You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops
De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
Dis poetry is designed fe rantin
Dance hall style, big mouth chanting,
Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep
Preaching follow me
Like yu is blind sheep,
Dis poetry is not Party Political
Not designed fe dose who are critical.
Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
Back when I used to be Indian
I am crushing the dance floor,
jump-boots thumping Johnny Rotten
Johnny Rotten. Red lights blue bang
at my eyes. The white girl watching
does not know why and it doesn't matter.
I spin spin, eat I don't care for breakfast,
so what for lunch. She moves to me,
dark gaze, tongue hot to lips. The music
is hard, lights louder. She slides low
They say I looked back out of curiosity.
But I could have had other reasons.
I looked back mourning my silver bowl.
Carelessly, while tying my sandal strap.
So I wouldn't have to keep staring at the righteous nape
of my husband Lot's neck.
From the sudden conviction that if I dropped dead
he wouldn't so much as hesitate.
From the disobedience of the meek.
Checking for pursuers.
As on all its sides a kitchen-match darts white
flickering tongues before it bursts into flame:
with the audience around her, quickened, hot,
her dance begins to flicker in the dark room.
And all at once it is completely fire.
One upward glance and she ignites her hair
and, whirling faster and faster, fans her dress
into passionate flames, till it becomes a furnace
a dance of peacocks
a shake of hued tail feathers
when they prance romance
huge hibiscus blooms
home to nearby hummingbirds
lure butterflies, too
at the pink of dawn
a red rooster struts his stuff
Summer breezes blow-it's the lady of the wind,
Trailing sweet fragrances, all around the bend.
Her gown is hued mists, stars are in her eyes,
Blooms frolic to her tune, under sapphire skies.
A seasoned traveler, she lives in dreamy clouds,
Or in green jungles, among the colorful crowds,
Or on hectic city streets, at the verge of sunset,
Whistling gaily and walking, in lovely silhouette.
And music's drifting out of doors
Under the stars the ocean roars
It was on a beautiful Sunday, that I was relaxing in the park,
Obtaining all the bliss I could, before blue skies grew dark.
The air was filled with songs, and bees were bloom to bloom;
And the stillness of summer heat, drew birds of vivid plume.
There upon my wooden bench, I lounged back and closed my eyes,
Savoring the sounds of birdsong, and lusty birdsong replies.
I lolled in a secluded area, with a nearby musical fountain,
meadow of the noon
wildflowers of all colors
raptly I stand still
flinging both arms wide
underneath the citron sun
I whirl and I dance
the hour of languor
has no way impacted me