Читать книгу The Age of Phillis - Honorée Fanonne Jeffers - Страница 10
ОглавлениеBook: Passage
You having the command of my Brigg Phillis your Orders
are to Imbrace the first favourable opportunity of Wind &
Weather to proceed to the Coast of Aff-ica—Touching first
at Sinagall … Now in Regard to your purchasing Slaves,
you’l Observe to get as few Girl Slaves as PoSsible &
as many Prime Boys as you Can …
— Letter from Timothy Fitch to Captain Peter Gwin, November 8, 1760
Middle Passage:
voyage through death
to life upon these shores.
— Robert Hayden, from “Middle Passage”
BLUES: ODYSSEUS
How many sat underwater,
entangled by myth’s past tense,
before Neptune first raised his
beard in the direction of Ethiopia,
and after, Odysseus—
always living—
was saved by Homer’s tablet?
Centuries after that story was written,
in the land of Not Make Believe,
a crew of slave-ship sailors
threw one hundred and thirty-two
Africans into the Atlantic Ocean.
Heave-ho to souls.
And people. And laws. And kin.
But Odysseus lives. He always will,
Our Great White Hope—
before whiteness was invented—
this hero who longs for the wood’s sway.
Despite his tendency to chase tail—
sirens and sundry other
poppycock-drinking girls—
I want to be happy that Homer imagined
a sea housing pretty, forgiving Nymphs—
while somewhere else, a wheel dances
and someone else drowns.
Sharks should pass Odysseus by,
never imagining his taste.
The gods shouldn’t pull at his fate—
now angry, now benevolent.
I try hard not to blame that man:
We all deserve our Maker’s love.
POINT OF NO RETURN
Somewhere on the Windward Coast, West Africa c. 1761
[keep the men from muttering among themselves]
parsing the air’s dying scent the water arms clutching
at mirthful spirit back to this bereft lexicon
dante’s castle on the rocky isle
captured bodies twirled around the obscene
& what cannot be released is that loud kindred laugh
humanity split along colonial charms [virgin girls
in one cell do what you wish] double back to naming
gris-gris town-crying in hell place your hands on the bone
map of fifteen million [women with fallen breasts in another]
trapped in a century’s enlightened whims
forgive these men of three centuries ago according
to the tenets of baptized slave ships forgive forgive
or do not [no children unless that is your taste]
THE TRANSATLANTIC PROGRESS OF SUGAR IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
I own I am shock’d at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves …
I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
— William Cowper, from “Pity for Poor Africans”
oh
peerless
smell of cane
cloud on triangular
horizon whip trilling a red
aria molasses the smelling hull
& chained bones the practical sharks
trailing hoping for new bodies overboard
(dark/
dark/pale/
dark/pale/dark/
dark/exchange/fresh/
exchange/flesh/exchange/
fresh/blood/blood/blood/blood/
dark/dark/pale/dark/pale/dark/exchange/
flesh/exchange/fresh/exchange/flesh/blood)
&
the sea
taste blessed rape
hollowed burn & brand
some girls mostly boys this holy
trinity of “godless dirty savages” island
patois rum down a throat lump in some tea
science of journey & the peerless smell of cane
ILLUSTRATION: “STOWAGE OF THE BRITISH SLAVE SHIP ‘BROOKES’ UNDER THE REGULATED SLAVE TRADE ACT OF 1788”
There is no air.
Closer. The stinky aria.
The bodies’ relentless outlines
on either side.
Above, below—
at some distance, the appearance
of Kente’s intricate bands, or,
a longed-for version of what
a village potter might throw.
I dream of breath,
the stealing from
pretty faces, the smoothness
of the best chocolate.
A tweakable, selfish nose.
A body is some body. (I know that.)
And theft?
The hoping for the death
of somebody else.
Not of my family.
Not of my tribe.
My Maker up there,
please, make the one
next to me die. There is no air.
Give me a teaspoon of life.
I don’t care how.
I don’t.
ACCORDING TO THE TESTIMONY TO THE GRAND JURY OF NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, BY SAILORS JONATHAN CRANSTON AND THOMAS GORTON, AFTER THROWING A NEGRO WOMAN (REFERRED TO AS “WENCH”) ALIVE INTO THE SEA, JAMES DEWOLF, CAPTAIN OF THE SLAVE SHIP POLLY, MOURNED THE LOSS OF THE GOOD CHAIR TO WHICH HE HAD STRAPPED HIS VICTIM
c. June 15, 1791
First Question:
Was it a ball and claw with an embroidered seat
[mercy] that brought on the captain’s grief, and not
a common stool, or a slat back, arched or straight,
the high exaggeration, or a Windsor, which is interesting,
too, as the slender rods keep the spine from leaning
far away from the center of gravity, a force that had been
discovered a mere century and a half before, an infant next
to the trade plied by this rich man who would grow
richer and stay free [mercy] and find something as precious
as sweet water next to endless salt that made him
mourn the loss of the craftsman’s whistle, that moved him
in his duty—and was he afraid, for had Smallpox run
through his crew, the inevitability of insurrection [mercy]—
forced him to touch the wood’s brown skin one last
time [mercy] and pray for the sap’s essence soured next
to the assumed-to-be-but-not-proven diseased
Negro wench strapped to it, blindfolded and gagged
[mercy], to inhale the stinking combination, a defilement
of such delicate embroidery, brocade stained, the waste [mercy]—
is that what made him throw so good a piece
of furniture into the sea, and watch the sharks take
her into their mouths?
Second Question:
Was that beautiful chair walnut or cherry
and were there carvings along the arms
and legs as well?
CATALOG: WATER
The Zong, 1781–1783
I know I’ll try your patience,
as I have for several years:
When I talk of slavery,
you’re going to sigh
impatiently: Not
this black woman again.
And I’m going to ask,
do you go to church?
In the Bible, there’s nothing
that curses the holding of slaves—
or servants as they are
euphemistically named.
There are displays:
men with no say-so,
eunuchs casually cut,
children forced to play
with others, hoping mates
don’t fall down
and hurt themselves,
lest their slaves be blamed—
women whose bodies
are given to their masters,
loam for foretold seed.
Slavery’s in Genesis,
Leviticus, Deuteronomy,
Matthew, Ephesians,
Colossians, Timothy,
and Peter—
and slavery’s in the U. S.
Constitution, and in homes
of Presidents: Washington,
Jefferson, Madison, Monroe,
Jackson, Tyler,
Taylor, and Polk—
slaves work for us now
but I won’t upset you
by talking about new slavery—
what we eat and use today—
I’ll simply pull you
back three centuries
to prophets blessing slave
ships in God’s mighty name,
to a trade for African
merchants not yet
collected into one tribe—
not yet Negro or black,
but members of separate villages,
babel dust stuck to the sides
of towers. Racial solidarity
was not yet a thing—
but discussing African slave
trading might complicate your
need for an easy story—
and so, there once was
a European ship called The Zong,
purchased by a syndicate,
a white legacy
of fathers and sons,
wealthy, sanguine heirs
of patrilineal times.
The Zong sailed down
the side of West Africa,
where ships’ captains thought
the land spoke to them:
We will gift you our insides.
There were structures with slaves
in dungeons and whites
in clean quarters above—
the castles, the forts,
the factories that dotted
the coasts: Saint-Louis, Gorée,
Iles de Los, Cape Mount,
Sestos, Grand Bassam,
Axim, Cape Three Points.
The Zong stopped at
Cape Coast, then
Anomaboe and Sao Tomé,
named for the doubting
man to whom Jesus
revealed himself.
The Zong took on four
hundred and forty-two
captives, a tight pack,
and by the time
the ship left for open
water, sixty-two
of those Africans had died.
The vessel’s doctor
would speak of the bloody
flux of the bowels.
It wasn’t his fault
that a godly act crawled
through the mouth and down,
but the doctor was unclear
about the sadness
taking over the cargo.
Despair was a deity
calling for tribute, and ships
would give this sad praise:
the Adventurer, the Africa,
the Black Joke, the City of London,
the Eagle, the Elizabeth,
the Greyhound, the Hawk,
the Industrious Bee,
the Nancy, the Polly,
the New Britannia,
the Thomas, the Triumph,
the True Blue Unity.
The Zong sailed West, and some
say, one hundred
thirty-two of the enslaved
were disposed of.
And some say, one hundred
fifty were disposed of.
And some say, one hundred
eighty were disposed of,
that in the night,
the ship’s crew pushed Africans
through a window, because drinking
water was running too low.
The sailors kept on the chains
and the Africans quickly sank
into water. The killing took
three days—
back in Liverpool, the owners
of The Zong were dismayed
when news of their lost cargo
found them in that city
of coffeehouses,
theatres, libraries,
a ladies’ walk, and naturally,
slave trading.
The owners were seized
by an idea: they decided to sue
their insurance company.
They wanted to be reimbursed
for the value of the chained,
African dead: there was a trial,
and then, another,
and the truth finally
wagged its song:
on the night of the second day
that the crew of The Zong
pushed Africans into the sea,
a heavy rain had fallen.
There was no shortage
of water,
not anymore,
but even so,
the crew of The Zong
drowned a third batch
of Africans, and then,
the ship sailed on its way.
That’s all.
The ship sailed on its way.
No prayers.
The ship sailed on its way.
No funerals.
The ship sailed on its way.—
Here is where I leave
those sailors and owners,
and you can forget
about a happy ending.
I know you want one,
twenty-first-century-style.
A soundtrack. Some ruffled
costumes. An uprising,
since there were plenty
of those, the cutting
open of white sailors
and captains of ships,
such as the mutinies
on the Henry, the Neptunis,
the Ferris Galley, the Brome,
the Meeriman, the Little George,
the Hope, the William, the Felicity,
the Thames, the Mary,
and the Jolly Bachelor—
but this did not happen
aboard The Zong when
the murder of Africans
began: the last group
of victims leapt overboard
to their death, when they knew
what was coming—
and whether the owners
lost their insurance
case or won, the Africans
of The Zong drank salt
at the bottom of the ocean,
and millions of others
were enslaved.
How can anything
erase that choking?
Water and time cannot
bury The Zong, and neither
can a moving picture.
My sleep is haunted
by chains and catalogs,
and I don’t give one damn
if you grow tired of hearing
about slavery.
I will curse sailors and
their willful, seafaring tales.
Celebrations of Poseidon
throwing tridents.
His bare, pale chest:
wet dream of the canon—
I’ll chant of murder
trailing through my nightmares,
so that blood splashes
when Spirits strut.
Don’t you know that
drowned folks will rise
to croon signs to me?
And anyway, I didn’t tell
this story to please you.
I built this altar for them.
FOUND POEM: DETENTION #2
Michael Brice-Saddler, reporting for the Washington Post, December 15, 2018
The 7-year-old
Guatemalan girl
who died in U.S.
Border Patrol
custody was healthy
before she arrived,
and her family is now
calling for an
“objective
and thorough”
investigation
into her death,
a representative
for the family
said Saturday.
In a statement,
the family’s attorneys
disputed reports
that the girl,
Jakelin Caal,
went several
days without
food and water
before crossing
the border,
which contradicts
statements
by the Department
of Homeland
Security.
… Jakelin’s death
was announced
Thursday by U.S.
Customs and
Border Protection
after inquiries by the
Washington Post,
raising questions
about the conditions
of their facilities …
CBP and Department
of Homeland Security
officials deny
that the agency
is responsible
for what
happened
to the girl.
The Trump
Administration
has also denied
responsibility
for her death.
