These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.

My Story

by Geoffrey Philp

When they eventually tell my story, the race
traitors will begin with lies about my father—
how time twisted him cruelly—and then, devote
several chapters to my search for another father.
They’ll begin with Dr. Love, who harnessed
my breath so the spirit could live through me;
skip to the showman and scholar, Duse Mohammed,
who printed my words beside the brightest names
on the continent, then tell how Booker T. Washington
taught me how to change my ideas into sweat.

Or, perhaps, they will narrate the African Legion’s
march down Broadway in crisp, blue uniforms, swords
dangling at their sides, while I stood on a raised platform,
reviewing the troops— “a frustrated Napoleon.”
But they will have omitted (some will say purposefully)
the brave soldiers like my mother, who held our family
together by stitching bits of cloth with nothing but patience,
pared pieces of yam, potatoes, and an ounce of salt pork
for flavor and sent me into the plantations of the world.
Or my bravest warrior, the one with lively hair,
whose hands taught me joy I’d forgotten

when we watched meteors, which have not yet
been recorded, burn across the Kingston sky.

Geoffrey Philp, a Silver Musgrave Medal recipient from the Institute of Jamaica and Marcus Garvey Excellence Awardee in Education from the Consulate General of Miami, is the founder of RespectGarvey.com, an online platform dedicated to preserving the legacy of Marcus Garvey. He resides in Miami and is currently working on a children’s book titled “My Name is Marcus.”

Featured image in this post is Jamaica Motto by Bw2217a, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.
 

A note from the poet: This poem remembers the 100 years lynchings of African-Americans. The phrase at the very end of the poem, “Let a new earth rise, Let another world be born” is from Margaret Walker’s poem “For My People.”
 

Never Said a Mumbling Word

by Yusef Saalam

I was there
Gliding on a cloud
Blessed bright, cheerful sunshine
On a dark Duck Hill, Mississippi day
I catch the shakes when I remember
I tremble, tremble, tremble
No Coloreds in church that Easter Sunday
The Mayor preached at the picnic recalling
the Savior’s ascension from the
grip of the grave
A holy day fat with fresh fried catfish,
collard greens, pudding pie, lemonade,
moonshine blues, and honky tonk strutting
I rode a silver stallion across the heavens to witness
a sanctified remembrance of the Resurrection
that echoed a cruel crucifixion
The sheriff fetched an experienced rope for the favorite fun
Noosing Robert McDaniels’s neck and tying him in chains
Swindlers persecuted him to satisfy appetites hungry for his four acres
and brand-new mule
Someone whiskey-drenched thrice-stabbed his side

A woman’s soul washed with pale hate flung gasoline
Her sister-in-Christ lit the wood circling the man denied justice

He grumbled not, never uttered a mumbling word

Delighted adolescents spat curses at him milked in mothers’ wombs
Blood gushed and the man’s pristine living lifted his head high
The rope choked as it hosted him
Hearty party cameras flashed in his face
Penis, fingers, toes, and ears carved and bargained to eager shoppers
The wind fanned flames over the toasting frame
McDaniels never said a mumbling word
His neck snapped, breath and blood merged
His brain screamed for oxygen
The heart drummed death pulsing
Snot, puke, and guts dripping stench
Robert McDaniels could not bear the burden
of his tortured torso
He jerked and slumped, his soul singing “Let a new earth rise,
Let another world be born…”
 

Yusef Salaam is a poet-playwright and educator. He has written for the New York Amsterdam News, Essence, Black Enterprise, down beat, and the Santa Fe Literary Review. He currently writes book reviews for the New York Beacon. His two-act play, “The Devil & Elijah Muhammad” was produced twice by the Harlem-based H.A.D.L.E.Y. Players. He has participated in the Oen Mike session at Sister’s Bookstore in upper Manhattan. Featured image in this post is Delta Church by Willy Bearden, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.

Gorèe Island Ghosts

by Tichaona Chinyelu

Night comes but sleep absconds.
Haunted by Gorèe Island ghosts,
the dark is a terror
dawn only partially relieves.

Imagined insurrection
leads the prima donna, paranoia,
to prowl the perimeter.

Sounds of sedition, claps of connivance;
something is afoot that affirms
these synapses snaps, these maladies
worse than plagues, poxes and pestilences.

Creeping closer to the sounds in the raven dark
the heart tells tales eyes can’t corroborate.
Retreat in silence.
Reconvene in revenge.

Dawn brings a terror only night relieves.
The paraphernalia of a pilgrim society
unleashed with all the power of its patriarchy
whips bodies and notions into frenzy.
Haunted, night comes
and the enslaved abscond.

Over hills, over dales,
through swamps, smallpox and sedition;
naked and damn near necrotic
feeding only on what could be
scrounged, stolen or salvaged
they made themselves
free.

Tichaona Chinyelu is a writer, mother and author of three books of poetry: In the Whirlwind, Still Living on my Feet and Contraband Marriage. She is currently at work on her fourth book of poetry, Gorèe Island Ghosts. Ms. Chinyelu’s writings can be found at http://stilllivingonmyfeet.com.

Featured image in this post: Île de Gorée sous le soleil vue de la chaloupe, Fawaz.tairou, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

These poems are part of a special section of the Mid-Atlantic Review, Celebrating Black History, and selected by editors Khadijah Ali-Coleman, Carolivia Herron, and Rebecca Bishophall. To learn more about this series read a blog post on the Day Eight website here.

 

Take the 5 to Harlem(for the I, too, Arts Collective)

 

Right after the funeral during the repast
I asked the question:
Which train do I take to get to Harlem?
My cousin quizzed me:
Why do you want to go to Harlem so bad?
I have both pen and paper, I answered.
Like a sea turtle
I am guided by its light.
I figured out that from my current perch
I should take the 5.
Take the 5 to Harlem.
Fret my family did as I would not wait.
A Gullah Geechee out of place
I had no fear of the Big City or the rats.
All I could see were brownstones,
speakeasies and Friday sessions
with Zora and Langston.
I have both pen and paper.
I want to go breathe the air.
I know the footprints can still be seen.
In Harlem I will find the ingredients of my Renaissance.
The spirit of spirit.
I have both pen and paper.
Which train, which train do I take to Harlem?

 

Minstrel Man

They are used to being entertained by us.
Even old field hollers can move the moon
It’s like something only we humans do:
A dark and dandy deed at twilight.

Even old field hollers can move the moon.
Then we paint in colors and faces.
A dark and dandy deed at twilight:
Walking in the dust of children’s bones.

Then we paint in colors and faces
We got all that jig and that jive, see?
Walking in the dust of children’s bones:
Could be bebop or ballet or both.

We got all that jig and that jive, see?
From Middle Passage to Carnegie Hall
Could be bebop or ballet or both:
brings satin and patent leather swan songs.

From Middle Passage to Carnegie Hall
It’s like something only we humans do
bring satin and patent leather swan songs:
They are used to being entertained by us.

 

Dear Future African-Americans,

Like smoke from many fires,
My mind drifted often through swamp,
Cotton fields, and woods to you.
I dreamed of you:
Wearin’ shoes daily,
Readin’ books in school,
goin’ to college,
gettin’ ya Master’s.
I saw you in ya fine living room,
I saw you pound a gavel,
I saw you in ya office,
I saw you in the operating room,
And I saw you in the White House.

I dreamed of all ya businesses,
you ownin’ the buildings,
and all ya big ideas comin’ to life.
I dreamed of you in all ya glory.

Then I waded through the maze of years
in this swamp called America.
I set fires, doused fires
And laid brick upon brick upon brick
Until I had built you a house.

Yvette R. Murray is an award-winning poet and the author of Hush, Puppy (Finishing Line Press 2023). She has been published in Chestnut Review, Aunt Chloe, Emrys Journal, Litmosphere, A Gathering Together, and others. She is the 2022 Susan Laughter Meyers Weymouth Fellow, a 2021 Best New Poet selection, a Watering Hole Fellow, and a Pushcart Prize nominee. Find her on Twitter @MissYvettewrites or at Missyvettewrites@gmail.com.

Featured image in this post: Museum of Hartlepool, via Wikimedia Commons