sarraouna: the witch-queen of the azna

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Sarraouna

Smashed the villages. Knocked their walls to bits.
Broke the kilns and meeting houses. Sometimes

you make me wonder. You, who now commits
“crime de guerre,” wouldn’t dream of such crimes
near your beloved Paris. If I’m devout
and dire it is only in proportion
to the horrors your soldiers carried out
during your Voulet-Chanoine mission.

You called me witch-queen. No, I’m a mother

who took up arms against the men who raped
her last daughter, then sold her last sister
to the pimps of France. There are monster-shaped
men who’ll fear the witch-queen of the Azna.

I will teach you my name: Sarraouna.

* * *

What is known about Sarraouna is that she was a queen of the Azna people, who ruled in a region of West Africa during the late 19th century. Like many controversies surrounding European colonialism there appears two conflicting versions of Sarraouna. In one she is a champion of her people, standing up against an invading army that used large-scale rape and massacres as a means of subduing an indigenous population. In the other she is a “witch-queen” who stirred up anti-French sentiment during a time when France was attempting to conquer Chad and unify all French territories in West Africa.

The Azna occupied the Dallol Mawri, a broad valley in the Hausa country of the present-day Dogondoutchi district of Niger in northwest Africa. Like so many heroes of history, myths have grown about Sarraouna’s childhood. She had a Spartan upbringing with adoptive parents. At the age of eighteen she already knew how to lead men into battle, and as a tribal sorceress, she held her warriors and her enemies alike in thrall. When the Fulani of Sokoto attempted to convert her and her people to Islam, she and her warriors fought bravely to drive them back …

In January 1899, French troops — primarily [African] mercenaries — commanded by captains Voulet and Chanoine left Segou in Mali, crossed the territories of the Zarma and of the Gourma, and entered the dense vegetation of the Dallol Mawri. On April 17, 1899, they laid siege with cannon fire to the village of Lugu, which Queen Sarraouna and her fierce warriors defended valiantly, determined not to allow the invaders drive her out: “We won’t move a single inch from here … even if we must die to the last person!” But the superior French arms proved too powerful … forced to retreat … she continued to harass her enemies, so intimidating the mercenaries that many of them abandoned the French. While the French captains, watching her rituals from afar, at first dismissed them as “drunkenness” and “incoherent ramblings of a superstitious woman,” the mercenaries came to believe her to be the Nkomo Woman, the femme fetale, the Dogoua, or demon-woman. (Jackson-Laufer, 354)

Work Cited

Jackson-Laufer, Guida. Women Rulers Throughout the Ages: An Illustrated Guide (Santa Barbara, ABC-CLIO: 1999)

from the 1986 by Med Hondo, "Sarraouna"

from the 1986 by Med Hondo, “Sarraouna”

sleep on the dissection table

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One day when you’re good I’ll show you my Y
shaped scar cutting my chest, my clavicles,
sternum and heart all in half; that which lies
in me is now on display. My devils
make no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross stitch hurts but keeps my ugly
bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
sleep on the dissection table. To be
as anatomically correct as this
is a pain. really. Man’s ideal monster
can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Inside me the hiss
and whir of dark science makes me neither
god nor a monster; not even human.

la petite mort is such an odd thing to say

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There is starlight and strobe in my bloodstream.

With my thumb I blend them in. The Red Queen’s
kiss is good to ward off a hex. To dream
about a pound of Amsterdam pure means
you think about the Netherlands a lot,
that and weed. I dream about my fingers
on your ass, in your hair, licking your spot.

When I dream of war my strap-on-sisters
make great generals. My kitties in cuffs
become brutal sword-swallowers. Queenly
soldiers stretched across my bed; these girl toughs
never suffer from post-coital ennui.

Why blue? Orgasms should make us all strong,
wanting more, unless you’re doing it wrong.

Quote

chile judge orders exhumation of pablo neruda’s remains

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The BBC just released this:

A judge in Chile has ordered the exhumation of the remains of the poet Pablo Neruda, as part of an inquest into his death in 1973.

The left-wing Nobel Prize winner died 12 days after a military coup replaced the socialist president Salvador Allende with General Augusto Pinochet.

The poet’s family has always maintained that he died in a Santiago clinic of advanced prostate cancer, aged 69.

Chile started investigating allegations that he may have been poisoned in 2011.

The date of the exhumation has not been fixed yet.

come collector of stories

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tell me your story

tell me your story

* * *

Far, far away in big cities poets
write and write about the horrors of war.

Let me tell you: in a valley of huts
lies a body. Monsoons and grass made tar
out of him, sticks and bones. After the crows

I come, collector of stories. Green vines
covered him, lilies in his mouth. Who knows
how long he lay there; alien skylines
tell us so little. I whispered his name.

He rose, all weed. I took him by the hand
to my tent. I won’t tell what he said. Shame
should be no one’s legacy. He cried sand,
moaned dirt. War, like love, is all in the head.

Perhaps you will get it, just like the dead.

before i was even born

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Between brasa whispers and nuzzlings
your rough hands hold my hips close and coax me
against the wall, against you. This youngling’s
cock tip — nudges — your up-turned cheeks. Easy.

In thrall. You were once Elaine Brown’s lover,
working on the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast
for the Children program. I call you “sir;”
you say I’m your “boy bitch.” Often aghast
I squirm under such words. Language ruins
it all. The night is full of blood and chrome

and ghosts. Sweaty and writhing, my pale horn
touches your cervix. I have a virgin’s
greed for you. You, who are my honeycomb
fire, at war before I was even born.

Notes:

Brasa is Spanish for “live coal.”

Elaine Brown is a prison activist and former head of the Oakland chapter of the Black Panther Party; ran for the Green Party presidential nomination in 2008.

after “it” happened

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It was hard in the beginning, of course.

Getting her up, the feedings, the wipings.
“Let me die,” she’d beg me, full of remorse.
I don’t blame her. I bought her silk stockings
for her four stumps. She hated them, at first.

Three years after “it” happened she started
to smile. She stopped saying that she was cursed
on her sixteenth birthday. I french braided
her hair and we went everywhere. We’re fine
down in the stream near the village. She rests
in my embrace. Peace is being buoyant.

She still won’t talk about “it;” the landmine.

At night my tongue finds her, teasing her breasts,
her lips, her clit, with love, raw and urgent.

* * *

Note: after three decades of war Cambodia has well over 40,000 landmine amputees, 75% of which are children. In 2012, the Cambodian Mine Action Centre (CMAC) estimated that there might be as many as four to six million mines and other pieces of unexploded ordnance still unaccounted for in rural Cambodia.

lay your head here

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It is snowing. The serpent that lives up
in the air must be cold. I feel sorry
for that serpent, for all snakes; snake worship
being out of style now. But the sleepy
serpent that lives in the air is my friend.
I’ll go and invite her in. In her maw
she holds all the hatred humans pretend
is high, mighty and righteous. The outlaw
knows a little of this. It is snowing.
Serpent, come down. Coil yourself in my bed.
Sleep the winter away. I am fluent
in old parsel tongue. Girls night in, laughing
the long winter nights away. Lay your head
here. Relax, Manasa, my dear serpent.

ghost dreams

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ghost dream 1

ghost dream 1

ghost dream 2

ghost dream 2

ghost dream 3

ghost dream 3

ghost dream 4

ghost dream 4

A ghost is born naked, squinting and glum.

There is no mother to catch it, nothing
to cling to with a tooth, a toe or thumb.
There are no older siblings for learning
the ways of the night. If you can hear bats
sing you can hear ghosts sigh. Few ask, what’s wrong?
ask how the day went? What paramour chats
with a ghost — tea and laughter — all nightlong?

I don’t resent this coming to an end.
Now when I sleep I hide in a wall crack
and my face is modest. I don’t resent

rebirth; finding out that ghost dreams depend
on how forgotten we’ll become; flashback
to when we thought we knew what alone meant.

ghost dream 6

ghost dream 5

on the other side of that glass

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Some say our lives are what gets reflected
in our mirrors. How unsatisfying.
What small dreams. I can’t taste another’s blood
in dreams. I wake up without the scarring
I earned on the other side of that glass.

There is something sick about that, children
playing as gods. I can decode teargas,
know the best use of fennel and cumin.
Have held a meteorite in one hand.

If you must look in a mirror for hell
you have never seen hell. Nightmares must live

to be understood properly. Dreamland
erupts at your feet. You ride the groundswell
out of the dark, into light, into love.