A Tradition of Rising [1963 et al.], and: I, Too, Sing America, and: Tribute, and: Hymn #590: Sabbath Riots, and: Hymn #643: Split
- A Tradition of Rising [1963 et al.], and: I, Too, Sing America, and: Tribute, and: Hymn #590: Sabbath Riots, and: Hymn #643: Split
A Tradition of Rising [1963 et al.]
I wish somebody's soul would catch on fire, burn with the Holy Ghost.
—traditional church song
Ghost swell us to talking tongues,We rise up singing between organ shiversHammond B3 echo Babylon bass vibrating soles.
Singing pitches rise up out a stomach of black treble,trouble rise up black, back to back stomping onthe floorboard ache. And we say And we shall . . .
Mothers, rocking chairs. Children, bent foldson laps of rocking mothers singing: I wishsomebody's soul would . . . Soul catch on fire,fire catch hold, Soul, burn holy. [End Page 71]
I, Too, Sing America
And out their throat sings hosanna,we the people a chorus of citizens,arms tethered this way that way, swaylike a pendulum of wings.
They are marching to Zion,in their hand a hydra of metal-tonguedtambourines. Like undulating spigotstheir mouths purl and restrestrest.They reach for God or at leastthe timbre of wind.
A woman quakes, surplice swayingthis way that way, breasts splayed flatby a belt of sticks. Her chest breaks, shattersthe air to a sing-song silent singing. Shrapnelruins on wings, wails undulantlike hydra-headed spigots tethered to walls. [End Page 72]
Tribute
We are the mothers, uncombed, unpressed and wearyof shrieking, grey-faced with death and dustto dust to dust, to dust funking our mouths, to dustcovering the seared flagellum of our sons.Who will wage war with the torn wings and carcassleftover after coyote teeth tear at the sinewsleaving us to hysteria and rotting?We are the mothers. We wear the faces of our sonson our breasts, our backs. Our babies—Kalief—our babies are hanging from Bronx windows,our babies are hanging from penitentiary trees.'Til amazing grace shall always be my song of praise.Praise song for the broken babies backs.Praise song for the babies broken.Praise song for the broken. Princeof the power of the air, loose them, let them go.We are their mothers. Oh beautiful for spacious skies.Oh beautiful faces.Oh beautiful cityof marching higher higher to that city not madeby mans hands.Set our feet to marching.We are the mothers. We know our babies' hands,feet, fingers, toes. We countthe years. We are the mothers, we knowbreaking. We know partum. We know crack openthe body. We know blood. We know water.We know breaking through, the life on the other side. [End Page 73]
Hymn #590: Sabbath Riots
An army of cotton women are marching to Zion,beaded hats cocked, sequined circles shimmeringlike the severed wings of dragonflies.
The windows of this church are glassesof red wine stained between thin black bars.
Rounding her mouth, Sister Loretta leans easy,catching the sway of Fellowship Choir.A slender inferno wails in the stomachof the organ, and out her throat:
I'm onmywaytah heavenSo am II'm onmywaytah heavenSo am I. She sings, and we
the people begin to strike forefingers to palms.A thousand daggers rain on shields of steel,cracking back the spines of aged pews, breakingagainst rivets, rivulets swell, an ocean applauds. [End Page 74]
Hymn #643: Split
Split my body to glass songs,split the songs to scales,split the scales to gaspsof architectured breath.
This is the sound of an old womansinging broken hymnsin her sleep. In a splitsecond I am a swollen pondand the splash of the rocka little girl failed to skipover my dark face.
Split the sound, find me, leave mehere, wherehallelujah unfolds like a yawning. [End Page 75]
Monique-Adelle Callahan D. is an assistant professor at Emmanuel college. Her poems, translations, and visual art have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies including Tupelo Quarterly, Bayou Magazine, and The Healing Muse. She has received writing fellowships from Cave Canem, Callaloo, The Woodrow...
