At the Masters Grave
At the patriarchate side I woo;
The cemetery in silence and at lone;
Where the European ancestors lay in frozen wool;
As they mellow darkly in their medieval bone;
Long gone lost are their sonorous cord;
Whisper of sounds only comes from shattering jaws;
From their sockets they stared at an African god;
Me’ an erstwhile slave at their door;
The cemetery in silence and at lone;
Where the European ancestors lay in frozen wool;
As they mellow darkly in their medieval bone;
Long gone lost are their sonorous cord;
Whisper of sounds only comes from shattering jaws;
From their sockets they stared at an African god;
Me’ an erstwhile slave at their door;
Only here to have a chat;
With the masters we served in temperate blood;
My slave master that fettered mother to iron cart;
I ruffled their soil now as an African god,
Bring now out thy smoking whip of teeth,
Those with blades that ate so deep;
It drips even to thy bottomless pit,
And this will haunt them as they sleep.
With the masters we served in temperate blood;
My slave master that fettered mother to iron cart;
I ruffled their soil now as an African god,
Bring now out thy smoking whip of teeth,
Those with blades that ate so deep;
It drips even to thy bottomless pit,
And this will haunt them as they sleep.
But to the spirits that once walked with love,
To them I will play my poetry song;
As they make stories at their gravely doors,
Still, their beings bow to an African God;
Their internment gowns askew on holy bricks,
On their beds, their bones quake at its legendary;
With incense and beads, I bid a requiem on their crucifix,
An erstwhile slave at the masters’ cemetery.
To them I will play my poetry song;
As they make stories at their gravely doors,
Still, their beings bow to an African God;
Their internment gowns askew on holy bricks,
On their beds, their bones quake at its legendary;
With incense and beads, I bid a requiem on their crucifix,
An erstwhile slave at the masters’ cemetery.
(“At the Masters’ Grave” is a poem I wrote in the winter of Estonia when I visited one of their Cemetry. This memory brought back the feelings of my ancestors for the good and bad slave masters.)
Photo taken by Coker O.
Gafar Odubote, “At the Masters’ Grave”, copyright 2019
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