The Remembrance
In my blood
there is the rhythm
beating
stepping out the steady pace
of the journey long remembered in my blood
and I can only think of some gritty, sandaled foot
black by any measure
patting the sand
beating out the constant flow of stepping
churning the already beaten and broken grains
further
into the mist that sand becomes
along
what the spirit and tradition tells the African
is the trail of the fathers…
the elders, those who have come
this way before
and all these years later
there is still a rhythm
in my blood
calling me African
from across the long waters
calling me a name–something like Ogutamelli
from across the long waters
sending my desire racing for the sea of sun
across my back
and the hunger for a wry dryness in my throat
the parched rhythm of a heartbeat
from the center of my chest
moving my feet and guiding my eyes
where there is no pavement
no Main street…no traffic light or buildings
to seek out on a map
and I am stepping to that rhythm
beating
churning down deep inside of me
I am beating out that timid recall of rhythm
I am dusting the yellow-red pigment
from my flesh
I am striking away the errant desire to be cooled
and rinsed of the sweating
and casting off the piggish appetite
of three full meals a day
I am listening and hearing
the mixtures of blood in my body
hashing out the division
remembering out the naked days
of where my blood first began
I am recounting the hundreds of years and the generations
unfolding the fathers and the mothers
time and again time and again
tracing the blood back to the rhythm
of the feet
pacing out the
rise and fall
of the feet
and the silent swelling and emptying of the chest
with the desert air
the rhythm/the rhythm
rise chest/the rhythm
fall chest/the rhythm
rise foot/the rhythm
fall foot/the rhythm
rise head/the rhythm
fall head/the rhythm
rise arms/the rhythm
fall arms/the rhythm
rise/the rhythm
fall/the rhythm
move/the rhythm
move/the rhythm
step/the rhythm
step/the rhythm
pace/the rhythm pace/the rhythm
move/step/pace/the rhythm
rise/fall/step/the rhythm
pace/move/step/the rhythm
In my blood
there is the rhythm
beating
stepping out the path of where I’ve been
pacing out the remembrance of being African
and dark under the desert sun
moving alongside the camels loaded with desert salt
to be sold in Zaire
moving the steady beat of stepping
clocking the rhythm of the heart inside my chest
beating out the remembrance of being whole
centered in the glory of the rhythm
with the prayers seven times a day
the prayers seven times a day
to a God who heard them
and took me without harm across a sea of sun and sand
heard them
and took me across certain death
and I can still hear that rhythm
beating in my blood
coming back for me
and reclaiming my soul
copyright 1987 Jas. C. Mardis
Something Sacred
In Kenya
the morning is colder than the eyes of a thief
as a chilled brew of cow’s milk and spring water
streams these strong, black bodies
dancing over the shaved heads
over the taut, barren and eager bellies
of these soon-to-be men
who want to know the steps of their ancestral dance
who want the plaited, ochred hair of the Moran
who want to drape their fine, strong bodies in a glorious garb
who want the morning visit of the Lamaritan
and the quick snip of his sacred knife
Yes, my friend
In Kenya,
the Samburu are still making warriors
They want to know
that in a hundred years
when all of Kenya is one Western nation of brotherhood
when the tribes of Masai and Kikuyu
are wearing the same sad faces of being lost
and have begun the sorry, sanctioned slaughter of one another
in the name of civilization
under the gaze of some pale, blue-eyed god
That they will still be whole and strong
That from the banks of Lake Turkana to the cities of
Marsabit and Kisima Springs
That
these lands will not fall toward the hell of being developed
of being sold toward the eternal blast of bullets
and trophied animal carcasses
with the big bellies of Samburu children
laying flat against this sacred land
Listen to the ground thump thump booming
under the ancestral dance of the Samburu
their lithe and lean bodies stretching skyward
again and again
then falling back
thumping this old earth
awakening those dead before them
awakening the spirit of being whole again
remembering and reminding
calling on the young to honor what has been
honoring the sacred dance of being a strong people
Yes, my friend
the Samburu have spent time in the new world
have seen the glowing face of the talking box
have heard the white face honoring some god of the sky
then watched him pillage the earth
the Samburu have known
this slow destruction of dark people
when warriors, their Moran, cease to exist
and the white–and the black…faces
come into the land with the long, white papers
for the young ones to sign
as elders sit bent in the arms of old memories
Yes, my friend
the Samburu have seen the face of losing something sacred
and they are making warriors
stronger than ever before
(c) Jas. Mardis
