Sep 4, 2015 Uncategorized
For Jamycheal Mitchell
©September 4th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
A shout curled up out of the depths of his being,
A wisp of smoke, a spiral of defiance,
Seeking air, seeking release.
When it did, it became a bubble,
A blip of air that vanished,
As if a life had never been.
And he lay there, broken, in prison,
For five measly dollars worth
Of stolen chemical-infused food.
Too poor, too addled, too frightened
To defend himself in a cruel world,
Which meant to kill him,
A young, black man died.
And his detractors, no doubt,
Blamed him for being who he was:
A black man, who stole snickers.
And he died, hungry, caved in,
And he died, hungry, caved in,
A life vanished like a bubble
In darkness.
And after that, no doubt,
His jailers enjoyed coffee and sunshine.
And went home to their wives, or mothers,
Or sons or daughters, full of
Repudiation, full of denial,
Casually shrugging it off,
Sloughing off responsibility, like snakes
Shedding skin — just a day’s work —
So easy for them!
And somewhere, a universe caved in,
Collapsed, fell for an eternity
Into a well of hell. Morality was lost.
Hatefulness won. Civilizations crumbled.
And somewhere, a new carcinoma
Of demons set up a howl of exultation.
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May 15, 2015 Uncategorized
Illusion – Homan Square and Worse
©May 15, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
How can I smile?
The sun shines muted and somber
The children’s cries of glee on the fields
Seems removed, like sounds heard through glass.
The sky bends, an old woman with a bundle,
Inverted, back broken, over an earth which
Spins only from duty and habit.
How can I smile?
I read things, things about blood
And things about pain
And about cruelty, torture
And rape.
In Chicago’s Homan Square,
A Black Site, mini-Guantanamo,
Men in blue, with blood-lust
And guns ready at the hip
Explode with hatred, and
Engorged with power,
Devastate a life, far from
Prying eyes or help.
And I read, and my gorge rises
And a canyon opens below.
How can I smile?
You want to tell me that we
Are creatures of compassion
And kindness, and love?
You want to tell me that we care
For our fellow brothers and sisters,
That we are merciful?
You want to tell me that
All is not lost, that
Goodness still exists?
Very well! I’ll go along
With your fiction.
I have no choice, but
To die, here, now.
I cannot do that.
Duty compels, and love,
Family ties me with silken threads.
And this body that
Still thirsts, still hungers,
Still rejoices in air and light
And food and music
And words and touch …
These tug at me.
If it’s fiction, and all existence
Narrows down to that perfect point
Where death pinches out life,
I don’t care.
This fiction prods me on.
This is all maya.
And though I laugh in your face,
And my heart is a fist, and the fist,
Is formed from blood and tears,
And I lie in a dark room,
Somewhere
Far away,
Shaking,
Broken,
I will create this fiction.
For I have no choice.
Out of fiction
A genie emerges,
Arms folded, forbidding,
Good, powerful:
Could this be Truth?
I will ask three things of it, then.
And if it doesn’t give,
I will force it back into
Its metallic, negative space.
And spin a wilder
Brighter, kinder fiction,
Which will coalesce,
Transforming this world
Into something that might
Nearly resemble Truth.
I could live with that —
Perhaps.
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Tags: #Injustice, #Original Poetry, Chicago Black Site, Homan Square
Nov 25, 2014 Teaching and Learning
Injustice: Ferguson, Missouri; Sanford, Florida; Cleveland, Ohio
My heart is broken.
There is no justice.
There’s racism and privilege and hate and violence.
There are some rich, white people who really don’t get it.
There are those who laugh at pain.
There are whose who get off on the death of black youths.
And there are others, who, wanting to seem rational, say, “Well, we don’t have all the facts.”
There are others, who, wanting to seem on the right side of “the law” say, “Well, did you see the video of Michael Brown robbing a store?” or, “Well, Trayvon threatened George Zimmerman, or smoked dope,” or, “The kid Tamir Rice was waving a gun. How could police know that it wasn’t real?”
I say to all of them about the first two questions: That has nothing to do with this!
I say to them, all of them, about the first two questions: Haven’t you ever done wrong? Would you think it is fair to be killed for it?
I say to all of them: Don’t obfuscate with irrelevant facts!
I say to all of them about all three: Does anyone have to die? What happened to the police tackling someone, disabling someone whom they see as a “threat” — without killing?
I say to all of them: Stop justifying that secret racism in your own hearts.
I say to all of them:
There are five facts about what happened in Ferguson, Missouri:
One: A teenager died in the US.
Two: A black teenager died in the US.
Three: A police officer shot him from several, perhaps, hundred or more feet away.
Four: The teenager was unarmed.
Five: He was killed in cold blood.
Go and search your own conscience, I say.
AND SHAME ON YOU, if you think he deserved it.
AND SHAME ON YOU, if you think his killer deserved to go free.
AND SHAME ON YOU FOR NOT CRYING FOR ALL THOSE YOUNG BLACK TEENAGERS AND CHILDREN WHO DIED.
http://The Death of Emmett Till
Tags: #Injustice, Cleveland, Ferguson, Florida, Michael Brown, Missouri, Ohio, racism, Sanford, Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin