"BINT IL NIL"

I want a new religion.
The one our mothers had in the river.

I am tired of Jesus and Mohammed.
I am tired of man's foot.
I am tired of the White man's mother.
I am weary...from doing nothing about it.

I want my own religion.
I want my real mother.

Africa, I want you.

Make me pregnant with God.
Our own perfect babies...Black as perfection.
Tall as the sky.  Healthy as light sparkling on
clear water.

I want my own religion.
I want my own voice.
I want my own face.
I want my own hair.
I am Naima/the one who is victorious
the one

who is praying

_______________________

"EVERY LITTLE BIT HURTS"

In broad daylight
I am expected to see nothing.
I am a girl; low and dark
as the crease of shadow from
which I swam.
I have no hair like
the Arab woman (whose hair
is like silk and smells
like snot)--and when the
White woman comes to my face
(ME/the Black man's mother)--I think
of the penis.

The men want us to hate one
another. It makes them
feel safe...to have the
White (day) and the
Black (night) denying the
flowsongs of blood--THE RIVER

every little bit
hurts, God.
In Africa--we have no
cold oceans/We accept
that you made us
from fire

We sing to the lioness
and pray for when
the hate will go away--in
broad daylight
(from where it came)

O GOD, darkest father!
We are Black Men's daughters;
wet, tired and hungry.
At our heels the demon snaps
mightily no matter
what beam of wind we direct; what
beam of Sun we deflect

For out of bare breasts
our hearts are LEAPING
of warm oceans: the brown eyes
of our daughters
staring into the stretchmark of
a blue body's sorrow.

We kiss it up to God. Because
every little bit hurts.
________________________

"CHRISTMAS ON THE NILE"
(*A poem about Kola's mother)

She is mighty-mighty
(and I remember her)

I remember her toes
piercing the bloody Nile; the
glimpse of leg
beneath wool

I remember her blackness
--so sheer and deep like the
slippery hue of a charcoal panther

beauty abstract and beguiling.

I remember the roundness of her face,
the diamonds in her eyes...and the
merriment of a hair like
wool: salt-jagged and knotty.

On Jesus birthday; I remember
the Holy/unforgettable

MY MASTER, MY HUSBAND (traditional)

Once there is blood involved
it is out of our hands
(Jebena)
In the river, where Cushite women
bled a thousand year cycle.
tima!/the soldier's wine
..tinting the NILE; Your Orange
Moon still sunkisses our moon-assed
bareness

here, my lover, where you
drew us BLACK and of a lion
and a lamb
God has spilled his joy! (and
I still drink it)

here where I come
(born over and over again)

to be naked with you

More poems by Kola Boof: http://poetwomen.50megs.com/whats_new.html