Sunday Poem: I am a hostage in Gedachten in gedichten

Thanks for the publication of my poem "I am a hostage" which is in the company of the great writer Edwidge Danticat in the wonderful Blog: Gedachten in gedichten

Op deze weblog kunt u terecht voor nieuws, essays, activiteiten, recensies v.w.b. Nederlandstalige Arubaanse, Caribische, Antilliaanse, Post-koloniale en Papiamentstalige literatuur.

Sunday Poem: Tourist

By Edwidge Danticat


Tourist, don’t take my picture
Don’t take my picture, tourist
I’m too ugly
Too dirty
Too skinny
Don’t take my picture, white man
Mr. Eastman won’t be happy
I’m too ugly
Your camera will break
I’m too dirty
Too black
Whites like you won’t be content
I’m too ugly
I’m gonna crack your Kodak
Don’t take my picture, tourist
Leave me be, white man
Don’t take a picture of my burro
My burro’s load’s too heavy
And he’s too small
And he has no food here
Don’t take a picture of my animal
Tourist, don’t take a picture of the house
My house is of straw
Don’t take a picture of my hut
My hut’s made of earth
The house already smashed up
Go shoot a picture of the Palace
Or the Bicentennial grounds
Don’t take a picture of my garden
I have no plow
No truck
No tractor
Don’t take a picture of my tree
Tourist, I’m barefoot
My clothes are torn as well
Poor people don’t look at whites
But look at my hair, tourist
Your Kodak’s not used to my color
Your barber’s not used to my hair
Tourist, don’t take my picture
You don’t understand my position
You don’t understand anything
About my business, tourist
“Gimme fie cents”
And then, be on your way, tourist.

Sunday Poem: I am a hostage

By Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro

(from Saeta, the poems – an unpublished book)

mandigos took my group
upbeat rhythmic drum playing
my running is hurting my feet
an escapade
that ends with a net over my head
over my agitated body
they marked my fatigued arms
marcada por siempre con hierro
prohibit us to look the sky
proscribe the smell of my forest
my yellow flowers
I can’t touch the cachetes of my people
until we arrived at the boat
the dark clouds are forbidden
the sweet lake water is banned
until we enter the great canoe
no one is touching my face
I miss my face
my tears
nobody is caressing my arms
nor my hands
brothers are crying all night
asking for mamma
they told us we have a new name
new slave names

Link: http://quitonicolaas.web-log.nl/gedachten_in_gedichten/