Broke-Buttock Blues
Reading the book, American Protest Literature, a chapter entitled Poetry Is Not a Luxury, in which the writing of Audre Lorde is examined, got me thinking about a recent poem by John Eppel. Audre Lorde suggested that “the question of social protest and art is inseparable.” Lorde’s work involved “the transformation of silence into language and action,” realising that “if I cannot air this pain and alter it, I will surely die of it.” To her, poetry was not a luxury.
With this in mind I share John Eppel’s evocative poem, Broke-Buttock Blues where he shares the reality of political violence in Zimbabwe.
Broke-Buttock Blues
They beat me with branches wrapped up in barb-wire,
they beat me with branches wrapped up in barb-wire;
my baby she crying, her face is on fire.
They say you are sell-out, you vote Tsvangirai,
they say you are sell-out, you vote Tsvangirai;
my baby, she dying, please God, tell me why?
They beat first my head then my back then my bums,
they beat first my head then my back then my bums;
they laugh and they say is like playing the drums.
I beg them for water, they say go ask Blair,
I beg them for water, they say go ask Blair.
Please, put out the fire in Mucheche’s hair?
My bottom is broken, can not sit or stand,
my bottom is broken, can not sit or stand;
Mucheche can’t breathe with her mouth in the sand.
They burned all our mealies, our chickens, our dog,
they burned all our mealies, our chickens, our dog;
my uncle, they hit him to death with a log.
For hours they beat me, for hours I cry,
for hours they beat me, for hours I cry;
please God, save my baby, do not let her die?
When they leave, like a tortoise I crawl very slow,
when they leave, like a tortoise I crawl very slow;
but my baby stopped crying a long time ago,
mwana wangu stopped crying a long time ago.