MEDITATION ON YELLOW by OLIVE SENIOR ‘The yellow of the Caribbean seen from Jamaica at three in the afternoon.’ - Gabriel García Márquez 1 At three in the afternoon you landed here at El Dorado (for heat engenders gold and fires the brain) Had I known I would have brewed you up some yellow fever-grass and arsenic but we were peaceful then child-like in the yellow dawn of our innocence so in exchange for a string of islands and two continents you gave us a string of beads and some hawk’s bells which was fine by me personally for I have never wanted to possess things I prefer copper anyway the smell pleases our lord Yucahuna our mother Attabeira It’s just that copper and gold hammered into guanin worn in the solar pendants favoured by our holy men fooled you into thinking we possessed the real thing (you were not the last to be fooled by our patina) As for silver I find that metal a bit cold The contents of our mines I would have let you take for one small mirror to catch and hold the sun I like to feel alive to the possibilities of yellow lightning striking perhaps as you sip tea at three in the afternoon a bit incontinent despite your vast holdings (though I was gratified to note that despite the difference in our skins our piss was exactly the same shade of yellow) I wished for you a sudden enlightenment that we were not the Indies nor Cathay No Yellow Peril here though after you came plenty of bananas oranges sugar cane You gave us these for our maize pineapples guavas – in that respect there was fair exchange But it was gold on your mind gold the light in your eyes gold the crown of the Queen of Spain (who had a daughter) gold the prize of your life the crowning glory the gateway to heaven the golden altar (which I saw in Seville five hundred years after) Though I couldn’t help noticing (this filled me with dread): silver was your armour silver the cross of your Lord silver the steel in your countenance silver the glint of your sword silver the bullet I bite Golden the macca the weeds which mark our passing the only survivors on yellow-streaked soil We were The Good Indians The Red Indians The Dead Indians We were not golden We were a shade too brown. 2 At some hotel overlooking the sea you can take tea at three in the afternoon served by me skin burnt black as toast (for which management apologizes) but I’ve been travelling long cross the sea in the sun-hot I’ve been slaving in the cane rows for your sugar I’ve been ripening coffee beans for your morning break I’ve been dallying on the docks loading your bananas I’ve been toiling in orange groves for your marmalade I’ve been peeling ginger for your relish I’ve been chopping cocoa pods for your chocolate bars I’ve been mining aluminium for your foil And just when I thought I could rest pour my own – something soothing like fever-grass and lemon – cut my ten in the kitchen take five a new set of people arrive to lie bare-assed in the sun wanting gold on their bodies cane-rows in their hair with beads – even bells So I serving them coffee tea cock-soup rum Red Stripe beer sensimilla I cane-rowing their hair with my beads But still they want more want it strong want it long want it black want it green want it dread Though I not quarrelsome I have to say: look I tired now I give you the gold I give you the land I give you the breeze I give you the beaches I give you the yellow sand I give you the golden crystals And I reach to the stage where (though I not impolite) I have to say: lump it or leave it I can’t give anymore For one day before I die from five hundred years of servitude I due to move from kitchen to front verandah overlooking the Caribbean Sea drinking real tea with honey and lemon eating bread (lightly toasted, well buttered) with Seville orange marmalade I want to feel mellow in that three o’clock yellow I want to feel though you own the silver tea service the communion plate you don’t own the tropics anymore I want to feel you cannot take away the sun dropping by every day for a chat I want to feel you cannot stop Yellow Macca bursting through the soil reminding us of what’s buried there You cannot stop those street gals those streggehs Allamanda Cassia Poui Golden Shower flaunting themselves everywhere I want to feel: you cannot tear my song from my throat you cannot erase the memory of my story you cannot catch my rhythm (for you have to born with that) you cannot comprehend the magic of anacondas changing into rivers like the Amazon boas dancing in my garden arcing into rainbows (and I haven’t had a drop to drink – yet) You cannot reverse Bob Marley wailing making me feel so mellow in that Caribbean yellow at three o’clock any day now.
Posted on: Sat, 02 Nov 2013 18:43:15 +0000
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