I have been revisiting the poems I wrote 14 years or so ago, of which I also used to perform on the poetry circuit in the late 90’s and early 20’s. Black on black crime was very much alive and kicking then. I would like to share one of those poems with you all. This poem came to mind this evening, brought into consciousness by these inner city youth cries; these Inner City Blues, if you like…Here goes,
Back in The Day we lived large,
played hard-unconditionally loved
by the Great Mother; self-loving in Her Nature.
Then it came to pass,
a mean spirited, player hating, cold chill farce
held Her Sons to ransom; claimed Her, then raped Her.
Now Her sweet Sons don’t shine like before,
their throats are sore, from the pressure she applied
to hold them back, until such time
Vision was restored.
And as time passes by, memory fades;
whilst some of Her Sons still re-members
The Day, others buckle under the mental health strain;
Some becoming more like Gangcesters,
dis-membering, everything, both big and small
that resembles themselves at all.
But Her Love is Pure, She both under and over stands
that the rage like fire burns strong
and is still in need of being undone,
So Her offspring’s may sing
a more reparative redemption song
and like Eagles fly East-Homeward bound;
forward out of this, Babylon.
And then, The Right Time Come,
and the Grand Mother bawl-‘Fire a ga bun!
Go get ‘em Son! Regain your rightful positions!’
And with nuff love ina dem Hearts,
Her Truth upon their Tongues, their Quest?
To cut away all falsehoods from this-
So, “Fret not yourself my brothers” (sing)
The Mother Loves us ever so much,
and as a Matter of Cause, is oh so Desirous of us
to find the Will to Live and Love.
So Remember, as it was in the beginning
So we shall be in the end; Her Sons shining,
like the phoenix Forever Raising-
again and again and again.
Denise Marcia James, aka Insperience, 2004