Opening 1

Brathwaite's reading of these poems can be heard on SoundCloud or by opening this annotationVèvè1But on the beach the fisherman's net is completed; the fine webs fell softly, sand shifting under his walking; the water is ready; twined spray through the air and the seine holds the sun and the line in his hand tightens steady. The net drifted downward, through tides and reversals of shell-clinking water, through time and the hopes that were drowned in the deep sleeping sound of the bay. The fan sifted slowly through cobwebs of light catching softly the moons of his green spreading opening day2And so the black eye travels to the brink of vision but not yet; hold back the fishnet's fling of morn- ing; unloose the sugarcane; my spattered breast must undertake one more incision; cut, carve, dissect the merchant's pound of flesh, the soldier's pawn of violence, the preacher's hymn of pain. The black eye travels to the brink of vision: look, the fields are wet, the sea sits gentle on the dawn of sand; but voices fill the green with hurricane. And yet it is what happens it is what happens when they fall: conquerors, helmets, plumes, unloosened knots of blood, dried river beds of iron, rust; it is the bird that sings, the green that wavers, wavers, wins the slave rebellion of the rot of dust that matters; it is this that glitters in the salt lagoon, that crusts the coral with foundation stone, that stirs the resurrection out of Tacky's bones.3So on this ground, write; within the sound of this white limestone vèvè, talk of the empty roads, vessels of your head, claypots, shards, ruins. And on this sailing ground, sprinkled with rum, bitten with the tenor of your open wound, walk walk the hooves will come, welcomed by drumbeats, into your ridden head; and the horse, cheval of the dead, charade of la mort, tongued with the wind possession of the fire possession of the dust sundered from your bone plundered from my breast by ice, by chain, by sword, by the cast wind, surrenders up to you the graven Word carved from Olodumare from Ogun of Alare, from Ogun of Onire from Shango broom of thunder and Damballa Grand Chemin. For on this ground trampled with the bull's swathe of whips where the slave at the crossroads was a red anthill eaten by moonbeams, by the holy ghosts of his wounds the Word becomes again a god and walks among us; look, here are his rags, here is his crutch and his satchel of dreams; here is his hoe and his rude implements on this ground on this broken ground.Jou'vert So bambalula bambulai bambalula bambulai stretch the drum tight hips will sway stretch the back tight whips will flay bambalula bambulai bambalula bambulai kink the gong gong loop and play ashes come and Christ will pray Christ will pray to Odomankoma Nyame God and Nyankopon and bambalula bambulai bambalula bambulai dust of desert cries of arrows boulders roll and coils of shadows boulders roll and rivers thunder lightning flashes man asunder bambalula bambulai bambalula bambulai fangs of lightning strike and bite the bitter world of stone and sorrows bambalula bambulai bambalula bambulai but the sorrows burn to ashes grey rocks melt to pools of lashes' sweat and flowers bloom along the way bambalula bambalai bambalula bambulai flowers bloom their tom tom sun heads raising little steel pan petals to the music's doom as the ping pong dawn comes riding over shattered homes and furrows over fields and musty ghettos over men now hearing waiting watching in the Lent- en morning hurts for- gotten, hearts no longer bound to black and bitter ashes in the ground now waking making making with their rhythms some- thing torn and new