Haitian Poet Lenelle Moise-Mud Mothers

I’ve been watching on TV what’s happening in Haiti. My grandfather, who loves history, has been trying to explain Haiti’s history to me, to help me understand why he has always admired Haiti and why Haiti has always had a difficult time. It was the first post-colonial, independent black-led country in the world. Haiti fought against Napoleon, the French and won it’s independence in 1804. Wow!

I got an even clearer picture of who Haiti is and what its audacious, brave spirit has cost this amazing island country. Here is a poem by the Haitian writer Lenelle Moise. The example of her poem is why poetry has the biggest teeth. She sums up the truth in a few stanzas. I am still rereading this poem and holding my breath.

Mud Mothers
By Lenelle Moise

the children of haiti

are not mythological

we are starvin

or eating saltycakes

made of clay

because in 1804 we felled

our former slave captors

the graceless losers sunk

vindictive yellow

teeth into our forests

what was green is now

dust & everyone knows

trees unleash oxygen

(another humble word

for life)

they took off

with our torn branches

beheaded our future

stuck our breath up on pikes

for all the world to see

we are a living dead example

of what happens to warriors who -

in lieu of fighting for white men's countries -

dare to fight

for their own lives

during carnival

we could care less

about our bloated empty bellies

where there are voices

we are dancing

where there is vodou

we are horses

where there are drums

we are possessed

with joy & stubborn jamboree

but when the makeshift

trumpet player

runs out of rhythmic breath

the only sound left is guts

grumbling

& we sigh

to remember

that food

& freedom

are not free

is haiti really free

if our babies die starving?

if we cannot write our names

read our rights keep

our leaders in their seats?

can we be free

really? if our mothers are mud? if dead

columbus keeps cursing us

& nothing changes

when we curse back

we are a proud resilient people

though we return to dust daily

salt gray clay with hot black tears

savor snot cakes

over suicide

we are hungry

creative people

sip bits of laughter

when we are thirsty

dance despite

this asthma

called debt

congesting

legendarily liberated

lungs

- Lenelle Moïse

©Lenelle Moïse 2009

Used with permission/Women Arts

Photo of Lenelle Moise