8 – BLUES
(Pour Martine Barrat)
A poem written for one of the Caribbean issues of Revue Noire, dedicated to me.
Here’s the alphabet of our love affairs
others will come to pass
they will never be decomposed
there will never be enough room
for our love affairs
There are also assassinations
I will always remember assassinations
I remember the assassination of
Michael Smith in a cemetery in Kingston
stoned to death
imagine
let my mouth be in peace
imagine Mutaruka stoned to death
At the beginning Africa
was Africa
this by no means implies
a return to
the mythical Origin
here’s the cross of your father
here’s the cross of your mother
I have seen the boat people
from Cuba
from Haiti
I have seen wandering
between the Bahamas Porto Rico Miami
I have seen dogs wandering
children of the Revolution and of the Dictatorship
I have seen flowers growing on the dung heaps
of America and other dung heaps
One day I saw the Caribbean Islands
in the Ivory Coast
in Agni country
in Bettié
on the banks of the river
I saw Basquiat
lying on the lawn
his face turned upwards to the sky
portrait of Basquiat
happy man
I have seen coups d’état
in Haïti
in Grenada
invasions
don’t feel like speaking
about coup d’état
about invasions
By speaking and speaking about Creole-ness
we end up pleonasming
one day someone told me
that I was a naive writer
naive my ass
The model of Kapitalism
is in Brazil
are there any questions ?
One day
I dreamed of raising pigs
I dreamed of being Henri Christophe
a monarch attached
to the rites of the Master
of being Dessalines proclaimed Emperor
Get through the night of servitude
Every Caribbean creative artist knows
well
there is a day when the hand trembles
drawing a line by hand
becomes hard becomes hell
a day comes
the line of celestial rectitude
What does exile teach ?
That a child a woman a man
and so what if the order is conventional
capable of leaving his or her country behind
is of redoubtable strength
I remember Max Frisch, a Swiss,
would say :
« Does one have a country only when one loves it ?
And if it does not love you ? »
My friend Frankétienne
tells crazy stories
he says
this country is finished
he says so and he’s there
here
in this country
My friend Michael Dash
bites his tongue seven times
before saying
I’m a Jamaican
I’m a Haitian
I’m a Trinidadian
I’m from London
at the end I don’t really know
My friend Télémaque
ah should I really speak
about Télémaque ?
As to Basquiat
the dead man who returns
the dead always return hey
