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Showing posts with label Haiti. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Haiti. Show all posts

Friday, January 10, 2025

COVER IT

by Ron Riekki


“Everyone keeps saying 'apocalyptic,' but that doesn’t begin to cover it.” —CNN’s Karina Tsui from Pacific Palisades, January 8, 2025

 


My sister texts me saying she is sorry

to hear about my long disease [sic] and I

think of the long history of fire, how often

our world wants to be held instead of this,

now, how it’s helled.  And in the military

they put me in the burn pits, not to help,

but for punishment, no mask given, and

 

forced to stand there with the ash now

that owns me, apical scarring, and this

is the world now, scaring me, the news

where I see fire in the Ukraine and fire

in Gaza and fire in Sudan and fire in

Myanmar and fire in Haiti and I look

online at a “current large wildfire map”

 

and it looks as if all of California is on

fire and I worked in California during

COVID, a disaster healthcare volunteer,

going to all the worst-hit cities, raged

by COVID and, always, driving in, I’d

see countless TRUMP signs [sick],

almost as if COVID went wherever his

 

supporters were, a nurse yelling one

time that the OR needed to have at

least two sets of negative pressure

respirators, and I remember a shift

where all of the staff was sick, how

nobody showed up but me, and, out-

side, the horizon was ablaze, rooms

 

packed with COVID patients, one

dying every other shift, and I could

go outside for my break, but couldn’t

take my mask off outside either, not

with the planes dropping fire retardant,

and a medic telling me that the UV

in L.A. was deadly, is deadly, and this

 

doctor screaming something about

a CT scan, and a COVID patient who

came in with no ID (we took him),

and an MP from a nearby military

base who died in his 20s, drowned

in the water of his own lungs, and

how someone came in and a nurse

 

was asking if the patient couldn’t

breathe because of COVID or be-

cause of the fires and the fires were

COVID and COVID was a fire, is

a fire, and my father is in bed and

he’s flicking through the news and

it’s orange-red on the screen and

 

red-yellow on the screen and it’s

yellow-orange, all these different

hells we create—bombings and

wildfire and a Republican’s pool

in his mansion backyard drowning

in flames and the fires in Burkina

Faso don’t make our news and

 

the fires in Cameroon don’t make

our news and the fires in Mali

don’t make our news, but fires

of the wealthy are all over our

screens and the mansions are so

quickly eaten by Hell.  My son

googles the words Who invented

 

fire? and the A.I. answers, Homo

sapiens and we invented all of

this, all of this ash and smoke

and I remember when I was

standing in the middle of my

lungs being destroyed for

the rest of my life and there

 

was fence all around me and

I thought of incarceration,

how we are getting so good

at war that we are turning our

whole entire world into a prison

and the only way out of this hole

is to stop everything we’re doing.



Ron Riekki co-edited Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press).

Monday, August 19, 2024

WHEN WE CELEBRATE IN THE DIASPORA

by Jerrice J. Baptiste


PORT-AU-PRINCE, 13 August 2024 – At least 131 children, including babies, have been reported killed or injured in Haiti during violent attacks against their neighbourhoods or clashes between armed groups and the police so far in 2024, Save the Children said. According to an analysis of UN verified data, an average of five children a week in the first six months of 2024, have been killed or injured by armed violence in Haiti. However, the true number of child casualties is likely to be much higher.  —Save the Children


Our hearts flood in joy like turtles
in shells in the sea. We're flying high
but then, your real story flashes.

No fireflies in belly of your darkness.
We're scared. Your sacred beauty will
remain hidden in mountain peaks

our feet will never climb. Our tears
are quite predictable, they swell
like your turquoise sea. Salt on 

cheeks. We mourn each day we can't 
bask in your rising sun, sit in shade
of your palm trees. Stroll like lovers.

We don't have answers to questions.
"What's going on in your country?"
"What will it take to change Ayiti?"

Sleepless, on the eve of speaking about you.
I looked in a mirror, brushed my coarse gray hair.
Raised my chin. Smiled with full red lips for hope.



Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet born in Haiti, the author of eight books including her new book of poetry Coral in The Diaspora (Abode Press, August 2024).  Her poetry has been published and forthcoming in The New Verse News, Impspired, Urthona: Buddhism & Art, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality & The Arts, Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, The Dewdrop. Poetica Review, The Banyan Review, Kosmos Journal, The Caribbean Writer, West Trestle Review among others. Jerrice was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for 2024 by Jerry Jazz Musician and as Best of the Net for 2022 by Blue Stem. She facilitates poetry workshops in New York where she lives.

Wednesday, April 10, 2024

WE, THE DIASPORA

by Jerrice J. Baptiste


Haitian policemen stand guard on a street corner amid gang violence in Port-au-Prince on April 8,2024.


Last week, my colleagues and I facilitated healing circles for Haitians, both on the island and in the diaspora. In this virtual gathering, known as the Sawubona Healing Circle, we bore witness to the fullness and depth of our pain across different geographical locations. We held space for the fear experienced by those trapped in Port-au-Prince amidst paramilitary violence. We acknowledged the hurt felt by innocent people yearning for communal safety. We understood the confusion among a diaspora who craved to support their people but felt wholly inadequate to meet the urgency of their needs. —Evan Auguste, The Haitian Times, April 2, 2024



Haitian leaders have finalized a deal for a temporary government to steer their Caribbean nation out of gang-fueled chaos, but the details must first be approved by the outgoing authorities, Agence France Presse confirmed Monday. —VoA, April 8, 2024


We, the diaspora know
our lives to be bleak without heat of circular suns.
We, the diaspora know
our hands to be bare not plucking velvet red cherries. 
We, the diaspora know 
consequences of our silence will cause you to bleed.

Can we the diaspora pledge to
merge our voices eclipsed by a stubborn early moon?
Can we the diaspora pledge to 
baptize babies dressed in white holy silk by dusk?
Can we the diaspora pledge to
grow consciousness as yellow corn in indigo nights?


Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet born in Haiti, the author of eight books, and a forthcoming book of poetry called Coral in The Diaspora (Abode Press, August 2024).  Her poetry has been published and forthcoming in The New Verse News, Impspired, Urthona: Buddhism & Art, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality & The Arts, Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, The Dewdrop. Poetica Review, The Banyan Review, Kosmos Journal, The Caribbean Writer, West Trestle Review among others. Jerrice was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for 2024 by Jerry Jazz Musician and as Best of the Net for 2022 by Blue Stem. She facilitates poetry workshops in New York where she lives.

Saturday, March 23, 2024

THE IN-BETWEEN

by Kathy Conway




For a month, we’ve noticed 

tender green sprouts—

too early not to freeze or

be trampled, often poking

out of dried-brown leaves 

of last fall. Do you hear

their crinkle in

the breeze? 


On our walks, we’ve created 

a game—are they crocus, 

jonquils, tips of hosta? We’ve 

savored forsythia and lilac buds, 

the red tint of oaks, the pale 

green of maples. 


I have always loved early 

Spring’s pops of color, signs

of growth and new life to come;

births and passings of loved 

ones, of this year’s departed 

and a yet-to-be-born

grand-nephew.


This spring, we also have the brown 

water of floods and mudslides, 

the yellow and red flames of fire, 

leaving grey-black ash and debris

in war zones—Ukraine, Gaza, 

Haiti. And the orange man—I’ll 

not use his name—threatening 

a bloodbath.



Kathy Conway lives and writes in New England and is increasingly frustrated with the state of the world.

Sunday, March 17, 2024

AYITI, MA CHÈRIE

by Jerrice J. Baptiste


Le Nègre Marron


A long-simmering crisis over Haiti’s ability to govern itself, particularly after a series of natural disasters and an increasingly dire humanitarian emergency, has come to a head in the Caribbean nation, as its de facto president remains stranded in Puerto Rico and its people starve and live in fear of rampant violence. —NBC News, March 15, 2024


I long for sanctuaries of your forests.
Chirping bird—Hispaniolan Trogon.
Enduring name of long ago
La Perle des Antilles
Shimmering light.

I long for your full peasant skirts
flowing with countryside
breeze, where bare 
feet imprint
sand.

I long to be eating sizzling Fritaille 
griot, fried plantains, and pikliz 
of red & yellow hot bonnet 
peppers dancing 
in my belly.

I long for Krik-Krak from uncles. 
Stories told in backyards.
Laughter of familiar 
voices greeting
moonlight.

I long to bathe your infants 
in tranquil turquoise sea.
Dress your daughters
in white organza 
fabric.

I long for your Taino fathers
wearing red & indigo flags 
during carnival or Rara
dancing to Djembe 
rhythm.

I long for your Taino mothers 
Poto-Mitan, ivory backbone 
of our homes. Selling
clusters of quenepe
at street market.

I long for your white conch shell 
blown by bronze lips  
breaking chains.
Le Nègre 
Marron.


Jerrice J. Baptiste is an author of eight books and a poet in residence at the Prattsville Art Center & Residency in NY.  She is extensively published in journals and magazines such as Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, Eco Theo Review, The Caribbean Writer, and many others. Jerrice has been nominated as Best of The Net by Blue Stem. She has been facilitating poetry workshops for eighteen years.

Saturday, May 13, 2023

AMERICAN CREOLE

by Indran Amirthanayagam




An old man chats in creole
on a bench by Prospect Park.
Along Empire Boulevard

a group of teens high-five
kouman ou ye, sak pase;
a writer, deep in a book,

puts it aside and stares
into space, mouths
a silent cry, Ayiti,

in and about the
park on an early May
afternoon, the air 

warm, every language 
out for a stroll but all 
in a handmaiden's role 

to the tongue sung 
loudest in exile. 
in 2023, that country 

in the Caribbean Sea
boiling and burning 
and sending its children 

and women, men 
and old men and 
old women, all

who can find a way
out via the new deals
of sponsorship

or the old murderous
tricks of climbing
aboard rickety boats

to live or die
in the sea
beyond the Keys.


Indran Amirthanayagam is the translator of Origami: Selected Poems of Manuel Ulacia (Dialogos Books)Ten Thousand Steps Against the Tyrant (BroadstoneBooks) is the newest collection of Indran's own poems. Recently published is Blue Window (Ventana Azul), translated by Jennifer Rathbun.(Dialogos Books). In 2020, Indran produced a “world" record by publishing three new poetry books written in three languages: The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, New York), Sur l'île nostalgique (L’Harmattan, Paris) and Lírica a tiempo (Mesa Redonda, Lima). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly and helps curate Ablucionistas. He won the Paterson Prize and received fellowships from The Foundation for the Contemporary Arts, New York Foundation for the Arts, US/Mexico Fund For Culture, and the MacDowell Colony. He hosts the Poetry Channel on YouTube and publishes poetry books with Sara Cahill Marron at Beltway Editions.