Notes on being black

1/7/2022

by Joseph Hope

I look out of a closed window
like a boy trapped inside
a burning house. Like the tail
of a rattlesnake, my mind
rattled restlessly. I listen to
rock 'n roll. I listen to the opposite
of restlessness. But it is no use
when you live inside the bowel
of the beast. A notification: he couldn't breathe, so he died
underneath the knees of a full-grown man— I flinch and
try to forget like how I forgot about
the little girl raped and killed in Pakistan last week,
girls trafficked into oblivion.

Rock 'n roll can't
cure this kind of sorrow. I've forgotten the
definition of home.
Martin Luther King Jr.: I have a dream—what does that mean?
I stretch and yawn like a wounded cat.
Is this the future? Pathetic.
No rainbow. No rainbow. Black lives don't matter.
Immigrants live in a cage. The girl
child is the victim. No flowers here. No flowers here.
Just thistles growing
from the bones of the massacred.
Just an earthquake.
Just bad politics.
Just war.
Just hunger.
Just climate change.
Just rumbling & rumbling & rumbling
& rumbling & rumbling & rumbling
& rumbling & rumbling & rumbling
& rumbling
& rumbling
& rumbling
& rumbling
inside the belly of the beast.

Author's Biography

Joseph Hope writes from Nigeria, West Africa.

His works are forthcoming or already published in Reckoning Press, Timber ghost press, Evening Street Press, Zoetic Press, New Verse News, Praxis Magazine, Ubu, AfroPoetry, Gemini Spice Magazine, Spillwords, SprinNG, Writers Space Africa, Nthanda Magazine, 5th Chinua Achebe Anthology, Ariel Chart, Best "New" African Poets 2019 Anthology, and more. In addition, he's a reader for the reckoning press.

He was a fellow in the 2021 SprinNG Writing Fellowship.

7 Comments

Olumide Manuel

1/7/2022 01:22:48 pm

I like how the poet established the poem's theme in the first lines, " I look out of a closed window
like a boy trapped inside
a burning house". Everything progresses from this part. The helplessness, the chaos, and the hunger are results of being imprisoned in the definition of the black body.

Omoayo Abimbola

1/7/2022 06:09:49 pm

'thistles growing from the bones of the massacred " The lingering sorrow that stems from the death of our loved ones. A piece penned by a promising poet.

Pius Daniel

1/7/2022 09:27:33 pm

Interesting. Really loved how you established a lot of poetic element in this.

Chioma

2/7/2022 08:35:32 pm

The author uses poetic expressions to describe the current happenings in countries, and how severe it gets that one can longer turn a blind eye. The hardships, desths, conflicts, cultural demeaning, and racism. These are all happening in our faces. No matter where we turn/run to, it's going down there. This chaos, we cannot run from it, here, in this 'bowel of the beast'.

Esther Abubakar

24/7/2022 02:06:25 pm

The poet painted a picture that many eyes will want to hurriedly look over if it was showcased in an art gallery. Because it's saddening!
But this is a picture that should capture the eyes, make the heart feel and the mind to think if truly what the poet painted is part of our reality.
And how do we go from there?
Well done Hope, I'll love to read a poem that's easier to understand as some might not be fans of Poetry. Thank you🌟

Iheanacho chiemerie

31/7/2022 05:27:12 pm

The writer starts with him looking outside a closed window ,"like a boy trapped in a burning house".The writer uses the simile to liken his situation to that of a boy in a burning house who can as well be said to be helpless and hopeless as there is no route for escape.Thr simile like is also used to emphasize him being restive as the tail of a rattlesnake.He tries to ease his restlessness by listening to rock 'n roll and listening to rest,but who gets rest in the bowel of a beast? Who gets rest when there is a notification of a man who couldn't breathe because he was held firmly underneath the knees of another man or when there is news of a girl raped and killed in Pakistan? Or of girls trafficked into oblivion?
Rock 'n roll doesn't heal anymore because this is way beyond it's capacity.Home has lost its definition and Martin Luther's 'I Have a Dream' speech has lost its meaning.The writer is hopeless,.There is really no hope as the future holds none,there are no rainbows,and in the writer's world,Black lives still do not matter which makes the writer really sad.Bad things keep happening,just wars,just hunger,just a repetition of rumblings for emphasis ,a trail of bad events in the belly of the Beast(oppressor or the world).
The world keeps going bad ,all the wrong things happen and all hope of a better world seemingly gets lost by the day.This from my perspective is the rant of the writer.He hopes for a better world devoid of bad happenings but it seems to elude him
Rock 'n roll which may normally bring calm to him doesn't do the deed anymore and the days roll by with the stark reality that bad things never end but rather keeps going in a never ending cycle(rumble).This makes the writer sorrowful, helpless and hopeless equally.

Adeba

3/8/2022 01:56:33 pm

This portrays the truth in our times with lovely poetic rhythms..I love how he paints with words

Notes on being black

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Copyright @SprinNG

​Notes on being black

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Copyright @SprinNG​

Notes on being black

Copyright @SprinNG