey
the mother of the blues, the hot, saucy sounds of that
rambunctious lady, bessie smith, before she bleeds to death
her right arm nearly severed in a car wreck on route 61,
between memphis, tennessee & clarksdale, mississippi,
& every other mississippi blues singer, really—
willie dixon, leadbelly, blind lemon Jefferson—
because death stops nothing—
these hoodoo spirit crabs kept moving north as crows fly—
their spirits searching for something out there, some-
where, though no one knows where It is
in this deadly place where cotton is king
& as is their custom, they crawl sideways back,
into the mississippi river, making their way again
through mud, silt & bones northward, to
where? they don’t know where
following the flight of crows, they come to a space
where memphis is growing, raising up beale street, barbecue,
the blues, where b.b. king sang the blues
in his own unique style, playing his guitar named lucille—
call & response, antiphonal,
african, as elvis presley pickpocked his style to
becoming famous world-wide for “borrowing”
black music licks, wiggling his hips
like black musicians back in the day
some hoodoo crab spirits find homes in memphis,
root their spirits in that complex soil,
grow a culture full of moonshine, recipes full of ingredients
from africa transferred through osmosis
to the west, altered african ethos transforming music too,
rhythms, beats, the sliding style of singing notes, breaking,
bending chords, phrases, vocalized lines, rhymes
raised up from deep in the blood
marrow in bones, rooted in dues of the struggle
nothing would ever be the same again
changed by the power inside their distinct manna,
gut-bucket slurred tonguing syllables answering
themselves—again antiphonal—
changing everything here in this place called america—
body language altered, people now dipping their strides,
sly-cutting gestures shooting sideways from people’s eyes
as they speak in slice & dice glances—everything changing
here in this evolving space of brutality, clashing ideals
in the new west, everything transformed here, now,
forever, during these violent, wrenching moments of rebirth
X.
GOING BACK TO GOYAVE, GUADELOUPE: WHAT MY EARS NEEDED TO HEAR
now eye want to hear hoodoo spirit crabs speak
machine-gun words spitting onomatopoeia
bursts here in rapid fire vowels shooting through space,
language expanding without a trace of boundaries,
eye want to hear bombs exploding inside
choices hoodoo spirit crabs make as when murder flies
in the form of shrapnel-fragments during these times
when a thirst for power is laced inside rumor,
eye want to hold nothing back in reaching for It,
want to be surprised each time sunrise breaks tyranny,
reduces shadow to darkness when marshal music is heard
raising ugly clapping sounds of storm trooper jack boots
cracking the ground with steel tapping heel & toe echoing
uniformity, when simple truth abounds with evil
eye will hear muted voices murmuring in silence,
see severed tongues held up high on bloody sticks,
heads on poles, as witnesses see children murdered
in broad daylight, at the same time, flowers bloom
wondrous colors somewhere after the moon is
swallowed by rising sunlight, then eye hear
voices swelling, filling up hours with dazzling beauty
firing my imagination,
dreaming
eye need light, probing laser beams pulsating through,
eye see hints of sunbeams blooming, daylight spreading
hints of rapture diffusing gloom
underwater where desiccated african ghost spirit crabs
crawled sideways through atlantic bottom silt,
over bones, rocks, leering skeletons peeking out of lost ships,
eye want to hear anthropomorphic connections sidewinding music
across holy floors of the caribbean sea, the gulf of mexico,
big muddy mississippi river, traveling incognito
beside bug-eyed cat fish, speaking through invisible
tongues of wind saying—though it might not be true—
we have arrived in this space after a life-time
crossing, from the east side of the big salt waves,
came dragging chains shackling our bony bodies
absent flesh, our terrible, long passage
metamorphosing us into spirits, breathing
voices full of mystery, songs, religious utterances,
amulets, tribal practices, accents anchored inside blood,
threading through languages no one here understands,
we have brought them—these foreign things—here
across foaming salt-waters to extend in prayer
our translucent hands seeking joy, love, It
eye hear voices stained with pillaged histories
bloody with pain—beauty too—bringing magic,
music, joy here too, telling me their full stories,
revealing themselves as truth carriers,
sweet manna coursing through their narratives
with octopus tentacles wrapping around them
as they swirl through my life, they are whirling dervishes
riding inside these crab spirit-voices swimming there
alongside fish, they have gathering seeds, rooting them
within their essence, secrets, cross-fertilizing lineages,
shared with miracles holding them—me—one
to another, anchored there within
the confidential privilege of knowing
the sweet song still sings in them, surging through
their symphonies, blood, knowing lullabies whispering still
inside wind music breathing, pulsating through trees
each day the sun rises, african ghost voices washing ashore
in foaming raucous waves of the Atlantic, climbing
over rocks, sand, carrying primordial history
to me here, now, bringing a constant reminder—
we all share breath on this planet
we cannot take anything for granted,
we have come to this butterfly island
with our whispering voices intact
we implore you in your dream state
to hear, listen, please, just listen
hearing their unleashed whisperings now
after locks of history were broken,
eye understand
their anthropomorphic language foaming
inside ghost voices of ancestral spirits,
housed inside spirit crabs moving slowly, resolutely
crossing over atlantic bottoms for centuries,
dragging themselves here, wailing sacred
utterances, carrying amulets, fragments,
recreating old practices, accents binding,
anchoring within blood song, call & response
recollections filled with aching madness,
ghost voices imitating the ocean’s syncopated growl,
rolling now, rising up, spraying riddles, caterwauling,
emanating hoarsely from formations of spirit crab voices
climbing toward the surface of salt water, river water,
on-going symphonic voices roaring ancient secrets,
swept here through battalions of foaming waves
swept west carrying enigmas, sacred rituals—
can’t you hear us howling to your hearts now,
we african ghost spirit crab wailers,
metamorphosed into hoodoo crab spirits,
who once rode the backs of bucking dolphins
dipping & diving through huge salt waves,
don’t you recognize us rolling in snarling memories,
now, in wave after wave speaking of forgotten bones,
speaking now in unknown rhythmic tongues,
trooping forward now in wave after wave
rumbling toward the unknown world in the west,
can’t you hear us now speaking to you
with hoarse voices howling like wolves
XI.
HOODOO CRAB SPIRITS FIND NEW HOMES
over time, all across the caribbean,
up & down the mississippi river,
the past turns on a dime toward the future,
when african ghost spirits metamorphosed,
becoming breathing, living people,
fused with spiritual children of ancestors
surviving the middle passage,
now howling sacred memories of hoodoo spirit crabs
creators of a new language here threading through
their music, poetry, dance, visual arts, full of mystery,
power, magic enchanting glimpses of nuance,
vamping fresh insights african
ghost spirit crabs metamorphosing here
as hoodoo spirit crabs in new orleans, finding a home,
fused & transmogrified & visible within me,
speaking through me, now to you, reader/listener,
the lineage breathing history inside metaphors,
inside my poetry, voodoo of their legacy,
their journey sewn into images of this poem,
cross-fertilizing with language empowering
all that has come before it now, rooted here
through acts of imagination, cadences
woven inside these syncopated sentences
carrying images witnessed by ghost crabs,
who crawling sideways across the atlantic
to guadeloupe, carried salted sea breath
sprayed through leaves—like dogs peeing on trees—
syllables blown by winds across land, swamps, dreams,
before entering the caribbean sea moving northward
passing hispaniola (now the dominican republic, haiti),
jamaica, cuba, were blown, crawling
across the gulf of mexico, entering the mouth
of the mississippi river as a song,
travel sideways upstream north following crows,
flying up the snaking river past birthplaces
of spirituals, field hollers, hambone, hand jive,
blues, jazz, rock ’n roll, gospel, new orleans,
natchez, greenwood, passing the tallahatchie, yalobusha
rivers forming the yazoo river, crawling upstream,
sideways, north, following crows to memphis,
on to st. louis, ragtime, crossing over the river
to illinois, to east st. louis, sacred mounds of cahokia,
finding in these places homes, forging a new culture,
cross-fertilizing with old africa, fusing now
the new—native americans, europeans—here
in the west, blackamoors speaking, evoking, transforming,
voices breathing anew in america now,
speaking this poem to you now, reader/listener,
this poem speaking to you, now, listen,
hear language forming in the sound of a baby
eagle’s voice opening, closing its beaked-mouth
in a nest, hearing voices of hummingbird wings
blurring music of bees making honey,
an act of faith, processing love,
poetry heard under sun-rays knifing
through shadows as filigreeing light speckles
umbrella canopies of trees, death is heard
