Mary Castillo
BIG MISTAKE

March 14th, 1795
Dorsetshire Hill, mainland St. Vincent
Joseph Chatoyer, a brave Carib warrior
For his Garifuna People
In fierce battle, lost his life

His descendants were deported 
But some were slaughtered
At Balliceaux, near to Bequia

Those who stayed 
At mother St. Vincent
Lost all they got, from their ancestors
To the deporters glory

Now we the descendants
Of the deported Garifuna
Brought all we got, from our ancestors of
Our Garifuna culture!

But, oh how sad, it is now
It's slowly slipping from our lifestyle
But this is a big mistake
A very big mistake

We now eat breakfast with oats,
Corn flakes and custard
Instead of Letu, Gurentu and Sahou
These are big mistakes
Very big mistakes

Look at our dances and clothing
Food and music
Rituals and crafts
But especially our language
Which we are leaving
These are big mistakes
Very big mistakes

So, Garifuna brothers
Before you leave
Our Garifuna culture,
Think of Chatoyer
Duvalle and Beni
But also Ramos
They've all helped us along

And that's NO MISTAKE
We want NO MISTAKE
Cause we are free 
And Garifuna too

Wabaru wa guwon
Mefecha guwa wama
Garinague wagia
Gumuguwa dan

 
Carol Fonseca
Creole Woman

An earth goddess she stands,
Blue enamel pot spoon in hand;
Glowing embers from the firehearth,
Outlining the very essence of her worth;
Sweat, toil, grief and betrayal,
All seeming so habitual.

Bosom heaving, sweat pouring,
Rice and beans stirring, pigtail bobbing;
She whispers into nothingness,
Anansi eyes displaying cunningness;
The sadness of her own being.

The burning bitterness of,
Hazy smoke swallowing her up,
Belching her out,
Finding no answers,
Uncovering no truths,
Continuously searching,
To uncover the truth.

Hibiscus leaves falling,
Manatees dying,
Young girls disappearing;
Deep soul searching,
Questions asking,
Ancestors answering;
Drums beating,
Boom and Chime playing.

Outstretched arms towards the sun,
Rising like the phoenix,
Soaring to celestial heights,
Beckoning one and all,
As she proudly proclaims,
I am the daughter of a Creole woman!
 

Ingrid Vernon
SPIRITS INFLAME IN THE NAME OF GOD

En el nombre de Dios?
In the name of God she says?
What the hell does she know!
Is this some sort of maniacal game she plays?

You walk in and make the sign of the cross
While the woman with beady chains sits across from you
And tries to read all your thoughts.
She lights the candles, she says a prayer
She offers her hands to the sky hoping the spirit would 
hear

We sit in the dark while candlelight plays with visions in
our head
She sits calmly and waits for you to be calm and as still as 
the dead.
Here begins the Awakening.

She opens her hundred year-old book and utters some
words
You strain your ears to hear, but everything sounds so . . .
absurd.
She rubs oil in the palm of her wrinkled hands then rubs
some on you
She puts her hand in yours and tells you what next to do.
She says to tell her of all your aches and pains
Meanwhile, she kneels at the alter while you state your
complaints.

Again, she mutters another few words and looks at La
Virgen Maria
You sit in the chair, and say, "I do hope you can help, Madre
Mia."
She tightens a hand around the rosary beads and stretches 
out the other
Your aches and pains become the sacrifices to the Holy
Mother.

Suddenly, she begins to vibrate uncontrollably.  The spirit
has arrived.
After a few seconds, the vibrations subside.
The spirit is gone.
You sit there and think now youíll be good as new
The spirit has taken whatever it was that was ailing you.
But, wait.  It is not that simple.
You can't leave and not taste the woman's delectable 
brew.
After all, she prepares it especially for you.

A potion of herbs and spices and all that isn't nice
Is what she gives you to drink
But, don't dare open the bottle and smell it -- the damn
thing stinks!
Of what?  God only knows.
But, if you don't want to dig your own grave,
You must do as youíre told.
She becomes the Master and you become the Slave.
Here ends the tale of the Spirits Inflamed.