Speak My Soul addresses the challenges, strivings, aspirations, anxieties, and perplexities of the human condition. The author's prose form is stylistically free. Characteristically, several of his poems are composed with meticulous attention to rhyming tendencies, while at other times he just lets lines flow as they come to birth in his soul. He tries to locate liberating speech-acts that are able to resonate intimately, from a universal standpoint, with readers of his prose. The book's four-part organization is meant to take readers along on a reflective odyssey through a web of lived-experiences. The idea of the self is the foundational thought and accordingly becomes the core preoccupation of Part One of the text. What is there about personal identity that captivates our imagination to such a degree that we want to talk about ourselves? We aren't solitary souls wandering this earth. Part Two sets its sights upon the presence of others within the zones of our activities. We are a global family of thinking, connected living human beings. In a sort of paradoxical sense, we can come to know ourselves better when we are self-consciously aware of how we are gazed upon by others. Part Three turns to a vertical gaze heavenward. The author seeks to place into the foreground the believer's earthly pilgrimage. What exactly is the point of this spiritual conversion that persuades us of an ultimate other-worldly citizenship? The writer is a practicing professional philosopher. He confirms his love for philosophy by sharing pearls of his familiarity with wisdom's terrains -the multi-faceted adventures of the life of the mind. He does, however, reckon with the limitations of a thoroughgoing naturalistic philosophical temperament. His consciousness of the human condition and of the life world at large is informed
Speak My Soul
Poems on Migrations and Returns of a Native SonBy Rudolph V. VanterpoolAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Rudolph V. Vanterpool
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-3740-4Contents
Preface...............................................................................................................iIntroduction: Odysseys through Time and Circumstance..................................................................1Part One: In the Folds of Nativity—Of Origins and Passages......................................................11Part Two: My Inquisitions—Between Migrations and Returns........................................................95Part Four: A Philosopher's Visionary World—Friendships Among the Company of Sages...............................271Endnotes..............................................................................................................339Reference of Photos and Print Images..................................................................................347
Chapter One
Meet Me in the Colors of the
Rainbow The red blood of the Bronze Arawaks
runs like crimson through my veins /
I can still feel their invisible presence here.
I'm the tanned son of a Purple mother
of these islands' coral reefs /
I can still hear her muted voice echoing near.
This mixed child of Continental Ivory peoples
belongs to no-one in particular /
I still see traces of my father's body appear.
To know me is to see my face
in the very colors of the rainbow
The mind of the First Carib Islanders
has left its imprints upon my thoughts /
I'm a thinking consciousness of Stoic style.
The warm passions of diasporal African tribes
invigorate every fiber of my psyche /
My senses strive to flow with Nature's vibes.
There are influences of the foreigner's ways
that seamlessly trail my destined paths /
Such symphony of selves my character inscribes.
To understand the workings of my conscience
consult the varied colors of the rainbow.
My fondest Dreams and spiritual strivings
have befriended the Blue sky high above /
I have fixed my aspirations to capture the prize.
My deep ambivalent desires can be as subtly shaded
as the Reddish hues to which sunsets give rise.
There's a Scarlet Veil that guards my immortal soul,
preserving the blended attributes of my island-ness /
At high noon the Sun its unveiling light supplies.
For all my days I'll be known by the stripes I wear,
proud of the bloodlines that we cannot disguise:
my birthright's in the colors of the rainbow.
Chapter Two
The Spirits of the Ancestors Are
Watching You
The folkways of the ancestors are distant memories;
Our current generation hardly knows the treasured stories—
the arduous ordeals the elders struggled with to just survive.
Their lot, told to us in fragments, keeps faint images alive /
As we walk these smoothly paved streets of the present
our feet in ignorance tread upon their shadowy remnant.
O God of our fathers help me, I pray, to see through the veil;
permit my eyes to open wide to the light like spring in scale.
To my wayward younger kin I cry out, teardrops splatter /
I'm worried for these offspring whose dreams daily shatter.
When they go astray, thinking only about today, I'm pained:
when wisdom is traded for follies, rarely is anything gained.
Children of the seafaring mariners, you are not here alone;
the spirits of the departed founders still sit upon the throne;
invisibly they hover above, aware of everything you do:
heed my plea I caution, the ancestors are watching you.
Island ancestors are not known for pious religious offerings:
at least, my wise old grandmother never told us such things.
Rituals of libation must have ceased over time / yes, slowly,
for no doubt the alienated bonds-people extolled the Holy.
In the New World setting the ancients faced the unknown;
they needed coping patterns, fresh and inventively grown /
The serving of palm wine, poured out in honor of the gods,
wasn't plentiful enough to appease deities and thirsty squads.
Under harsh open elements the predecessors did sundry labors
soon after joined by ebon hued brethren, foreign neighbors.
Think hard about these exploits: cruel wages of exploitation;
those acts of perseverance were tasks of the slave plantation.
We sit underneath colorful shady flamboyant trees, dreaming,
mindless of ancestors in bondage, hopes of freedom gleaming.
Brothers of the Uprooted Ones, there's yet much to do;
claim the legacy, for the ancestors' spirits are watching you
The night comes when we must retreat from daily enterprise;
At the feet of our beds we kneel, petitioning another sunrise.
Perhaps tonight I'll dream of living in a hut deep in the interior.
Would I abhor my lowly station or transcend that bleak exterior?
I often ponder what it felt like before the rise of modernity,
of how the common folk fared, enduring hell-like eternity /
Today we face foes of quite different pedigrees and powers—
addictive idols of hallucinatory drugs and tainted flowers.
What tragedies flow from poison needles recklessly injected /
Not even the icy hands of looming death deter the infected—
the highs indulged must feel sweeter than the body's purity:
away the foolish self-abusers are flung into obscurity.
Sisters of my kindred blood, travel the path of superior bliss;
greet each new dawn with tender love and a passionate kiss.
Glide elegantly among us like eagles in maiden flights /
The ancestors' spirits are watching you from lofty heights.
I recall as a boy growing up how Granny explained the facts,
always instructing us how to distinguish good from evil acts.
She had learned her own wise lessons from habits of old—
so many proverbs recited, oral stories in parables told.
Our village Matriarch's words, drawn as with an artist's brush,
were passed on to her grandchildren like a welcome gold rush.
Impressionable minds trustingly captivated, we eagerly waited,
curious what folktales would be recited leaving us newly elated.
We were mere lads towards mischievous intents attracted;
our feet were swift to run after trouble our parents disapprove /
Ancient noble feats of kinsfolk would only mess up our groove.
But the circle of family clanship could not be easily broken,
not for the tempting offers to compromise timeless ideals.
Children, return to the ways of the blessed Circle as it appeals /
You'd better mind the sinister misdeeds you're about to do:
for surely, the ancestors have their watchful eyes fixed on you.
Chapter Three
Natives: The Stamp of Otherness
When I speak of native sons and daughters
my subjects are children of island family lines;
their ancestors navigated the salty waters,
piloting their ships in sync with tidal signs.
The belongers embrace the land with solemn pride /
They are born, ordained to guard the shorelines:
these are simple folk who revere the arid soils.
From a distance my soul with theirs aligns.
I too issue from this parentage that diligently toils /
We are offshoots of the primordial dusts of time,
villagers who once soothed their skins with palm oils.
Our ancient sages trusted the Mind of the Sublime—
these ancestral forerunners from under the sun
gave us stylish women adorned in braided locks
whose graceful walk is too elegant to be outdone /
Their nuptial rituals awake even the sleeping rocks.
The classifiers of conventional racial types
speak of us as Natives of a variety of stripes.
They scrutinize our faces and peer into our eyes,
intent on branding the pigment the body belies.
Blinded by the contours of our shaded skin
they are hard-pressed to read the soul within.
When the essence of a man is invidiously denied,
his virtue of patience is understandably tried,
When I'm still described as barely civilized
I ask myself what it means to be modernized.
The label givers hold on inanely to their illusions /
Their intellect is all knotted up in arcane confusions.
We're natives by virtue of mere national heritage,
but christened as others by racist appendage /
While the morning greets me in my primal flesh
the tranquil night covers me with innocence afresh.
Our bodies are etched with sacred marks,
still bearing imprints of sparks of the Divine.
Each man's culture raises loaded question-marks /
The differences in taste can be hard to define.
Our freedom fighters rise up like beacons:
they take the helm of leadership as a holy call,
and feel defeated if the common will weakens /
Their indigenous mission is dedicated to us all.
There is an irony in these designated attributes.
The imputers of identities behave like lords /
In self-delusion they carry out their pursuits,
madly enamored by their haughty naming accords.
Some of us acquiesce in this labeling scheme:
puppets masquerading like nice conformers /
Like sheep they keep up with the power regime;
in unison they crush the dreams of reformers.
I've seen men who despise their own dark faces:
there's hatred fuming like a curse behind their looks;
numbing stares greet the oppressors' veiled embraces.
When pictured like characters in comic books,
beware of the errors of such fantastic invention!
Those nappy dreads some wear are theirs for always;
my curly locks were sent from the fourth dimension /
This frizzy hair raises attention in sundry hallways.
Alas! these branding tags attached to the islander,
you ought to discern their notorious origination!
Affixed by anthropologists in ethnocentric candor,
the birth of the Other is linked to the plantation.
This reconstruction of my-Self into the outsider
faces me cloaked in a mask of warring doubles.
We're orphaned strangers next to the insider—
this degrading discourse intensifies our troubles.
Chapter Four
Before My Eyes Beheld the Light
Without a will of my own
I was ejected from my mother's womb.
I faced the daylight naked,
covered in blood, screaming;
I was alive, breathing—
but not yet on my own.
From mere potentiality I came to be—
in the twinkling of an eye
I had developed into actuality.
My mother was the vessel—
the genetic carrier, preserver
of what I was destined to become,
before my eyes beheld the light.
Without a place of my own
I inhabited my mother's womb.
I survived the fetal passage,
attached like a parasite
to the umbilical cord of life.
My right to be wasn't up to me;
but for the safety of the uterus,
I might have been a possibility /
No flesh, no blood, no heart /
Not a word to be spoken—
just nothing at all.
My quickened soul knew me all along
before my eyes beheld the light.
Without time of my own
I grew inside my mother's womb.
My clock was ticking
from the moment of conception
and ticks on in rhythmic motion.
Over the manner of my birth
I had neither knowledge nor control;
there's no return to the prenatal state
once it's been decreed I'm born.
I've entered the heartbeat of Eternity
for better or for worse;
I needed a name ...
after my eyes beheld the light.
After the fetal passage
I liberated my mother's womb.
My own blood was flowing;
my own bones were thickening;
my nerves were signaling;
my skin had started to darken;
thank God! The heart was beating.
I had vacated the space of maternity /
I left it there more assaulted than before.
The sanctuary of my nativity
wasn't meant for me alone—
it needed to house future siblings /
Their eyes too would behold the light.
She lit up my life
like our island mothers before.
Conceived upon the secret bed,
outside the bonds of matrimony
I came to be ... sacredly.
Who am I to question the reasons /
to decry the carnal urges of another?
Until we walk in the other's shoes
the path ahead of us is open wide;
we can slip and instantly fall /
We miss the mark when least expected.
Such are the ways of the Unknown,
while our eyes turn to behold the light.
The fetal passage is a journey of tragic perils,
sharing in the likeness of the Middle Passage.
Those of us who make it through the trials
open their eyes to a gaping, unknown pilgrimage /
In ovarian waters we had to tactfully maneuver,
like trapped hostages cllnging to goddess Minerva.
Thrust into the world, we, the living ones—
the prevailing survivals of the trek—
take part in struggles just to be.
We are grateful for the occasion,
thankful to know what it means to be;
my heart beats rapidly in wonder, asking,
"Why did good Fortune single me out?"
Chapter Five
Cradle of My Birth
You can't smell the ocean breeze
unless it pierces through your veins;
that salty sea-drenched air
I've tasted often on my parching lips.
I've touched the soothing waters
of the coral cradled Caribbean Sea.
A feeling consumes us where land and sky,
towering billows of briskly waves
and my fragile mortality
all flow into one
to celebrate the dawn of day /
My eyes behold the rising sun.
I feel reborn with each glittering ray.
These tempting tropic waters flirted
with our ancient seamen: time-bound creatures
whose living essence was determined
by the rhythmic movement of the tides.
These men of the distant past
set their lobster traps,
while our sun-burnt mothers fried netted fish
on crackling, open flames outside.
Their fate—my mothers' and my fathers'—
was short; and mine of lesser memory.
My mind in prankish deeds lathers ...
I indulge the moment in carefree reverie.
These are the raging, soaring waters
to which I trace my genetic source.
And now you wonder who I really am.
You strain to understand whether I am black—
this displaced son of African soil.
Now hear me, for this is true—
I'm a child of the Caribbean, an island man /
Its waters kindly cradled me, showering me
with this ebon hue from head to toe /
I am enveloped within the folds of its flesh.
My feet in tandem follow the flow ...
And I open my ears to hear the winds mesh.
It's not so much the pigment of my skin;
hardly anything about this awesome matter of race
that makes the woman or the man.
It's character that defines the person—
Now ... that's natural wisdom drawn
from retold, but now buried stories
of my speckled, invisible ancestral past.
My heart yet proudly glories ...
It is content with the lot into which it's cast.
Though my travel log is heavily stamped
the feel of sand under my feet still tingles:
in the cradle of my birth I'm invisibly encamped.
Chapter Six
Weep No More My Son
Boyhood days now left far behind
still faintly linger while I quietly reminisce;
I think of grandmother, she's on my mind—
the Silence returns from out of the Abyss.
There are still children, fatherless ones
clinging to the hands of Mercy givers;
there are youthful mothers, loving ones
seeking affection—their eyes like rivers.
And the sons they parented waited /
The daughters they conceived fended alone;
motherless offspring, their senses sedated:
infants once, now with bodies full grown.
In their darkest hours tears flooded the floor;
the surrogate Hand reached out with care /
Soothing the sadness, she said, "Weep no more."
Our shoulders were tiring, too much to bear.
There's a place in my heart for the father I had:
still grateful for the life he gifted me with /
I accept the eerie Absence, and I'm not mad /
Stories of his whereabouts were tainted in myth.
In the years under the yoke of stepfather, Sonny
the times seemed cruel, awfully unkind;
about his controlling ways, there's nothing funny /
The days felt like vinegar and salt intertwined.
When ordered to work like a bonded slave
I sometimes cursed the very day I was born;
I was too young to be dreaming of the grave:
far too promising to wear my cross of thorn.
So, father dear, I wanted you at my side,
but your beloved, here wedded at a far-off shore,
defended me in defiance of the laws of a bride:
secretly she whispered, "Son, weep no more."
Boyhood days in Curaçao had hardened me.
Fate, it seemed, dictated that resilient temperament:
Sonny's whip plucked from the tamarind tree,
ruptured my skin under the watchful firmament.
The lives of streetwise lads needed toughening /
We'd be foolish to ignore the unruly gangsters—
they'd be watching you, huffing and puffing;
their lawless acts surpassed the games of pranksters /
Alone at nights we practiced the art of rebuffing.
I think about acts of bravery—the daring looks /
We needed to assure ourselves we were strong.
In the back alleys there was no place for books—
in ignorance we fancied we could do no wrong.
I dreamed about a father-figure—almost daily:
I longed for an anchor who'd rid Sonny of his strap;
when I knew I had angered the taskmaster eerily,
"Weep no more," mother pled, breaching the gap.
There was a rock, an angel of the coral Rock.
She nurtured us with every fiber of her strength /
She was a heroine dressed in her colorful frock /
We listened to her wise counsels at great length.
When the hour struck for me to say farewell,
I boarded the steamboat, wanting to disembark;
I would soon be sailing off elsewhere to dwell /
In my heart I clung to Granny, my Joan of Arc—
She hugged and kissed me just like always.
This guardian was happy to see me succeed;
proud that good luck had graced my days /
Her love was an anchor, in word and deed.
Touched deeply by the disappearing shoreline
I looked far off in the direction of White Hill.
There was no second-guessing my one resolve:
I'd be back again dancing with blissful thrill—
the salty sea our tears is willing to dissolve.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Speak My Soulby Rudolph V. Vanterpool Copyright © 2011 by Rudolph V. Vanterpool. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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