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Eila Mahima Jaipaul


Bombastic brutes
call constantly for bloody heads,
in this jungle.

Gramsci would be proud of his disciples
all dressed in rhetoric and pride
looking like giant balloons rising.
Their robes billow behind them as they float
with only bullets and words for ballast.
They're pretty… those little colonists,
especially when viewed from less advanced places
and trifling vantage points.

Up there, it's about descriptions,
well aerated, published reasons for their enterprising destruction
of the cultural other.

For our part, there's a certain bend
and yield, trying to make obtuse,
into square.
And like hard handed, coarse pimps,
they relentlessly thrust
militant proselytization
from under their beautiful garments.

Hegemony of the mind is genocide,
one soul at a time.

Beads of life

traveling in wide circles
seeing you
then not seeing you
I have been sitting in dust
in darkness, under thatched roof
watching little ones play
with sticks and bottle caps
while cattle graze
and corn turns barren to green

combining beads and fibers
with metal and cowries dangling
I become conscious
that my relation to spirits
of water and all other kind
has always been hidden from you
my draw to grains in waves
by a goddess' call, a mystery

didn't you know I am not of here
but caught here instead
unaware in unfamiliar drying pastures
ensnared by divinities
the haunting of others
too strong yet to counter

whether the amulet
is for my protection
or theirs
I do not know



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Eila Mahima Jaipaul

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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #48November 2006   ISSN 1479-425X


Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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