Friday, 7 October 2011

Last of a Line

i am the last of a line
it stops here with me

no children, as yet, to pass the blood on
to flow over the smoothed rocks
of an ancestors foundation

last of a line
where the estuary ends
And as a child, first generation born un the UK, I make sense of my world
With  British Tongue and brown skin.
The book I am to write is of how We came to be here
of how this world's history branded We,
And I am to make sense of the archipelago
Of stories, pebbles washed up on a the shores of
an old empire coughed me out

A free radical
that came into its own,
the thorn in the throat of a giant, a clot

In the brain of cultural tyranny,
Branding my sex, my skin

I am the last of a line
standing here, as a writer, storyteller
and i invite you, as friend (you can 'unfriendly' me later)

i invite you along the journey of a self, soul,
an artist, a woman, a human.
I invite you along a journey unpacking the secrets,
ingrained in the very air we breath
in the DNA of power structures,
that steer me into quintessential archetypes,
stereotypes of sex and race until I  become a a cliche.
my mind is a saline jar full of the study samples
of names i have been called over the years

an exotic, negrotic,
a slave, a negra, a breeder,
a golly wog, nig nog, a coloured, a black, a nigger,
a mammy, a maid, a matriarch,
a negro (empowered),  a panther
a black bitch, a ho and some where
in all the shouting I get called a Queen.
my own logo, with an askewed crown
how, tell me, how do I reconcile my status as the last of this blood line.

i try to pin it down, this 'I, me, self
First generation born in the UK
shaded by  my mothers lashes
as she blinks the ash from my eyes

the legacy  falls  back
into bright brutal cycle of re-memory
of a blood line interrupted

The last of a line
the buck stops, starts here

Written by Zena Edwards©

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