AfroCaribbean Poetry Pen Rhythm Year 8 Poetry Anthology
Afro-Caribbean Poetry: Pen Rhythm Year 8 Poetry Anthology
Contents Page 3: Luv Song Page 4: The Tourists are Coming Page 5: The Vegans Page 6: The British Page 7: No Problem Page 8: Pets Control Page 9: For Sale Page 10: Urdu Poets Page 11: I Love me Mudder Page 12: Mother to Son (by Langston Hughes) Page 13: Poetry Jump-Up Page 14: Crybaby Prime Minister Page 15: Rainbow Page 16: The Hippo Poems Page 17: Listen Mr. Oxford Don Page 18: Not-Enough-Pocket-Money Blues Page 19: Hello from Cello Page 20: Five Deities
Luv Song og h dge he ore f a e id yb a w w hog e s uv i g l h t in hed elt s re, m i f o a d m r n e e I re a vf nev o u l m e her I'v ave v h u l I ay I shed d y e r d y ve ed es b v An e i l oses b r e d n h a S weeds to know ld r Where o w e t want d An I jus me glow. She makes dgehog e h a id n luv w i dge m a I tand on e s ir a h e king m She’s ma hedgehog So in love wid dis An her friends Who a ll live in de h edge S he vis An its m eats e late o ff D But anny Dann ’s p y’s a He l late cool eave tabb s it at d y cat at. g geho d e h d a i w t luv st wai u n m i I o away s I am e n o g hog She’s hedge y m o miss d I t Bu to es away o g e h s e Everytim e hibernat Benjamin Zephaniah.
The Tourists Are Coming Tell them to be careful If they’re not give them an earful The tourists are coming. They may want to party nightly But tell them they must be tidy The tourists are coming. They must respect what we’ve planted They must not take us for granted The tourists are coming. They should practise what they preach When they’re lying on our beach The tourists are coming to play. Because our land is sunny They come here with their money The tourists are coming. We will not rant and rave If they will behave The tourists are coming. We will not be bitter If they don’t drop their litter The tourists are coming. If they don’t mess about We will not kick them out The tourists are coming to stay. If by chance you see some Try to make them welcome The tourists are coming. If they treat us good They’re welcome in the neighbourhood The tourists are coming. But if they’re out of order Show them to the border The tourists are coming. And if it does start raining Tell them off if they’re complaining The tourists are coming I say. Tell them that we love living And money can’t buy everything The tourists are coming. Call them names like fools and criminals If they don’t respect our animals The tourists are coming. Tell them if they can’t keep the peace That tourism may have to cease The tourists are coming. Tell them not to be greedy And be careful where they wee The tourists are coming this way.
The Vegans The man is really trying To watch what he is buying, So long as he is able He will read every label, He wants to know what’s in Each packet and each tin, Before he hits the streets He’s checking out the eats. The woman plants and grows The she reaps and she sows, In order not to panic She tries to eat organic, She doesn’t think she’s perfect But she thinks she is worth it. She likes nice food that’s memorable Not bad food that’s chemical. Take a look at that boy Does he not fill you with joy? He’s trying to explain That the thing he hates is pain, That boy will never wear Any fox fur or horsehair, He will not follow fashion His main thing is compassion. That girl will not eat haddock Or any animal product, She’s even learnt to think About her bedtime drink, She makes sure that her cuisine Has the vitamins and protein To keep her strong and healthy Even if she is not wealthy. Benjamin Zepheniah.
The British Take some Picts, Celts and Silures And let them settle, Then overrun them with Roman conquerors. Remove the Romans after approximately 400 years Add lots of Norman French to some Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Vikings, then stir vigorously. Mix some hot Chileans, cool Jamaicans, Dominicans, Trinidadians and Bajans with some Ethiopians, Chinese, Vietnamese and Sudanese. Then take a blend of Somalians, Sri Lankans, Nigerians And Pakistanis, Combine with some Guyanese And turn up the heat. Sprinkle some fresh Indians, Malaysians, Bosnians, Iraqis and Bangladeshis together with some Afghans, Spanish, Turkish, Kurdish, Japanese And Palestinians Then add to the melting pot. Leave the ingredients to simmer. As they mix and blend allow their languages to flourish Binding them together with English. Allow time to be cool. Add some unity, understanding, and respect for the future, Serve with justice And enjoy. Note: All the ingredients are equally important. Treating one ingredient better than another will leave a bitter unpleasant taste. Warning: An unequal spread of justice will damage the people and cause pain. Give justice and equality to all. Benjamin Zephaniah
I am not de problem But I bare de brunt Of silly playground taunts An racist stunts, I am not de problem I am a born academic But dey got me on de run Now I am branded athletic, I am not de problem If yu give I a chance I can teach yu of Timbuktu I can do more dance, I am not de problem I greet yu wid a smile Yu put me in a pigeon hole But I a versatile. These conditions may affect me As I get older, An I am positively sure I have no chips on me shoulders, Black is not de problem Mother country get it right, An just for de record, Sum of me best friends are white. Benjamin Zephaniah. N O P R O B L E M
Pets Control We moved into a house We kicked de animals out, Den we got our pets An signed on at de vets, We den called wild life strays Zoos captured dem, We gazed, Wild life made great TV, How civilised were we? Benjamin Zephaniah.
FOR SALE Looking for a bargain Come on down It’s the sale of the century Look around There are sights to see And places to be With way out cosmic activity This is a deal you can’t refuse The kind of bet you cannot lose So come on down The price is right I got to sell this thing tonight Chorus. Roll up. Roll Up, Planet for Sale Roll up, Planet for Sale. Free of living things that roam Free of people and ozone I invite you to test my ware Free of any atmosphere Enjoy yourself as you get poorly With no sign of a creepy crawly I promise you will find not trees And no flowers to make you sneeze. Little Bo Peep has gone with her sheep And Little Jack Horner dissolved in a corner That Donald Duck Has run out of luck And Paddington Bear is no longer here The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea Then got lost in infinity Alive no, Alive no. Cockles and Mussels are not, and no snow. Chorus. Roll up. Roll Up, Planet for Sale Roll up, Planet for Sale. Looking for a bargain, check this planet Not a things moving on it. Free of people and ozone. Just for you, I’ll do a deal I’ll swap it for a decent meal. Benjamin Zephaniah.
d Ur u Po Benjamin Zephaniah. s et Urdu poets have a heavenly language A language created by poets for poets, A language that has turned a nation into poets, Poets that love to speak to each other. They bring glory to the hazaars, Hope to the pavements Libraries to the mind, They light up dark wordless days Adding joy to eyes that are sad. Urdu poets have been known to create Paradise in dowtown Karachi And wordplay on cricket fields, Their verse so full of grace Even when it is angry Urdu is beautiful. Combine fire with water combine the calm With the storm. Combine the greatest painters With the greatest subjects And you will have Urdu Poets. Knowledge can be tasty. To question can be delightful.
I Love Me Mudder I luv me mudder an me mudder luvs me We cum so far from over de sea, We heard dat de streets were paved wid gold Sometimes it’s hot, sometimes it’s cold, I luv me mudder and me mudder luvs me we try fe live in harmony Yu might know her as Valerie But to me she’s just my mummy. She shouts at me daddy so loud sometime she stays fit and she don’t drink wine she always do de best she can she work damn hard ina Englan, She’s always singin sum kinda song she have big muscles an she very strong, she likes pussy cats and she luvs cashew nuts An she don’t bother with no ifs and buts. I luv me mudder and me mudder luv me we come so far from over de sea we heard dat de streets were paved with gold sometime it hot, sometime it cold, I luv her and whatever we do Dis is a love I know is true My people, I’m talking to yu Me and my mudder we luv yu too. By Benjamin Zephaniah
Mother to Son. Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor – Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turnin' corners, And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light. So boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps 'Cause you finds it's kinder hard. Don't you fall now – For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. By Langston Hughes. 12
POETRY JUMP-UP Tell me if Ah seeing right Take a look down de street Words dancing Til dey sweat Words like fishes Jumpin out a net Words wild and free Joining de poetry revelry Words back to back Words belly to belly Come on everybody Come and join de poetry band Dis is poetry carnival Dis is poetry bacchanal When inspiration call Take yu pen in yu hand If yu don’t have a pen Take yu pencil in yu hand If you don’t have a pencil What the hell So long de feeling start to swell Just shout de poem out Words jumpin off de page tell me if Ah seein right words like birds jumpin out a cage take a look down de street words shakin dey waist words shakin dey bum words wit black skin words wit white skin words wt brown skin words wit no skin at all words huggin up words an sayin I want to be a poem today rhyme or no rhyme I is a poem today I mean to have a good time Words feeling hot hot Big words feeling hot hot Lil words feeling hot hot Even sad word cant help Tappin day toe To de riddum of de poetry band Dis is poetry carnival Dis is poetry bacchanal So come on everybody Join de celebration All yu need is plenty perspiration An a little inspiration Plenty perspiration An a little inspiration John Agard
Crybaby Prime Minister I’d love to be led by a crybaby prime minister who’d burst into tears whenever people bled I’d love to be led by a crybaby prime minister whose eyes would go red when trees of the forest are felled. I’d love to be led by a crybaby prime minister who’d sob and sob for everyone without a job Yes, there’s something to be said for a nation being led by a crybaby prime minster who’d reach for a hanky with a lump in his throat I’d love to be led by a crybaby prime minister who’d lose all control when told of old folks in the cold Such a prime minister might be worth a vote. I’d love to be led by a crybaby prime minister who’d whimper for a while at the mention of nuclear missile I’d love to be led by a crybaby prime minister who’d suddenly weep for children with nowhere to sleep
Rainbow When you see de rainbow you know God know wha he doing one big smile across the sky – I tell you God got style the man got style When you see raincloud pass and de rainbow make a show I tell you is God doing Limbo the man doing limbo But sometimes you know when I see de rainbow so full of glow and curving like she bearing child I does want know if God ain’t a woman If that is so the woman got style man she got style By John Agard
HIPPO WRITES A LOVE POEM TO HIS WIFE Oh my beautiful fat wife Larger to me than life Smile broader than the river Nile My winsome waddlesome You do me proud in the shallow of morning You do me proud in the deep night Oh, my bodysome mud-basking companion. Oh mu lubby-dubby hubby-hippo. With your widely-winning lippo My sumo-thrasher of water Dearer to me than any two-legger How can I live without Your ponderful potamus pout? HIPPO WRITES A LOVE POEM TO HER HUSBAND John Agard
Me not no Oxford don me a simple immigrant from Clapham Common I didn’t graduate I immigrate But listen Mr Oxford don I’m a man on de run and a man on de run is a dangerous one I ent have no gun I ent have no knife but mugging de Queen’s English is the story of my life I dont need no axe to split/ up yu syntax I dont need no hammer to mash/ up yu grammar I warning you Mr Oxford don I’m a wanted man and a wanted man is a dangerous one Dem accuse me of assault on de Oxford dictionary/ imagine a concise peaceful man like me/ dem want me serve time for inciting rhyme to riot but I rekking it quiet down here in Clapham Common I’m not a violent man Mr Oxford don I only armed wit mih human breath but human breath is a dangerous weapon So mek dem send one big word after me I ent serving no jail sentence I slashing suffix in self defence I bashing future wit present tense and if necessary I making de Queen’s English accessory/ to my offence JOHN AGARD Listen Mr Oxford don
Not-Enough-Pocket-Money Blues… I could see myself stepping light and slow in them jeans So hip-sharp-tight and full-of-flow. Could just… But I’ve got me the no-cash no-dosh not-enough-pocket-money blues. Could see myself slinking to school in them trainers so jaguar-sleek and puma-cool. Could just… But I’ve got me the no-cash no-dosh not-enough-pocket-money blues Could see myself a fashion queen in that top So flirty-smart and snazzy-sleeved. Could just… But I’ve got me the no-cash no-dosh not-enough-pocket-money blues Could see myself all summery in that So patchwork-wicked and flowery Could just… But I’ve got me the no-cash no-dosh not-enough-pocket-money blues by John Agard
Hello from Cello Stroke me high stroke me low with a ripple of your bow till my plump body begins to glow with the O-so-sweet harmony Make me hum make me buzz make me drone. Rest my slender neck beside your own. Close me in the secret of your lap till fall of curtain and fade of clap. Remember my ornate toe will be curled like a rude question mark against the applause in your ear. I may even whisper four-letter words such as Bach Aria Opus. John Agard
Five Deities 1. The god of pimples is a rasberryeyed tonguetied schemer. He sits on an Olympus of scabs and pustules surrounded by his eloquent blotchhead advisers He waits the moment to ambush the unsuspecting adolescent. Then one day when you’re smartly dressed and feeling cheeky, he’ll give the move-in orders to his army of acne. The goddess of trainers beckons an infinity of directions. 4. The god of the skateboard is a surfer on road waves. a T-shirt Poseidon in the Saturday morning centre of town. Pavements are his kingdom. With an up and a down and a fancy wheel around Who dares deny him attention? 2. The god of the ghettoblaster cannot speak a word of Greek but he surveys the underground swinging his chariot of sound. He observes from far the frantic rat-race. Cares not for the laws of silence or the formality of a briefcase. The god of the ghettoblaster moves at his own music-driven pace sending his highvoltage thunderbolt into the eardrums of puny mortals. 3. The goddess of trainers is a fleetfooted maker of tracks to far-out and beyond. She’s never heard of high-tech or lowtech. She strides bedecked in the whirlwind of her Atlanta steps. 5. The goddess of the personal stereo is a ruler of the earhive. Queen Bee amplified. And a thousand funky bees obey her electronic command. Soon they will fill the air with a crackling fuzz and the goddess of the personal stereo will glory in the beat of the buzz… John Agard
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