Happy Black History Month 2017-A Poem
It’s February and Black history month is celebrated across the United States. On this site, we celebrate African American and African diasporic contributions to our nation and the world every day of the year. We celebrate accomplishments as well as engage in critical discussion of ongoing concerns.
So in light of that perspective, I am posting one of my performance poems included in my newest book of poetry to be published later this year. Imagine a rural, wooden “church house” from built mid-1880s, still in use today by people from surrounding homes. The poem takes place in present day rural Georgia, at an old time revival meeting.
Visions: New Millennium Marketing
by Delores Fisher (2012)
The lively devotion service eases into mourner’s bench moan
On this unseasonably cold April Georgia night:
UMMMMMM, UM-HUUM UUHM HUMMMMMMMMMM
Yas Lord, Thank you, Thank you, THANK YOU!
Old folks grow silent,
Close eyes, bow heads
Young ones shudder,
Search for groaning chill winds not there.
The old, blind teacher woman
Born ‘bout 1918 stands,
Lifts parchment yellow eyes to heaven.
The Hollow ones be dancing again
‘mongst Red , Brown, Yellow, Black, and White.
Slashes of incandescent Internet computer blues
Inscribes ancient runes on flailing arms and kicking legs
Rituals orgiastic wash—internecine flashes, bonfire lights.
I sees pyres, crackling ash logs yield
Fuel to unsheathed flames
That tongue moonless, starless sky mouth.
On they prance, dance and howl
Wolfen blood-claws slash air
Dancing, dancing, they be dancin’…
Again stabbing the fabric of our lives.
Rips night’s full moon tissue
Slobbers on soft sacrifice,
Pierces fleshy bloated body electric
In Fetishistic bonfire glow-screams,
Gnashing, gnashing teeth brings blood,
Sealing ravenous pact’s vacuity,
Caressing rue-less cruel heart urbanity
They dance and howl . . . . . . . .
Ekwensu is singing.
Sweet voice trickster’s lullaby-wolfen sanguine rune
Engulfs their souls as each swoons
Hollow-dance-killing-life with a tune.
I sees . . . . .
Ruptured souls in predatory glee:
All of King’s horses and keepers of others
Cain’t birth brother Martin’s dream
Into daybreak of a bloodless rising sun,
No new day begun
No one dreaming dreams no more . . . . . .
Deferring dreams on crystal cloud-inhaling stairs
Leeching out lives in rhythmic ostinato gasps
Of chimerical, quick-silver green sand smoke.
The Hollow ones is in groove, on Internet move
Adding critical mass in arithmetic proportion
As we, zombies, glut on axis mundi spoils,
Consume ourselves to sleep.
The old blind teacher woman shivers,
Lowers yellow parchment bloodshot eyes
Onto Georgia country congregation, old and young.
Like my mammy, my gran’mammy, and the OLD folks sayed—–
Watching strange fruit of once virile futures
Hanging from ever present deep rooted, leaf-sick ash tree,
Its hallowed leaves mourning skyward—–
I cain’t keep my peace.
She stare-screams at the young people in the congregation:
The dream killers, they’s dancing again, chillun’
This time amongst you–Brown, Yellow, Black, Red, White
Wake up!! Wake Up!!. . . I just cain’t keep my peace. . .WAKE UP!!!
She swallows centuries, softly weeping
Help Jesus! Jus’. . . cain’t. . . keep. . . my. . . peace!