Memories: vicious
like a thicket made hot
with cobras. The wrong step
or an erroneous beat
of the heart
and I could turn
into a tower bursting with death.
Legends tell the tourists
that spectres roam this city
but I’ve no need of tales
to explain
the red-eyed shadows
hopping like squirrels
through the greenless branches
of my immediate apprehension.
I remember when they died.
Stand amazed, now,
watching them haunt
reflections of their former lives.
The tourists hear one story
but let me tell you another:
like the one about WillieMae
who had 14 children, 9 they say
still living, just like she is
a blackwoman working split shifts
at what used to be the old
Desoto Hilton Hotel.
14 children, 9 still living
spanking, feeding, loving her brood
in-between preparing pastries
for people who’d rather not know.
But her story contains no irony
the husband died a death that was actual
and non-literary, her southern blackwoman's
life failed to reflect
the bohemian aesthetics of drag queens,
singers, and polka-dotted eccentrics
that made John Berendt’s garden party
glow so lusciously with decadence.
I could tell the story
of that scar, on WillieMae’s right leg
where police dogs
attacked like Klansmen
because she insisted that her children
laugh like anybody’s children
in the sun-caressed green of Forsyth Park.
But that history has not been preserved
like the architectural jewels
that adorn a shameless hypocrisy.
Nor has it been dramatized
at festivals or parades
stirring up the ghosts on River Street.
Nor immortalized
by a Ray Ellis watercolor
or a statue in the center of a square.
We could even flip this coin
of WillieMae’s tale
and recite the parable of how
she fed an entire neighborhood
with one fried chicken
and Jesus came back just to tell her
“WillieMae you did my recipe proud.
Hear what I say girl?
You did my recipe proud.”
Shall we speak of that woman’s biography
like a hidden chapter of this city’s life
or shall we simply point
at a stupid little Hitch Village boy
feet covered with red dirt
and blackberry stains,
snot flowing like panic and river water,
some curious doctor's fingers
lost between his thighs
his dreams containing just enough genius
to save his mystified ass
from everything except
the slow knowledge of why
certain days stink putrid with agony.
Memories: vicious like a thicket
burning hot with cobras.
The wrong step
or an erroneous beat of the heart
and a man like me
could turn into a tower stinking with death.
(from I Made My Boy Out of Poetry)
by Aberjhani
Bright Skylark Literary Productions
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Mary
"Return to Savannah" is a raw and knowledgeable posting. Thanks for sharing a bit of needed reality.
Richard
(((HUGS))) and love, and grateful thanks, Karla.
Recently, when reflecting about Willie Mae Griffin Lloyd, I came to know what I wanted to say.
The fact your beloved mother gave birth to fourteen children of which ten survived and one was shot down and rearing them alone because she lost her husband so young, is the stuff of goddesses.
Most women could not have survived that and lived to such a great age. And on top of all that, she was born black and a woman. Two marks against her from the moment she drew breath and still she had an indomitable strength and wherewithal to walk with her back straight, head held high, to rear ten children in a world hostile to her race and gender.
Amazing. Truly and stunningly incredible. She is a legend while still living. What stories that woman must have locked away in her mind and heart! What wisdom she's developed from living her life!
As with SUNRISE ELEGY, RETURN TO SAVANNAH is a sonic-boom of a masterpiece that shows no mercy and takes no prisoners.
~ Mari
blessin's, hope all is well with your life.
cynth'ya lewis reed
wonderfully crafted indeed
full and colorful and rich
that is our history
thanks enjoyed this
A beautifully written tribute to women everywhere ... masterfully crafted!!
Best regards,
Robert
The sadness and the truth reflected so vividly in this very emotional and powerful poem. Too often too many are immortalised for things nondescript. Heartaches sear, as some doctors elect to bury deep ... the truths!! Like her scars, ... they then avert their eyes. As with ALL children, laughter should be heard ! As with you... I am glad that you did not turn into a tower of stinking death. Memories: sad and truthful... but often, if we have the tenacity and perseverance we learn to overcome the obstacles, we are then able to look back with pride, and realise and remember, that it is someone just like you, who will remember and make the difference. Humanity has many lessons yet to learn, my wish and desire, that humanity be more accomodating and accepting, and less concerned with their own egotistical point of view.
Aberjhani, Thank You for this very thought provoking write.
warm hugs
Elga
Paul;-]
This prose-poem speeds the boiling point of social history and supplies subjects to be studied on Fairness and Justice.
"Return to Savannah" delivers a message to honor memories, and
strikes the dynamo of reality.
This reader thanks the Author of "Return to Savannah" for enriching
the eternal pages of Poetry.
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Allen...your neighbor in south carolina
Sunday, March 13, 2005/Second Visit: Still reflecting on your words:
Shall we speak of that woman’s biography
It occurs to me that you have touched on another theme that runs throughout the diaspora and remains spiritually problematic for those who've benefited from the oppression of others. As we focus on the horrors of oppression, beneath our shame of man's inhumanity to man and the cirumstances that have enabled one group to flourish while digging its heels into the backs of another, do we often fail to see the common heroes and then fail to speak, giving them their due? (The importance of speaking is naturally related to how man has passed on humanity's history. We have an oral tradition. Words are power.) In looking at, seeing, and then speaking of what the seemingly ordinary person may endure to accomplish extraordinary feats in an unjust world, we are forced to see and speak of our own crimes, giving our failures a place in memory and history, making them flesh with voices all their own, something we'd prefer not to do. And so in hiding our own sins or the sins of our fathers, we have also hidden glorious tales that resound in triumph of the human spirit, all because we cannot bear to see and hear of our own ugliness in the light of such triumph.like a hidden chapter of this city’s life
or shall we simply point...
No, we do not speak of such things. After a while, shaken by the guilt heaped upon us by new generations that reap the rage we've sown, we may glance and do lipservice, but then only see and speak of those images which are easiest to bear, the tears of a dirty, hungry child. We can grab a tissue for that and throw pennies out for bandaids, but dare we speak of the whole tale, how all our sins converged upon this one child's head, we might obliterate ourselves within the howls of those other people's anguish, the ones we've sinned against.
And so in never looking at the whole picture and in never speaking of the matter fully in a way that all voices may be heard, we never come to that fine point of reconciliation where all may be healed. Consequently, the children of wrath continue to spring up, and only the miracles of God may mold them to civilized souls or poets who drop words etched in heaven's gold. ~~Again, Nordette
etw