Tuesday Poem (Song): "Took the Children Away" by Archie Roach

This story's right, this story's true
I would not tell lies to you
Like the promises they did not keep
And how they fenced us in like sheep
Said to us come take our hand
Sent us off to mission land
Taught us to read, to write and pray
Then they took the children away
Took the children away

The children away
Snatched from their mother's breast
Said this is for the best
Took them away

The welfare and the policeman
Said you've got to understand
We'll give them what you can't give
Teach them how to really live
Teach them how to live they said
Humiliated them instead
Taught them that and taught them this
And others taught them prejudice
You took the children away

The children away
Breaking their mothers heart
Tearing us all apart
Took them away

One dark day on Framingham
Come and didn't give a damn
My mother cried go get their dad
He came running, fighting mad
Mother's tears were falling down
Dad shaped up and stood his ground
He said "You touch my kids and you fight me"
And they took us from our family
Took us away

They took us away
Snatched from our mother's breast
Said this was for the best
Took us away

Told us what to do and say
Told us all the white man's ways
Then they split us up again
And gave us gifts to ease the pain
Sent us off to foster homes
As we grew up we felt alone
'Cause we were acting white
Yet feeling black

One sweet day all the children came back
The children come back
The children come back
Back where their hearts grow strong
Back where they all belong
The children came back
Said the children come back

The children come back
Back where they understand
Back to their mother's land
The children come back

Back to their mother
Back to their father
Back to their sister
Back to their brother
Back to their people
Back to their land
All the children come back
The children come back
The children come back
Yes I came back

by Archie Roach

For more information about the songwriter, Archie Roach, see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archie_Roach

Tuesday Poem: "Posture" by Megan Seil aka Dusty Rhymes

Walk tall

Stand upright 

Don't be contrite

Smile more

Chest out

Chin up

Don't look down 

Levitate above the ground

Perform for us

Be on show 

Let us bathe in your womanly glow

But don't harness her

Not that power she holds

The rich maroon reds and gold

They're for us to revel in

Chin up

Chest out

Don't you pout

Stay in shape

Be tall and thin

Not too stout

Speak quietly 

Don't shout

Mellow oooout

Don't embody her fullness

The warmth and the goodness

Her energy

Put your shoulders back

Take that smoulder back

Its unladylike 

Conform for us

Be on form for us

Stroke our egos

Be present 

Don't be unpleasant 

Control yourself

Ignore her

Don't adorn her

Do not mourn her

Keep your eyeline straight

Don't stay up too late

Be respectable

Make pleasantries 

Drink pleasant teas

Not rum

Smile more

Don't be a whore

Wash your mouth out

Don't acknowledge her

Don't trust her knowledge

Go to college 

Get an education 

Be book smart

Be well dressed

And pass the test

Behave

Don't express your rage

Present yourself 

Sit down

Don't frown

Be grateful

You're a woman now.

by Megan Seil aka Dusty Rhymes

And this is what young Ōtautahi poet, Megan Seil, says about herself:

"Growing up rough I found my escape through books and song lyrics and eventually began writing short stories and poetry of my own. I've always kept most of my work to myself, only recently beginning to share relevant pieces via social media and sacred sharing circles. Spoken Word has afforded me the freedom to express my deepest hurts and fears under the guise of "art" and as someone with a naturally rhythmic, repetitive and poetic mind, it allows me to organize the chaos in my head into something slightly more palatable to the general public. My only hope with my work is that people are able to truly see me, and in turn are able to feel more truly seen themselves."

Thank you for sharing your poem with the Tuesday Poem audience, both of them...ha ha. I heard Megan read this poem of hers (shown above) at the Catalyst monthly poetry Open Mic night. If you are an Ōtautahi poet or a poet visiting Ōtautahi  from somewhere in Aotearoa or the world, I urge you to attend. It is a great night for lovers of poetry!

Tuesday Poem: "Song of Myself: 36" by Walt Whitman

 

Stretch’d and still lies the midnight,
Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness,
Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer’d,
The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white as a sheet,
Near by the corpse of the child that serv’d in the cabin,
The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully curl’d whiskers,
The flames spite of all that can be done flickering aloft and below,
The husky voices of the two or three officers yet fit for duty,
Formless stacks of bodies and bodies by themselves, dabs of flesh upon the masts and spars,
Cut of cordage, dangle of rigging, slight shock of the soothe of waves,
Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent,
A few large stars overhead, silent and mournful shining,
Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors,
The hiss of the surgeon’s knife, the gnawing teeth of his saw,
Wheeze, cluck, swash of falling blood, short wild scream, and long, dull, tapering groan,
These so, these irretrievable.

by Walt Whitman

For more information about the poet, Walt Whitman, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/walt-whitman

Tuesday Poem: "State Funeral" by Thomas McCarthy

 

  Parnell will never come again, he said. He’s there, all that was mortal of him.
  Peace to his ashes.

  James Joyce, Ulysses

That August afternoon the family
Gathered. There was a native déjá vu
Of Funeral when we settled against the couch
On our sunburnt knees. We gripped mugs of tea
Tightly and soaked the TV spectacle;
The boxed ritual in our living-room.

My father recited prayers of memory,
Of monster meetings, blazing tar-barrels
Planted outside Free-State homes, the Broy-
Harriers pushing through a crowd, Blueshirts;
And, after the war, de Valera’s words
Making Churchill’s imperial palette blur.

What I remember is one decade of darkness,
A mind-stifling boredom: long summers
For blackberry picking and churning cream,
Winters for saving timber or setting lines
And snares: none of the joys of here and now
With its instant jam, instant heat and cream:

It was a landscape for old men. Today
They lowered the tallest one, tidied him
Away while his people watched quietly.
In the end he had retreated to the first dream,
Caning truth. I think of his austere grandeur;
Taut sadness, like old heroes he had imagined.

by Thomas McCarthy

For more information about poet, Thomas McCarthy, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/thomas-mccarthy

Tuesday Poem (Song): "Hole in the River" by Neil Finn and Eddie Rayner

 

There's a hole in the river where my auntie lies
From the land of the living to the air and sky
Left her car by the river left her shoes beside
Through the thorns and the bushes I hope she was...

Dreaming of glory
Miles above the mountains and plains
Free at last

We were touched by a cold wind, my father and I
The sound of desperate breathing her fear inside us all
She was coming to see him but something changed her mind
Drove her down to the river
There is no return

There's a hole in the river where a memory lies
From the land of the living to the air and sky
She was coming to see him but something changed her mind,
Drove her down to the river
There is no return

by Neil Finn and Eddie Rayner

Tuesday Poem: "Quarantine" by Eavan Boland

In the worst hour of the worst season
    of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking—they were both walking—north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
     He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
    Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
     There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
      Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

by Eavan Boland

For more information about poet, Eavan Boland, see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/eavan-boland

Tuesday Poem: "Talk to Strangers" by Saul Williams

 

Nah, I wasn't raised at gunpoint
And I've read too many books
To distract me from the mirror
When unhappy with my looks
And I ain't got proper diction
For the makings of a thug
Though I grew up in the ghetto
And my niggas all sold drugs
And though that may validate me
For a spot on MTV
And get me all the airplay
That my bank account would need
I was hoping to invest in
A lesson that I learned
When I thought this fool would jump me
Just because it was my turn

I went to an open space
'Cause I knew he wouldn't do it
If somebody there should see him 
Or somebody else might prove it
And maybe in your mind
It may seem I got punched out
'Cause I walked a narrow path
And then went and changed my route
But that openness exposed me 
To a truth I couldn't find
In the clenched fist of my ego
Or the confines of my mind
Or the hipness of swagger
Or the swagger in my step
Or the scowl of my grimace 
Or the meanness of my rep
'Cause we represent a truth, son
That changes by the hour
And when you open to it
Vulnerability is power
And in that shifting form
You'll find a truth that doesn't change
And that truth's living proof 
Of the fact that God is strange

Talk to strangers when family fails
And friends lead you astray
When Buddha laughs and Jesus weeps
And it turns out God is gay
'Cause angels and messiahs
Love can come in many forms
In the hallways of your projects
Or the fat girl in your dorm
And when you finally take the time
To see what they're about
And perhaps you find them lonely
Or their wisdom trips you out

Maybe you'll find the cycle's end
You're back where you began
But come this time around
You'll have someone to hold your hand
Who prays for you, who's there for you
Who sends you love and light
Exposes you to parts of you
That you once tried to fight
And come this time around 
You'll choose to walk a different path
You'll embrace what you turned away
And cry at what you laughed
'Cause that's the only way 
We're gonna make it through this storm
Where ignorance is common sense
And senselessness the norm

And flags wave high above the truth
And the two never touch
And stolen goods are overpriced
And freedom costs too much
And no one seems to recognize
The symbols come to life
The bitten apple on the screen
And Jesus had a wife
And she was his messiah
Like that stranger may be yours
Who holds the subtle knife
That carves through worlds like magic doors

And that's what I've been looking for
The bridge from then to now
Was watching BET like
What the fuck, son? This is foul
But that square box don't represent
The sphere that we live in
The Earth is not a flat screen
I ain't trying to fit in
But this ain't for the underground
This here is for the sun
A seed a stranger gave to me
And planted on my tongue
And when I look at you
I know I'm not the only one
As a great man once said
There is nothing more powerful
Than an idea, whose time has come

by Saul Williams

For more information about poet, Saul Williams, see:

https://poets.org/poet/saul-williams