“A-who a say who dat, when me a say a-who dat?” Michael Smith, 1982
the story is in the word, in the rhythm
that is the music in the word, that is… the story.
Click on an image to read the poem.
A MONTHER’S TEARS
On the day of my birth my mother cried
She carried me home with tears in her eyes
A girl is difficult for a mother to realise she’s brought into this world.
She cried for the violence and the disparity
The iniquity and the pain
And her tears flowed down her cheeks and onto my face
And the sea was in her tears
And the mud of her grandmother’s home
And it trailed down my forehead, into my eyes and my nose
And tasted like bitter salt on my lips and on my tongue
And we cried together.
That’s how I imagine it. How the sorrow began.
