TheBlack Poet

Rookie - 0 Points (October,10,1988 / Kampala, Uganda)

The African Night Queen - Poem by TheBlack Poet

To this African man, this African girl
looking like a giant radio active Monaque butterfly
rising from a hip of brown dust
in solitaire, her hands, as plain, reflecting recent tragedies, from the love
that she now shuffles in cards because someone corded and uncorded
a bastard inside her.
tried to westernize the ascent black eyes, hick eyebrows
that were fine not being long,
tried to beautify by making rainbows her hair that once
held a striking hue
and she is chiseled, like a wall, with wings
long enough stretching state houses and kingdom palaces
but her skin, shinning and blinding like spinning fires
the for a second, our eyes realized reincarnation will turn
this into a forgotten antique, the two world wars, history
Trussing myself back to center, i rewind even further
till our hands met in the mud,
drawing castles and terraces like steps constructed
for gods to wipe their feet on
We luck figures on a roof of a plant that is pillar
for the whole continent
grains of ivory infuse our fingers prints
with a sweet coating consisting of sweat and spirit
then with united talk, pull at the core of a thousand miles
then only with our hands, cause with matooke,
you don't need no utensils, you just need the hunger
to understand and then grab that food which God has done
and make love to native tongues
Her pupils disguise a million black eyes,
for male older brides who married to feed families
because you cant think about love when your out surviving
I cant picture her any different from my mother
who lived as a widow through windows of time,
peeping pearls, as a Kampala night queen
playing solitaire white cards bleeding red hearts
i placed my memory past all these visions,
returning to this poem's fifth revision
back in the charcoal stall where she deals a stuck deck
to herself as her tears drop lifetimes and lifelines ito hands
i would suit because they washed too many dishes
Breath this poem into her mouth to mend her broken English,
come quick like iron bombs to bliss all her wishes
i pin my spine like bamboo and this is for me
my mother, my grandmother and for the woman who rose
like a butterfly to assert a certain white dress
because all African women in his world
should be called Queens.
take heart-Murray(black-poet)

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Poem Edited: Wednesday, January 16, 2013

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