Weaver Woman

I weave words
like a west african market woman
selling you my vision, my mangoes, my papayas
even my coconuts.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.

The skins of my poems have been submerged in mud
then laid at the bottom of the baobob tree to dry
like mudcloth.
The blood of my poems can be as dry as the sahara
as wet as monsoons
as cutting as a machete in the hands of the mau mau.

I weave blood into my words:
red blood, dried blood, young blood.
An oversaturation of blood decorates my words
makes them pulse red.
My words hang from trees
like the bitterest kind of strange fruit.
My words find the peruvian revolutionaries
murdered while hogtied
and then buried in criminal secrecy.
My words were inspired by rigoberta menchu.

I roots rock reggae with my words
have them jamming to the heart beat rhythm
of the warmest music.
The fabric of my words is at its lightest
when they’re in the dancehall or the yard.
My words sweep over people
like the softest caribbean breezes.
My words will have you dreaming of blue skies
white sands and coral reefs

and while you’re dreaming
i weave black people into my words
and i am done.
My finished product can be held up to the sun
illuminated, made to shine.

© 2005 Tichaona Chinyelu

This entry was posted in Black Men, Black Women, Community, Political, Racial, Revolutionary by Tichaona. Bookmark the permalink.

About Tichaona

Tichaona Bright, Assertive, Caring, Semi-Unreconstructed The sister of Ifeoma Lover of Sankara Kono, natural Afrakan aesthetics and free-forming Who feels like a woman scorned (hell hath no fury) when it comes to colonialism, delight in being Earth born, and trepidation at thoughts of my son's future Who needs water like its lifeblood, comradely behavior and reciprocity; Who fears dying a stranger in a strange land, the death of revolutionary Afrakan culture and paper tigers who think they're the real thing Who gives wholehearted affection to those I love, a damn and the barrel of my pen Who would like to change the meek of the Earth into the conscious inheritors/caretakers of the Earth Who hopes that what goes up must come down without destroying the ground I softly tread upon Who lived a sad life until revolutionary winds blew my way Munhamo-Chinyelu

2 thoughts on “Weaver Woman

  1. beautiful – i love the earth tones that you seed with. This is the type of poetry I luv to read because I can taste, smell, hear, and feel it. The visual is simply the door opener for all the other senses to filter through. But it is a wide open door, not one that is cracked, or even screened.


Leave a Reply