Post-colonial Literature Creative Essay

Ghetto Screams

Hiding under tourist bustle, ghetto screams.

“Dangerous things” the white man says.

The air of his breath yields coffee steams.

I pause, those coffee beans.

Bright clear temptations.

Occupations

Torturing liberty whip lashes every bite

 “Exploitative that colonialism” screams the night.

Hiding under realizations and contemplations,

Hypocrisy sings “No! Not our nation” wistfully,

Yet we turn blind sight to stripping liberty.

Bombs explode and the dust turns cold,

A baby without a mother whose 2 months’ old.

Serfdom to Lords who refuse to fight

for the peasants whom always do what’s right.

A child cries, a child dies,

A nation lies.

All we see is all we hear

Those possessing shocks.

Ghetto screams for us to hear,

Lounging in coffee shops.

We turn our heads and turn our ears,

For better atmosphere.

Reflection:

            This poem was inspired by the reoccurring themes of displacement, abandonment, and indifference that could be found in the majority of the texts that we read this semester. I aimed to capture the differences between a country like ours in contrast to countries like Syria, Pakistan, North or Southern Vietnam.  This poem was written to illuminate the everyday “ways” that second-hand suffering is presented to people who live in first world countries.  For instance, the second-hand suffering of coffee beans.  I had this thought hit me when I was getting coffee one morning.  I realized that slavery still trickles into our societies today.  For instance, the hard labor associated with just harvesting coffee beans.  This idea then led me to think about the labors associated with rice, cotton, sugar cane, and all other labors that are guilty of intensive labor, while also utilizing some form of constraint: serfdom, slavery, and even the ghettos in America whose lives are “enslaved” to the lower-class, without opportunity to rise.  I also felt like highlighting the differences between a nation for the people and a nation incapable of doing more for their people because of colonialism.

Deconstruct

Laundry sheets flowing with the wind,

Whistling melodies of bliss onto your brown skin.

Sunlight hears your ever presence.

Your lips taste the joys of creativity

The flavors of autonomy.

Abrupt.

Cut.

Shut.
Disrupt.

War flags flailing in the storm, screaming bloody sin,

Praying to rid yourself of that brown skin.

Sunlight sees no presences through gun smoke

Tastes adrenaline and fear until I choke

There’s nothing left to shut

There’s nothing left to cut

There’s no more me to

Deconstruct.

Reflection: 

I have recently felt very inspired by my American literature course that often intermingled a lot with this post colonialism course.  My aim was to parallel pre-war and post-war for the purpose of creating a feeling of uneasiness in the reader immediately after disrupting the mood and tone of blissfulness presented in the beginning of the poem.  The war that I referred to the most during this writing process was the American Civil War.  However, I heavily thought and alluded to the bomb explosion in The Association of Small Bombs by Karan Mahajan.  As a result, I tried to illustrate a lot of strong images to support the uneasiness of an abrupt stop, or an abrupt explosion into a war.

“Whistling melodies of bliss onto your brown skin,” was in direct reference to black/white racism.  Growing up as someone who is brown-skinned, I wanted to emphasize the empowerment that derives from being culturally different while also illuminating the absolute defeat an individual may feel when their alterity is the reason forces are against them. The pre-war portion of the poem was something that I felt was ideal and nostalgic while the post-war portion was raw with realities of war as well as the overall uneasiness that a war evokes.   This was my favorite poem because when I was writing it I felt like I captured the essence of war in a small way.

Bridges, Beacons, and Prison-Bars

Balancing myself on this branded game.

Bandaging my bewailing of pain.

This emotional baggage is my fame,

Though I be conscious of each nuns claim.

I am a leper.

Trained to bury my blight

Until the night I seize that burnished light.

Benevolent, though we are friends of death,

As if bridges and beacons are in our breadth.

Backhandedly banished for the brand of this illness

Buried beneath bystander witness.

Bridging this soul from better boyhood.

Bulldozing a bygone back when I could.

Beacons in the Black Atlantic,

Bartering over the Black frantic.

I am a leper,

The beach is my barrier.

Battling beliefs and what is believed

They’re badgering and beating freedom from me.

As I bellow and belch from my bitter beacon.

Borrowed brothers singing “carry on” within,

boiling blood blinds our bemoaning hearts

they aren’t bridges

or beacons

these are prison bars.

Reflection:

            This final poem was inspired by “How to Escape From a Leper Colony.”  I wanted to incorporate some of my favorite topics for my final poem, including the leper colonies as well as the cruelties of the black Atlantic.  Additionally, I included alliteration to illuminate the barriers in the letter “b” which can be a metaphor for the prison bars a leper colony can feel like.  I really loved that text, and writing this poem was very riveting and inspiring.  I didn’t realize how much I loved the history in our class until I was writing these poems.  This is because the words really started to flow out, and they really inspired me as well as taught me a lesson at the same time.