this is a piece I started in February and did not get around to finishing. there is some research I need and want to do to deepen this narrative. There was some apprehension about going to this dark place, but I have learned that we need to lean into our fears and open wide our mouths until the truth drips out.
black history
(c) 2012 by margaux delotte-bennett
knowing that my people’s people are from the idyllic isle of Jamaica does not erase that there is an auction block somewhere in my past
I want to know the height and depth
wood grain and color of this pedestal
used to showcase the wares that would eventually become me
broad shoulders
strong back
long and sturdy legs
how did dripping sweat and spilled breast milk mark the wood made smooth by chain clad, shuffling feet?
can wood also absorb the moans/ fear escaping throats/ eyes that narrowly avoided strangulation and hot pokers?
against my will there is an auction block in my past
Jamaicans don’t talk about at what price paradise was bought
or why I have a French and/or Spanish last name
or why my grandma’s red hair and freckles are repeated on varied faces throughout the island
I know that finally owning myself requires that my past does not define me
but forgotten or not
the wood block remembers
and still
splinters my heart
i have had the honor of being commissioned to write 2 pieces in my poetic life. One for the wonderful Button Farm run by the Menare Foundation and one for it’s founder’s 2011 Fringe show. Tony is performing this Sunday and I will be in the audience. If you would like to join me, the information about the show can be found here.
the interesting thing is that this pieces pretty much wrote itself. i let it come through me, but once i started, it had a direction and tone all it’s own. Tony actually ends his play with my words. that’s kinda hot!
Reaching Back
© 2011 by margaux delotte-bennett
reaching back
reaching back
through blood and stories
DNA and time
holding fast to the little I know
that keeps slipping through my fingers
holding fast
walking slowly
progressive steps that lead to
seconds dripping
through cracks
fissures between the reality of
what black is and ain’t
the true essence of manhood
the roots of family trees that sometimes choke new growth
providing too much shade or
shame
lives running on parallel paths to a freedom unknown
lives swimming through the murky understanding of purpose and place
lives joined
through bloodlines
thick with red dirt
okra
washboards turned into mouthpieces for song
steeped with longing
hungry for grace
I want nothing more than to hold you
your face
your heart
your hand
my heart
my face
my hands no longer tied to where you have been
but to where
we both are going
my herstory is just that
stories that feature her and her and her
and seldom he
the men being so free
that they often seem wholly absent
from my narrative filled with blood rich wombs
dripping with life
and possibility
there is no bashing here
just a realization
that when i try to envision my forefathers
i see holes
empty space
1-2 poignant stories in the
place of hundreds featuring
she surviving
she striving
she succeeding at raising seeds
that were positioned to excel
before they swelled into life force hungry
for more than what was in store
drip, drop, clot
blood lines running deep
she blood females wanting to jump higher
be seen
make their mark in the hearts of all
no time to stall and complain about lack
she blood males
prone to slack and contemplate
what could be
what if
taking time to sift through the stories
to find the he tinted gems
buff them up
spit, polish, shine
never mind there is only 1 or 2
diamonds are precious because
there are few
i wonder about the seed that may choose to
come through me
can this blood rich
she filled
moon guided womb
create a space for a
she blood male to truly shine?
i’m anxious to find out
but it seems i’m running out of time…
“[we] know that we must live what we preach, [we must] embody in our habits of being the liberation we lay claim to for our collective body politic.” bell hooks, Salvation: Black People and Love
habit forming
© 2011 by margaux delotte-bennett
I am in the habit of expecting people to try harder and surpass their best
we have no time for mere trying
lives hang in the balance when we inch forward instead of leap
others are just being held to the standard I hold myself to
shine
risk
question
succeed, exceed, proceed
towards a tomorrow that is brighter than today
all seeds planted by a mother who was not supposed to have well adjusted children because of her limited resources and means of support
she did not know this
and neither did I
liberation has never been out of my grasp
I freely live a life that I define and redefine at whim
and in moments of doubt
when I question my power and my will
the bell tolls and hooks into my fear
while urging me on
over the winter holidays i gifted a few friends with poems. it’s no longer winter, but here is another poetic gift for a dear friend…
lifesaver
(for erica)
(c) 2011 by margaux delotte-bennett
my life has been saved by your love
a number of times
there was no blade
no gun
no pills
but my soul has been tortured
and my mind has been twisted
and you listened
questioned
to make sure that i wasn’t
lost in the moment
beholden to a fantasy
you gently stopped me
widened my perspective
enticed me to look deeper
because you had my back
even when it meant
protecting me
from
me.
Filed under: family
memories of my niece…
the dance (c) by margaux delotte-bennett
we have this elegant dance
you stand before me
arms outstretched
looking in the direction you want me to take you
next it’s my turn to look and not respond
your protest
a whimper with the power to tear my heart in two
is paired with arms stretched even further
and eyes so blue
not in hue
but in mood
i take my cue to lift you up
shower you with kisses
and turn that whimper into laughter
laughter full of knowing
laughter full of a maturity beyond your years
we practice this dance whenever i see you
not nearly enough when you change every day
a new word
another inch
an discovered game just waiting to be born
when you are in my arms
little one
i know that i can keep you safe
nothing can hit you
nothing can scare you
you will not be ignored
oh, how we dance!
shuffling through activities to expand your mind
dipping you in bath water the right temperature for play
leading you to bed
because, yes
it’s time to rest
again
your little frame can only carry so much
but it has already surpassed its ration
so now it is my turn
to lift you up
shower you with kisses
and turn that whimper
into joy
Filed under: family
sometimes a poet needs to be free of a feeling, experience, emotion…
i remember that writing this poem was so painful, but it was a breakthrough. it was a part of my healing process after the death of my aunt in 2007. i just read a quote this morning from film producer steven shagan, “be glad you had the moment.” i think that is so profound. whether the moment brought tears or joy, i need to be glad. i am glad…
cancer journal (c) 2008 by margaux delotte-bennett
this is a poem about cancer
this is a poem about insurance
this is a poem about a break from the stifling grief that makes me want to hide
a break that has allowed words to flow
in the place of salty, hot tears
she worked at a hospital
a place of healing and health
but everyone who made up the hospitality staff could only work 39 hours
60 minutes short of proper health insurance
her meager checks now split in 2
1/2 to make sure her doctors appointments were not denied
1/2 to cover the ever mounting bills
because when you don’t have your health
you can’t work your full 39 hours…
she: come over here and feel this
me: wow! that lump is hard and big!
she: yeah, i know… it’s been there for a while. i think it’s just a fibroid.
me: whatever it is, you should go to the doctor
$45 co-pay here
$100 deductible there
2 weeks later
she’s on the table for the first cut
all that remains of her left breast is a weeping scar
after the drip and the wound
the wound and the chemo
the chemo and the radiation
and the pain
and the worry
she: I will never go through chemo again
me: ok, ok
she: never… again.
fighting for disability benefits
fighting for proper coverage
fighting
for her life
she went on the table a second time
all that remains of her healthy right breast
is a weeping scar
she said never again
and she meant it
she once told me that after chemo
everything tasted like ash
nothing could be more harrowing for a lover of spices
a passionate baker
an enthused caterer by profession and by choice
cancer is fucking ugly
shit and piss on a good day
frothy shit and blood streaked piss on a bad one
the loss of hair is minor
the loss of self is major
and the poisons you ingest
are only supposed to kill that part of you that wants you dead
that part of you growing out of control
the cutting, chemo and crying did nothing to control her cancer
she fought a good fight, but a losing one
in the end
her insurance benefits were just enough to cover her
arrangements
and the last time she went on the table
she was finally
whole
so friday is my 35th birthday and i must confess that i am a but unsettled by the number. it feels… heavier… than other birthdays and i am having some trouble embracing it. i know that i will eventually be ok with it, but not today or possibly even this week…
the poem that i am posting this week may also seem a bit unsettling at first, but it is a raw assessment of how i feel i came to be. it may not be finished yet, but it IS ready to take flight, out of my poetry book and into your eyes. I am not sure yet if it will be in our next Saartjie Project show, but it is important to say that it was informed by Nina Simone’s song Four Women, especially Saffronia’s verse.
Love Child (c) by margaux delotte-bennett
i must not have been a love child
more like a stay a little while girl child
mum told me that she cried
when she discovered she was pregnant
her marriage was a mess
my father was restless with the idea of
“to have and to hold from this day forward…”
he must have planted the seed that was to become me
without much thought
without being sought
but possibly being caught in a moment of fleeting love.
i must not have been a love child
more like a stay a little while girl child
because 2 years may feel like ages for some
but in the pages of a marriage that is supposed to last a life time
it’s just a snap
and done
i see my mum huddled in the bathroom
sobbing
because she is with child
not because i was unwanted
but because she knew
it would soon be just her with 2 mouths to feed
and here comes another seed
that would need divided attention
some my brother would surely earn
and i could possibly learn to glean
that which my father forfeited by leaving the scene
not far enough to be completely out of the picture
only a hand and foot remained in the frame
a hand to pay child support
and a foot to repeatedly walk out
on those days when a gild child might want a daddy
a father
a pop into reality where absence turns to presence
and he chooses to show up.
i must not have been a love child
though i was a girl child loved deeply
it was apparent that my one parent struggled
and succeeded to be enough
toughed out the rough patches when having a partner
having a man
could make certain struggles a bit easier to stand
and she soared through a score of years
on her own.
i might not have been a love child
but love child i now be
family of 3 turned to 4 and more
now father figure
adored
mother chose to soar with a new set of wings
no longer clipped, but reinforced
by a divine and replenishing source of love and light
love child or not
i must fight
to claim this space
and call the shots
ready
or
not.
