the daughters of Eve,
the reclaiming of Eden |
all lyrics written by Sekou (tha misfit) |
(Written for the women of the An Elegant Affair retreat in Ocho Rios,
Jamaica)
They say whatever happens in Jamaica
Stays in Jamaica
And considering that I was fortunate enough to be
the male poet
featuring at all female retreat in Ocho Rios
I hoped so.
But as I stood among these 30 women,
Breathing air pungent with the prickle of salt fish
and coconut jelly,
Women with names,
And pride,
And fears,
And pasts,
I found myself sharing more than I had anticipated
with them.
Performing the most intimate act that I could with
them.
I watched them.
I watched them closely as they escaped the monotony
of routine and found liberation;
Liberation through the new sensory experiences of
tasting ackie
and falling asleep to the ocean
Not the Audio Ocean Simulator manufactured by Bose
and found at the Sharper Image for retail price of
$79.99
But the real ocean, as vast and infinite as a woman’s
capacity for love,
And found right outside their window each morning
for free.
Liberation in the stripping away of their discomfiture
and resounding declaration of their beauty
through lying on sunlit sands, bare breasted and majestic,
like daughters of Eve reclaiming Eden.
Liberation in the sweat, and stickiness, and sex-laced
Souca rhythms of the dance hall
Where they wiggled and bounced and writhed and spun
and
Danced until they burned away 10 pounds of
burdens that weighed down their souls.
Ohhh, I wish they could have seen themselves
Through my eyes.
I wish that this one could see her strength the way
I see it
Or that one, see her smile the way I see it
Her figure the way I see it
Or her, the essence of her spirit as I do
I wish that she could see what her eyes do to a man
I wish that she could witness through my lenses the
power radiating from her presence
And I so wish that before she left
I wished that she could have seen herself through
my eyes,
Shuttle hobbling down the narrow, jagged roads of
Ocho Rios,
as she peeled away pieces of coco bread from my hand
And we shared my meal
And our ride
And her stories of love misused and substance abuse,
And how today she was so high that she couldn’t
sleep:
Still buzzing too much off of the excitement of new
friendships
And spiritual rejuvenation
And life.
And she was uninhibited as she spoke to me -
A man whom she didn’t know
And I felt connected to her -
A woman whom I had just met
And proud of her
And I wished that she could see her resilience through
my eyes
But she was dancing
now
With the rest of them, they danced and danced.
And they sang
Their breath sang songs of determination
As they rose with the dawn to exercise to the sunrise
Declaring to their bodies
I am still here, childbirth!
I am still here, heartbreak!
I am still here depression and winter and age!
Is this the best you can do to me?
I AM STILL HERE!
And you will not defeat me today!
They sang
Their fingers sang stories of transition
through guitar strings
Strumming melodies that elucidated their transformations
with a perspicuity unrivaled by words
They sang stories of family and sisterhood
through voices that cracked with honesty
Voices celebrating the end
of too many seasons
of fledgling self-worth
They sang songs that depicted their life’s journeys
and always ended on a high note
Sometimes not quite in perfect pitch
Sometimes a bit flat
But they held out the highest note they could
And I wish that they could have heard their perfect
harmonies through my ears
But they were
too busy dancing
They danced and danced
And they embraced.
They reached out to each other
Extending arms that glowed with enough nourishment
to soothe
the scraped-knee tears
and boogieman fears
of four-year-olds who call out to them impulsively
for sustenance.
Arms that rippled with enough might to nurse their
half-broken warrior back to health
When he is too weary to stand after the day’s
battles.
Arms that were engraved with marks on weathered flesh
Like hieroglyphics on canvas that has stretched
Too far
Trying to embrace all the wisdom of dying grandmothers.
With these arms
They squeezed each other with such fervor
As if wanting to force each other to exhale
Long enough to release
the stress from responsibility
Release the demands of husbands
Release the expectations of society and
The incessant cries of children and
The throbbing malaise from dreams deferred for family
and
The anguish from lovers’ betrayal and
The frustration of always having to go above and beyond
to succeed and
The frustration of never having enough time to go
above and beyond and
The frustration of fatigue
And cramps
And hot flashes
And migraines
And labor pains
And gossip
And self esteem
And insecurities
And secrets
And demons
And they hugged
I mean they really hugged
The way that only two people in pain can
And, amidst the air of festivity,
Beneath the pounding of music,
Under the influence of Rum Punch,
They whispered “I love you” to each other
In the way that only two people who desperately mean
it can
And I felt the chills from their embrace in my bone
marrow
I wished that they could have felt the warmth of their
connection through my skin
But they were
too busy dancing
So I sat at a table with a cipher of men
sharing curry chicken,
and sticky rice,
and curiously uncomfortable stories of female sexual
triumphs,
A would be typical discussion among predators,
were it not for the strikingly unusual air of lament
and regret in their voices.
Maybe we had shared too much with these women;
had too many late night intimate conversations about
everything but each other,
held them with benign affection
and danced with them with a playful purity
unthreatening to their husbands or our wives;
been privy to so much inside information that our
lenses had been wiped clean
and we saw, clearly, the fragility of their omnipotence.
Maybe we had been so immersed in the post-traumatic
spiritual joy of these women
That we finally recognized them as the mothers and
daughters of our prey
Or hell, maybe it was just the Banana Rum
I don’t know ….
All I know is that the last words I heard spoken,
as I left these men at the table,
Was the conflicted angst in their voice as they acknowledged
what all men secretly know:
That there is nothing in life more painful than watching
a woman cry from our actions
And at that moment
I wished that these queens could see themselves through
our eyes
I needed them to see themselves like I see them
More than just computer specialists and actresses,
Probations officers and make up artists.
I needed them to come to know themselves as I had
come to know them
More than just mothers and daughters,
Sisters and friends.
I needed this,
for them,
Or just, perhaps, for myself
So I watched them
And I wrote about it.
I watched them share memories and mangos
Over manicures and pedicures
As better cures for their ailments than any medicine
man could prescribe
And I wrote about it.
I watched them rise out of their mid-day siestas revitalized
And rise out of the cool Jamaican waters refreshed
And rise out of the dearth of their derogatory labels
redefined
And rise out of the cocoons they had been dragging
reincarnated
As the fluttering monarchs that destiny had been waiting
for them to become.
I watched them as they read books like
Single and Satisfied,
The Coldest Winter,
And The Secrets of an Irresistible Woman
And joined together in the unified, thunderous voice
of independent womanhood
And I also watched the subtle, momentary expressions
of yearning on their faces
after speaking of their husbands, and fiancés,
and lovers
with the concealed adoration of a schoolgirl
who was planning to sneak to buy a calling card
and phone her man later that night just to say
“I miss
you”
And I wrote about it.
I watched their faces scrunch up to the acquired taste
of chilled carrot-ginger soup
And their tongues sensuously slide along their full
lips
Licking off the remaining coconut sorbet topping
from the warmed Jamaican apples and rum sauce.
I watched them in sandals and sunglasses and floral
decorated straw hats
Their soft skin soaking in serene sunsets
I watched them in brightly colored shawls
Used as head wraps and waist wraps and body wraps
and any thing but shawls
Cause frankly, it was too damn hot for a shawl
I watched them
With skin of coal and skin of gold
Light skin and white skin
And skin as dark and beckoning as the silouhettes
of naked women
dancing behind sheer veils
Watached them with braids and locs, ponytails and
perms
And the sexy signatures of
Crooked smiles
Gap teeth
And enough bottom to blow out 20 inch sub woofers.
I watched them
These goddesses
And found myself overcome with love and longing for
my own queen
And in these women saw everything that my woman is,
was, and can become
And I love her more now
And I appreciate them more now
And I wrote about it.
And, of course, I watched them dance
And dance and dance and dance
Some danced with the grace
of falling leaves
that toy with the wind
and refuse to land.
Some danced with the sensuality
of salty sweat beads
that waltz down the lines of a woman’s face
during lovemaking
and gently leap from her chin
onto the awaiting tongue of her lover.
And some danced ….
just as best they could.
Beautiful still.
And I wanted to write a poem that would help them
discover
the butterflies lying dormant within them and teach
them to fly.
A poem that would remind them of the transformation
that they attended this elegant affair to realize.
So I wrote and I watched and I wrote and
I watched them stand on the edge of a yacht
And squeeze their eyelids so tightly together
That they strained out tears filled with everything
unhealthy in their life
Letting them drip into vials labeled “cocoons”
Which they then turned over and poured out into the
transparent sea
And at that moment I realized ….
That its not about me.
And I watched them stare into those waters
That were suddenly clear enough for them to look down
And see the reflection
Of who it is
They are meant to be
And I realized ….
There is no poem I can write that can do that.
And at last, I watched them stare into each others
eyes
And for the first time,
On the glassy surfaces of their sisters’ pupils,
They finally saw how they are seen
And, at last, understood,
With empirical certainty,
That they are magnificent.
And I realized:
They say whatever happens in Jamaica
Stays in Jamaica
Well, for the sake of
The lessons
The friendships
And the beauty
These women have created here ….
I hope not.
© 2003 S. Andrews, All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication or use is a violation of applicable laws.
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