How Oprah reminds me of Margaret Gill: (Women-I-Zen #1a)
I’m surprised that I never saw it before: surprised that until theinterview promotional clip pic, the images of Oprah and Margaret Gill in my head had never crossed the floor of my mind to meet.
And yet their personalities are so replete with correspondences. Each in her own way exuding a strength one might - cautiously - associate with men: composed, calculating men; thinkers.
Not the bluster of the “Big Show” boys. Not the verbosity of alcohol emboldened drinkers.
Not the pace in haste of the Marion-Jones-mess sprinter.
More Marion reformed: travelling lighter, hopefully.
One hopes that our sister to the north is fully accessing such sage-like patience and continence as she might, through her marriage to an anchor from the West Indies.
One hopes, that the Quick Queen is learning as much as she might teach that matchless lion’s cub: Caribbean historian Alvin Thompson’s fleet-footed son, (Gill’s and my compatriot) Obadele.
An Olympian oracle of accounting: Obadele T has come to we (in the Caribbean) via Africa’s strong trees, planted in Barbados and Trinidad gardens.
And incidentally – Mr. Green – this is the deeper seasoning.
Less to do with a crushing of Africa’ dreams, by supposedly superior schemes of European conniving.
More Kofi Anan’s gift: Anansi thrift; Christ-like light amid the blight; the blessing through darkest night, shining in the morning.
Much ado, about nothing: all.
“It is not, it is not…”
Ahhh: but brother Brathwaite (Father Crab Fix), it is.
It is enough to be semi
To be demi:
Call it what you will.
To be a spot: to be a dot; mere punctuation in the script.
Better than to be Drama Queen: better than to be Big Show dream.
Better to be island than megalomaniac continent.
Better to be corner shop: Saturday market basket or tray drop in a sea of economic shocks – if you read me – when the money magic fails.
Better than turning tricks, like Samuel P Huntington, for kicks (in the teeth?) in global marriages.
You can take it from this polygamist: Margaret’s smile and Oprah’s wiles are all of one width.
“Nothing new under the sun. It’s been seen: it’s been done.”
Hazel’s Temple, wit web spun of finest silk.
Zakaria’s slip, spilling Kali’s milk in his plagiarist tripping.
Balderdash! These old new broadcastings!
Lord Nelson’s run;
True North sun
Neil Haverson’s fun-filled-Stephen-Fry-thrilled-stifle-f
We are all seeing: all color-blind.
As Fleet Streets’ strippers divert the mind
Deep delayed distractions drizzle down the vine
Reap relaying mistakes in real Sky time;
Dianesque delights sprint up the spine of Pythagoras’ Theorem.
Mo Farah’s fame an inverted fountain
Fulfilling Farah-Fawcett rule
Over Kenya’s youth?
Kanye’s Western coup
Rihanna’s Ethiopian truth?
Murdoch-like lock a deep red spot
On Oprah’s blue?
Who would deny that when women colonize the eye, they rule.
And who sows in silt?
Forget Market Guilt: on with the review;
“The men of my race are lovely, lovely”, Margaret wrote
Even as she tightened her hands around their throats.
Even as the Gods made Derek Walcott’s skeletal drama epic
So angels abide with the mariticide Margaret.
So, Lady O: on with the sin.
Let the games begin.
“This little light of mine…”
It might seem that I got lost in the course of making this contribution. It may seem that I was not sure whether I wanted to post a piece of prose or a poem.
But this is just where the imperatives shaping the publication of Woman-I-Zen are leading: into a creolizing or mixing of all things: gender, sex; my feeling joyful and vexed; illustration (particularly “picturate” compositions) and text; distance running and sprinting.
And hopefully, readers will mix-it-up with me in this time and space. I want the publication of Woman-I-Zen to be as interactive as it can be. The contemporary creolization of news reporting and social media – which Allvoices exemplifies - affords this possibility.
And I want to hear all your voices: talk to me.
Let’s make Woman-I-Zen an exercise in global feminist federation.
Footnote: the quotation “Nothing new under the sun. It’s been seen: it’s been done.” is taken from one of my now lost poems or poetic memos.