Muncie Times, Muncie, Delaware County, 5 June 1997 — Page 31

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The Muncie Times, June 5,1997, Page 31 ► POETRY

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The Muncie Times retains the right to edit all materials submitted for publication. But because of the unique nature of poetry, we have suspended this rule for “Poet’s Corner”. African American poets often use the vernacular of the contemporary black experience. Their work is sometimes saturated with the language, rhythm and semantics of the streets. This language is their instrument, without which they cannot play their songs. At The Muncie Times, we will not try to stifle creativity. However, blatantly offensive, racist or sexist material will not be printed, of course, and we do reserve the right to choose which works to publish.

* BANGUDIMOSI “OF THE SAME WOMB”

Load that dried meat, meat of any kind. Load those dried termites. Don’t forget the grasshoppers And the caterpillars.”

Or from the land of their ancestors. For they stopped believing that That was ever the land of their ancestors. Can they afford it indefinitely?

Ba stands for Bantu. Bantu are people. The people who came. The people who left. The people who stayed. Some left willingly. But they were not purple. Except for those people Who didn’t know God by the name Nzambi, Nzambe, Nzakumba or Mungu Many came unwillingly. But they were made to believe They were leaving for Mbanza MBoma, The dwelling of their ancestors: They would leave by Kalunga, water of waters. They started a long journey To the land of ancestors, of Bantu bafwa. The dead Bantu, who became ancestors. Some of whom came back to the continent, But they were unlike Bantu, They had a new skin, the ancestor’s skin. “They must have a message!” Their paternal or maternal uncles. Their clan’s leaders, queens and kings would say. “But we can’t hear it unless our own went with Them and return to serve as interpreters.” So they were to go, willing not; But loved or unloved, They had to go. They were to be the messengers. Long later, other people Looking like other messengers Who were not purple Came back from the assumed land of ancestors. They came back as if to convince the leaders That they should send more of their own, More males, healthy males, And more females, healthy females. The journey was going to be long, very long. “Load those dried bananas. Load that dried yam,

And so they did. It was for their calories and proteins They were thus taken away by guardians Who were not purple. Not Bantu, yet who had been sent by the people In the new world, the assumed new place, The new land of ancestors, The land beyond M’bu, or Kalunga, That is, the water of waters. That is a land where nobody, Whose color was purple. Had ever been. Yet, it’s the land where went people, Who left from the Makulu, the burial ground, The Bantu ground of older cities, larger Mbanza. Larger villages, the seats of Empires, of Kingdoms that characterized the mother Continent, or rather, the father continent. And now, they had been here for so long That none of the generations Who has sent them understood What had happened to their messengers. And so, Mbanza, Mboma, or Boma, Where they had started the journey, Became the city of the Bantu Who went to visit the ancestors. Or simply said, who j oined the ancestors; v So now, those who say they are'going there Cannot be expected back by their clan’s leaders. Their offsprings, Like the King of Blues, Like the King of the Ring, Like the King of the Arenas, Like the Kings and Queens of the theaters, And many like those who even forgot Or deny that they once were Bantu Are still Bantu, and will always be Bantu. The Bantu who have contributed To make a country powerful. Other people wealthy, Others, but not those on

By Yeno Matuka Copyright, May 1997

In a Field of Flowers In a field of flowers there you are touching with gentle hands. The beauty of soft yellow rainbow colored tinge ofblue while the silent scent of the rose ignites the core of all the unnamed spirits, roaming the countryside, gently rushing through the green of the garden. See how it grows sending life to those who are lost and happy, to those of us who still dream. Its a creative thing, this music yourdance this touch of magic. You always understood that joy is part of us, which connects our lives to LIFE to GOD to LIFE and GOD. Let honor be thy glory, thy sign ofhealth, let tender be your source your smile. You your eyes still face the sun and we your children turn and flee and wonder of the love of GOD in you. Smile you will my friend. THIS I KNOW IS TRUE. By James Wesley Williams (In memory of Dee Tate)