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• 1 2020-11-18T16:31:11-08:00 Excerpt from “On Shipboard” 12 plain 2020-11-18T17:07:21-08:00

  
  Excerpt from “On Shipboard”

  Then upspoke a woman who bore 
  the scar of the Yoruba.
  Her words painted the open market 
  which we knew so well . . .
  She immersed us in the riotous color
  of yellow plantains; ripe sugar cane; 
  Cassava roots; fragrant seasonings;
  golden maize; onions and shrimps;
  dried gourds; beans and pawpaws. She poured over us the incessant chatter 
  of the women who gossip; of the women who harangue;
  to bring low
  the mighty copalwood;
  the majestic greenheart; the stately camwood
  and to please
  the coy young girls
  who sat preparing them food
  and slipping them winsome glances;
  the quiet hours spent
  in dreaming and weaving mats for the house;
  raffia for the baskets;
  wool for the cloths.
  ... A thousand small things
  daily done, scarcely noticed 
  when we were with our families
  in our villages and tribal kingdoms
  now rushed in a tumult
  to our lips
  to be shared
  in despair
  as we talked together. 
  the infectious laughter
  of the women who joke; 
  of the women who tease;
  the pretended anger
  of the women who barter;
  of the women who argue.

  An innocent joy,
  like that of planting
  Dahomey and Nigeria;
  in Guinea and Gambia;
  in Angola and Calabar;
  in Lagos and Madagascar.
  No matter where we had lived
  we knew the joys of planting. 
  We felt the sleek seeds
  racing across our palms, 
  sliding between our fingers 
  as we scooped a handful
  to drop with loving care one by one
  into the shallow cradle
  dug out by the smooth heel.
  We remembered the cooling touch of dirt 
  streaming between our sweating toes
  as we lightly pushed
  a cover over the sleeping seeds.

  Such simple tasks, then unappreciated, 
  but so unbearably precious now.
  Such simple pleasures
  swallowed by the evil air of slaver

  Grayson, Vashti M. "On Shipboard." Phylon (1940-1956), vol. 7, no. 3, 1946, pp. 248-53. JSTOR.
   

  “Why is that man/ Enveloped in greater despair/ Than all others?” 

  Vashti M. Grayson asks a powerful question in her poem “On Shipboard”. Upon a boat transporting enslaved peoples from Africa to the Americas, she delivers a moment of shared mourning for the homes from which they were so cruelly stolen. They come from many countries, many cultures, and speak many languages, but all share in the painful experience of enslavement. The words of a Yoruba woman return the others to the familiarity of the markets, to daily moments and interactions once “underappreciated”. As the men aboard the ship are forced to push it farther and farther away from their “beloved Africa”, the women crowd together in an attempt to soothe their bruised bodies and bruised souls, finding comfort in reminiscence, if only for a moment, as the boat rocks back and forth over “dark, deep waters”. 

  Read the full text here.

• 1 2020-11-18T16:41:34-08:00 On Shipboard, by Vashti M. Grayson, full text 10 by Vashti M. Grayson, full text plain 1037936 2020-11-20T18:13:53-08:00

  On Shipboard

  When the wild weeping and wailing;
  the stubborn struggling and dragging
  had completely subdued our battered bodies
  and pitilessly crushed our broken hearts;
  when our shoulders no longer seared 
  from the merciless glowing brands; 
  when we could see not a single shred
  of the lush coasts of our beloved Africa;
  when there was no further need
  to lash to the tall sail poles 
  those who were determined
  to throw themselves into the sea;
  When we had reached the dark, deep waters, 
  --all body-chains were loosened
  and many men were forced
  to put their shattered strength
  to pushing forward the creaking boat 

     --Then, we women,
  huddled, whimpering in the blackness, 
  tossed against each other
  by that plunging prison,
  let the bitter tears dry
  in salty river beds
  on our feverish cheeks,
  and, examining each other
  in our mutual helpless misery,
  --we talked together.

  There were many tales,
  strange and familiar,
  exchanged softly
  on that timeless voyage
  of sickness, sorrow and stench.
  There were as many different languages 
  as we were beings on that straining hulk. 
  But we dug out the core
  in the Twi, the Fon, the Ewe;
  the Wolof, the Efik, the Temne;
  the Mossi, the Jukun, the Mende;
  We filled in the gaps with signs
  as we talked together.
  "Speak first, oh royal mother of Dahomey."

  She closed her sunken eyes in pain, 
  and shaking her noble head 
  hoarsely whispered in shame:

  "My last claim to royalty
  died in the village of Abomey.
  I was the fourth and most favored wife, 
  and my stalwart son
  (the one most bent on suicide)
  was trained by his warrior father
  to ascend the ancient throne.
  Last year, my husband died 
  of a sudden unknown illness
  which not even the wisest healer
  could combat or conquer.
  And when the burial and funereal rites
  the first and richest wife 
  won the ears of the priests
  and the sanctions of the diviners 
  for the one of her sons
  who is a most active devotee
  to the wily god Legba.
  And when the burial and funereal rites
  had all been fittingly concluded
  my son and I, with our faithful court
  were cast out of our majestic portals.
  From coffle to coffle,
  from one slatee to another,
  we have dragged our royal purple
  through the murky slime and mire 
  with the shackles and chains
  of infamous bondage."

  Then, we who listened
  cried aloud to the spirits
  of those who had once raised 
  this mother and her son
  to peaks over common men 
  to restore them
  to their rightful stations.

  "Why is that man
  enveloped in greater despair 
  than all others?"

  "He cannot be comforted
  for he was stolen away 
  from his ancestral home
  before he could give
  his revered father
  his final burial rites.
  What will become of the old one's soul
  as he writhes in partial burial?"

  "Surely the gods
  will be appeased 
  and receive his soul.
  They know the white devils 
  have destroyed
  the son's good intentions.”

  "Are you not the teacher 
  of the rituals to the Ashanti
  of the Coast of Gold?"

  Ay, I was the one
  who introduced the youth
  to the intricate ways
  of pleasing the gods
  through utter possession.
  And, there, bending over the oars
  are five of my students
  with those whose relaxed fingers
  brought forth from the drums 
  the soft muted notes
  accompanied and augmented 
  by the calabash rattles.
  It was then the consecrated ones
  were filled with the spirits, 
  were possessed by the gods."

  As he chanted,
  we saw again
  the dense, swaying circle
  of the singing, humming chorus,-- 
  and heard again
  the firm solemn measure
  of the cupped handclapping. 
  Before our smarting eyes
  diffidently danced the green initiates, 
  shy and self-conscious;
  boldly capered the experienced members 
  in swift, agile runs;
  in clever, tumbling rolls;
  in dizzy, twisting spins;
  in high leaping jumps.

  On our ears fell again
  the talking in tongues
  by the high priest
  of new and powerful cures; 
  of things to come;
  of ways to master magic; 
  of desires of the gods 
  who visit the miserable earth.
  Drums, rattles, hands 
  tore at our entrails.
  Our heads sank
  to our bruised chests. 
  Our bodies drowned
  in crowded memories.

  Then upspoke a woman who bore 
  the scar of the Yoruba.
  Her words painted the open market 
  which we knew so well . . .
  She immersed us in the riotous color
  of yellow plantains; ripe sugar cane; 
  Cassava roots; fragrant seasonings;
  golden maize; onions and shrimps;
  dried gourds; beans and pawpaws.
  She poured over us the incessant chatter 
  of the women who gossip;
  of the women who harangue;
  to bring low
  the mighty copalwood;
  the majestic greenheart;
  the stately camwood
  and to please
  the coy young girls
  who sat preparing them food
  and slipping them winsome glances;
  the quiet hours spent
  in dreaming and weaving
  mats for the house;
  raffia for the baskets;
  wool for the cloths.
  ... A thousand small things
  daily done, scarcely noticed 
  when we were with our families
  in our villages and tribal kingdoms 
  now rushed in a tumult
  to our lips 
  to be shared
  in despair
  as we talked together. 
  the infectious laughter
  of the women who joke; 
  of the women who tease;
  the pretended anger
  of the women who barter;
  of the women who argue.

  An innocent joy,
  like that of planting
  in Dahomey and Nigeria;
  in Guinea and Gambia;
  in Angola and Calabar;
  in Lagos and Madagascar.
  No matter where we had lived
  we knew the joys of planting. 
  We felt the sleek seeds
  racing across our palms, 
  sliding between our fingers 
  as we scooped a handful
  to drop with loving care one by one
  into the shallow cradle
  dug out by the smooth heel.
  We remembered the cooling touch of dirt 
  streaming between our sweating toes
  as we lightly pushed
  a cover over the sleeping seeds.

  Such simple tasks, then unappreciated, 
  but so unbearably precious now.
  Such simple pleasures
  swallowed by the evil air of slavery.