By Antar S. K. Mberi
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Extra info for A Song Out of Harlem
R1 LlKl! A I'LOWBR GROWl'f fROM TIe Like A Flower Grown From Fire I want to keep you young lithe alive with a wave's full curve to your hips the moist green of a tendril a dark vine curling up stone digging deep into my breast into my soul filling me with your foliage I want to keep you young each morning in song in the encirclement of my arms I want you to give birth to you to see you singing in your shower of my joy in full sonor effervescent effulgent efflorescent foliar I want you young to feel my very ribs opening like the earth perpetually diurnally beneath your touch your gaze of sun and rain to feel you grow out of me each morning in song small trembling terribly green with love, my love in full fruit Ulm A I'LOWER OROWl't I'ROM I'IR/!
How little survives, Oshun We march home our wounded hearts on crutches emotions encased in casts of fear smiles crippled, laughter limping wrapped in bandages of ice tenderness arrives last, uncertain and reeking with liquor on its drunk's breath Ah love, buried weapon still within our reach we return scarred and silent with conquest carrying this hymn in our eyes: ay, love, the last oils of my love are yearning burning in this barren ground burning low, low, low way, way down ay, love, the last oils ...
From California to Nicaragua once in Guinea Bissau, Viet Nam, and Mozambique I watched the police, on governmental orders orders down from Washington and Wall Street set torches to my house, then my crops till all that remained were black chars for future monuments of strength grown from fire, torches and terror and you ask why I cry sometimes? Because freedom is the only flag and anthem I give them at birth, each day with my milk my daughters die in the streets, in Chile in South Africa, and North Carolina, my sons born men stock the prisons and unmarked graves In Zimbabwe, Argentina, and Venezuela so that Rockefeller and Kissinger can roll bloody carpets from the White House to my oil fields, seaports, mineral and copper mines in Namibia, Colombia, and Paraguay and you ask why I cry sometimes?
A Song Out of Harlem by Antar S. K. Mberi