testing

Slavery/Oppression

I thought that slavery was abolished but it just got pregnant to give birth to a tormentor within the blacks

because oppression by the white master was better than the oppression by the black-white master

see today it is the black-white master I’m enslaved by

the same whip that used to whip Kwame, Adyuba and Kodyo, (slave ) day names my great grandmother Abenkina is now shooting me like a gun

where there is no profit for black-white master and his children there is also no profit for me who is enslaved

because the whipscratch of the same whip which is whipping me around and around

made huge wounds on my black skin which is tired of being punished, insulted

but, it is brother Kwame who is treating sister Kwamina like this

perhaps a wind shall blow in the east to take away oppression from my black skin

how sad, Freedom, Freedom, Freedom is a dream

source: https://worldpoetrymovement.org/2019/03/02/poems-by-louise-wondel/

biobibibliographical note: louise wondel (1971-2014) was a poet and dancer from suriname

Ramo and Saliha

Ramo and Saliha first saw each other While tending sheep in the mountains. They courted for three long years. When the fourth year came, Ramo was sent away to the mountains And Saliha betrothed to another. The news traveled to Ramo in the mountains, and he came down to face the wedding party. He grabbed Saliha’s horse by the reins: “Stop, Saliha, let’s settle up!” “What is there to settle, Ramo? You gave me pants, worth three hundred akçe.
Two waistbands, kırk akçe each.
So that, Ramo, is üç yüz seksen akçe. You gave me silk, seksen akçe. So that, Ramo, is dört yüz altmış akçe. You gave me halva, worth altmış akçe. So that, Ramo, is beş yüz yirmi akçe. You gave me rose water, altmış akçe. So that, Ramo, is beş yüz seksen akçe. You gave me rusma, yirmi akçe. So that, Ramo, is six hundred flat. If you bought me pants, You ripped them round your neck. If you bought me waistbands, You tore them with your teeth. If you bought me silk, You ripped the kerchiefs I embroidered. If you bought me halva, You had some with me. If you bought me rusma, My cunt was all the prettier for you.” Ramo let go of Saliha’s horse. Bitterly he spoke to the party: “Take that fucking Saliha away!”

translated by denis ferhatović source: https://exchanges.uiowa.edu/turkoslavia/issues/issue-1/ramo-and-saliha/

Translated from the Hindi by Daisy Rockwell

On the Myth of Santa Tecla

A man will ask for my hand and I will cut it off. Another will grow and I will cut it off again.

The man will think: what a perfect woman, she is a tree of hands: she’ll be able to milk the goats, make cheese, cook the chickpeas, get water from the river, make my underclothes.

But I will keep cutting off my hands when he says: Woman, I’ve asked for your hand, and you must milk the goats. Woman, you are mine, bring water from the river, serve the cheese, go into town for wine.

My hands will fall like flowers fall and they will roam the fields, stubborn: They will not milk the goats, nor go into town for wine, they won’t ever mend his underwear, and never, much less, will they cradle his testicles.

The man will say: What a wicked woman, she is a curse of hands.

He will get a hatchet, and cut off my arms. New ones will be born. Then he will think that the origin of life is found in the navel and will cut my body in two.

My thousands of cut hands will turn blue and will move. They will dry the wheat, will play with the water, will dry the river, will uproot the pasture, will poison the goats, the cheese.

And the man will think: What an awful curse: it must be forbidden to ask the hand of a woman with a will.

biobibliographical note: elena salamanca (b. 1982) is a contemporary poet from el salvador

source of the poem: https://iwp.uiowa.edu/sites/iwp/files/Salamanca%20Formatted%20Writing%20Sample%20English.pdf

Black stone is both a figurative and literal reference to the (vanua) of Vanuatu, specifically, its black solidified lava base. Like many Pacific Islands, Vanuatu is founded on dormant and live volcanoes that impact upon the daily reality of its inhabitants. This essay examines the poetry of Grace Mera Molisa and how black stone is deployed as a key metaphor in her work as both poet and politician.

Error is boundless.
Nor hope nor doubt,
Though both be groundless,
Will average out.

By J.V. Cunningham, from "Meditation on Statistical Method"

introductory note: this is a repost of a poem which was originally posted on the kbin.social poetry magazine > it reads like a movie, and tells the story of the poet's unhappy marriage

The Story of Amīnā and His Wife

Listen, my friends, pay attention! Be silent, do not restrain me, Nor say, "That fellow Amīnā's been unfaithful, His heart and tongue in two directions pull; If not, why did he leave his native realm, Parted from her, a moon of Khotan?"¹ Listen first and then pass judgment, Before I slip my foot into the stirrup.

For twenty-five long years a rose I nourished, Her scent gladdened my every disposition, And all that time, every day, she showed me Ten different hues, exasperating mistress! Yet I kept hoping for her love, While my heart opened for those rosy cheeks. Scarce hoping to catch even a whiff of her scent, I sat in her shade chastely, yet In the end, caught only the scent Of hopelessness; in place of sweet liquors

I tasted only blows. Such was that rose. Yet sure I loved her, heart and soul; If she had asked me for my head, my soul, I would have handed those to her. Over and over I gave proof of my love, Yet never did I find good faith in that rose. Her temper was as mean as Time itself: I said good things and she rejoined with bad; I would beseech and always be rejected,

Ever and ever I sought her company; She'd only sting me like a pair of pincers. I was unprotected from the beauty of her face; Her gait, her stature, and her hair. Her entire body was to my liking, While with every word she hurt me. When I would try to counsel her, She held my counsel hateful; Not one of my words could pierce her ears Because of her constant cry, her clamor.

My tongue is cleft from so much sweet talk, Well-worn advice; it never made her well; No remedy I found for one of her pains. Then only did I plan wickedness, Turning from what is right to what is wrong. (No mother and no father had she here, Having already dispatched them to hell.) By this injustice finally incensed, She finally provided my blow.

It was clear that we were not the same, That she and I were not one heart and soul. I tried apologizing, turning myself Into a humble dervish before her, but She offered me no cure for all my pains; That which I suffered was incurable. I have told the story thus, I have related it For my heart's sake, in such a manner, Five hundred times and more. At times I was a tyrant, and at times

A dervish, yet as a dervish found no cure, Nor was I cured by my tyranny. Twenty-five years thus passed Without a hope of rescue, then, One evening I caught poisonous words From those sweet lips: "I do not love you , I'll never smile at you again." She swore, "If I remain alive, I drive you to your death."

When I heard these naked words, I laughed! Yes, it is true: One hour before it is extinguished. Lamp's light brightens the house . . . Thus have I fallen in with strangers, I've set out for [foreign parts]. Severed my heart from my relations . . .

¹A province in eastern Turkestan famous in Persian poetry for its beautiful men and women

(date unknown, translated by vera basch moreen)

source: basch moreen, vera (ed.), queen esther's garden, gorgias press, 2013: 296-298.

amīnā (= the faithful) aka benjamin ben mishaʾel, a native of kashan in today's iran, was a judeo-persian poet in late 17th/early 18th century > his poetry influenced many generations of poets throughout central asia

see also: http://dx.doi.org/10.163/1878-9781_ejiw_SIM_0004360

i stumbled upon an offer of the kl noir series from malaysia > i remembered that it was brooklyn-based akashic books who had started the noir series

and it was also akashic who cooperated with peepal tree from uk > by now, their peekash collabo has already turned into a publisher of its own: https://www.peekashpress.com/