Lyrics, poetry and art all meshed together

Wednesday, June 28, 2006


At the sight of your love
I have summoned the skies to crack open
Its windows and pour a free verse of rain
White doves flutter sweetly like the song in your eyes
I understand how it’s possible for the heart
To speak in tongues when the morning mist
Covers more than a 1000 acres of

Handwritten deliverance
(c)2006 by Cathy Delaleu

TWAL ZWAZO (silk bird)
Her space is
The settlement of rusted flesh
Her sense of isolation
Is lamentation in her accordion dream
A female ventriloquist
In a state of longing
Collaboration gelled in her empty eyes
Empty heart
Empty soul
Buried climax
Head wrapped with recitation
Knotted by horsehair with fish bones
Underskinned fighting for courage
Crucified by sleep without rest
Politics urinating blood
Leave streaks of echoes

Chained by poverty
With lack of literacy
She wants to be set free
From instability
Free from coup d’etat’s whips
Free from the useless UN
Free from the ruckus of drop spit from the elite
Their legacy migrates seasons of drought
On eye sockets nestled in pus
No water to irrigate the peasants
My ancestors descended from Jeremie
Down the tiny hill of Rozeau
The village town where women eat mud with their toes
And men pour their wounds on Haiti’s soil
You will find her there
Sheltered in her carnivorous bones soft like manioc
Hairless with her virus
She will question you with Mardi gras smile
Who are you?
What can you do to help your own?
Take note
Take a tape recorder
Her story she wants to be told
Hurry before she flies away with Diaspora wings
Before she reach the skies with the claws of her spine
There is no rainfall in her coffin
No vegetation
The rivers have dried out her name
The scent of bones is felt
©2006 by Cathy Delaleu


The Sarccastik Variable Why said...

girl..u have some nic pics that go along w/your poetry....keep it up..

constance said...

I think your poems are really're very good with words...they are very romantic, feminine, and as mentioned earlier, very sensual...Your words, I'm sure they have made/will make us women feel proud and beautiful to be a woman...

Solitaire said...

I love your usage of words and the image they invoke...



Now this is a powerful piece, "There is no rainfall in her coffin. No vegetation. The rivers have dried out her name.
The scent of bones is felt," magnificent!

Crafty Green Poet said...

Great poetry, great blog.

Deb said...

beautiful, just beautiful...

"N" Search of Ecstasy said...

Now that is a very nice poem! You definitely have a way with words.

TequilaGuy said...

Awesome ... such a beautiful poem!

Velu Nair said...

the pic reminds me of pigeons at flight at the India Gate, at Bombay..

if u ask me to pick one among the two, i wud go for the first.. somehow managed to touch a few chords within me, that had gradually started gaining rust!


Xavier said...

A unique find indeed! Very enjoyable. I'll be back often. Your blog reminds me of the lobby of the Hotel Villa Creole in Petion-Ville, Haiti.

"...The Villa Creole was a wonderful place. Although near the heart of Petion-Ville, everything was designed to give a feeling of secluded luxury. A private road led off the main street and past the El Rancho Hotel, another landmark of the city. One Sunday a month, I would spend the day at the Villa. Almost always I came alone and stayed all day drinking, resting, and sometimes reading by the pool until well after sunset. I would have lunch by the pool and an elegant dinner in the dinning room. This was the one place where even though the staff all knew me by name, I made no effort to know theirs. I was always polite but I came here to get away from everyone, not to socialize. The Villa was my secret hideout. The only exception was Sam, the bartender. Being on a first name basis with the man who poured my drinks was an absolute necessity for someone who depended on booze as much as I did.
The driver parked under the canopy and I helped Liz out of the Jeep. The entrance to the hotel was a showcase of elegant Mediterranean style with distinctly Haïtian accents. All the wrought iron gates and security bars throughout the hotel were decorated with intricate patterns in the shapes of hearts, crosses, and stars, the traditional symbols of Haïtian folklore. Contrasting nicely with the iron work around the lobby were paintings by Haïtian masters. The lobby may have been the showcase but the entire hotel was an art gallery."
- from chapter 8 of my book

January said...

Just wonderful, as usual. I'm drawn to the first poem, so tight and yet so full of great immages.

The said...

You are a TRUE poet. It is a privilege experiencing your work.

Delaleuverses said...

Thank you bloggers and bloggettes for the love.

Xavier I must say welcome to my poetic lounge, I hope you will find it accomodating and of course inspirational.

A Sistah said...

A precious talent you are.

mermaid said...

Morning deliverance...I feel like I've been delivered from the night's darkness of secrets into an open sky of truth.

This is succinctly gorgeous!

nosthegametoo said...

I like your style. You've got something special here.

I'm glad I stumbled across your blog.