Ruby Harmon

GOLDEN LOTUSES
At 8
The knife carves deeply
As drums sound out the piercing
Cry
And life-force and pleasure
Diminish in some ritual ploy
Her sanctity destroyed
Foretelling years of pain and anguish
Dictated by culture’s erotic reinvention
Anatomical birthright
Mutilated
In whose idea of beauty

At 4
The cloths woven and
Wrapped tightly
Repeatedly
Disfigure the foundation
On which she stands
Golden lotuses in three to five inches, perfumed
Placed in petite, flowered
Silk covers
Tiny feet
Sanctioned to ensure marriage
Stand as erotic reinvention
Ritualistically disguised

Two women
Maturing in pain
Spirits strong
80 years old teetering in tiny footsteps
50 years old feeling hollow
Retelling their stories
Recounting their lives

. . . And who dares to speak
Labeling their hurt
A necessary tradition
Having never experienced this hurt?

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
My daughter, Musu, has forgotten
our custom
of respect.
See,
how she stands akimbo
talking to elders
expressing her new individuality:
Necessary in this new culture,
refusing traditional dress
for jeans, body-gloved
and blouses so low.
Her bosom peaks out.
Her ears stay glued to ear
phones listening to lyrics
that degrade and belittle
her very own person.

And do you know what she tells me
when I mention her attitude?
She says, “How can you judge me when
you too have sought to be
different? Applying that lightening cream
to your beautiful black skin,
fading the person I once knew.”
Image that,
my own Musu.
Imagine that . . .

CROWNHILL
for Gram

I say yah:
We were extended families
Conversations passed from house to house
The yard at Carey Street welcomed
Groups—children came
Feet skipped, between hopscotch, I die
Pedaled up and down Dunbar yard
Who could ride the fastest?

Knocked ground in nah foh, kor
Hands clapped in ring
Tagged— you’re it
Mixed hibiscus petals, leaves
Sucked the sweetness, vying with mission ants
Play cook we called it then

Come Saturdays, we devoured
Fufu balls swimming in soup
flavored deliciously,
parched ground pea soup

Some sucked bones
Drawing the nectar hidden in
Tiny wells
Peeled oranges spirally
Milking the sweet Liberian essence

And Gram would gather us
Younger folk
Seated on settees, hassocks
Rattan chairs squeaking
The stories called, “once upon a time . . .
Time . . .”
And spider would dangle in our midst
Liberian mascot invincible
A true griot she was, Gram
Would concoct mixtures, leaves, roots
Giving a thorough cleansing

It was just yesteryear
When we would run
From cultural icons, men painted blue
Scratching chopiyahs on the ground
And anticipated the catchy tune,
“Sani claw we are . . . oh we are, we are . . .”
Men weaving rhythmically to tin pan drumming

And little boys would ride tires
Palms propelling the path
Some masters of metal rims
Careening corners with thin metal rods

We would gather, a few in the yard, chunking plum
Guavas, ripe fruit falling to ground

Visitors would come and go
Some sat transfixed
Bottom in rattan chairs
Others sprawled casually in the favorite
Hammock looking out
Mouth juggling between “I says and hmm’s”
The piazza offered the best views

Crownhill, oh Crownhill evokes such memories
Etched ever so deeply
They’ve long become part of our souls.

Poems from the new collection, With Love. New York: Poetic Moves Publishing, 2010.

Copyright © rharmon 2010