The West Indian Day Parade
if you want to jump up inside energy, cross over
from manhattan to brooklyn in september,
every year, on labor day, the west indian day carnival
parade jumps down eastern parkway
full of color, music, & pizzazz,
watch people waving flags of caribbean
nations—barbados, trinidad-tobago, st. lucia, haiti,
antigua, dominica, jamaica, st. kitts—
from behind police barricades, food scents draw us in,
tantalize the memory of nostrils,
for an instant the desire to return to homelands
focuses the need to vibrate the street with rhythms,
causes bodies to shake as if processed by spirits,
we watch gorgeous women agitate their bodies,
their stomachs rippling like airborne ribbons,
or incoming sea waves,
match the oo-la-la up & down movement
of hottentot basketball bottoms, hips, & pelvises
humping coast to coast in a primeval frenzy,
as bands on floats pulsate native music thumping
inside their own rhythmic memory,
4 million revelers strong they jump up,
jump down, from eleven to dusk,
people from all races gawk at caribbean black
people of all shades, decked out in fabulous costumes
of gold, pink, blue, white, green, fuchsia,
orange, black, purple, brown, breasts firm as grape-
fruits burst from skimpy bikini cups, as revelers sport
headdresses full of indian feathers, women & men
splashed with sequins, gold dust, wearing spectacular beads,
gold & silver shoes, head scarves, bandanas—
some mimicking terrorist disguises that cover their faces
up to their eyes—a fashion statement? you go figure—
jump up, jump down, jump up, jump around,
as phalanxes of policemen make their presence known,
wear bored expressions on their faces—why do they look so
bored, with all this energy going on?
as the parade sashays down eastern parkway
crowds scream for their native floats, for the music they love
rooted in their memories, as cross-fertilized food odors
play succulent games with nostrils—
east indian, african, european, & asian flavors
mix ingredients chefs stir into mouthwatering mélanges—
drive stomachs crazy with desire, cause hunger
to raise up its head, as the body does in dance—
escovitch, pawpaw, & mango jam, curried goat,
callaloo, pepper pot, sauce ti malice, rice & peas,
biriani, fritters, rice & beans, polouri, boudin
creole, acra, jerk chicken, souse, langouste grillee,
stamp and go, sancocho, mango chutney, akee
& salt fish, pork roast calypse, meat patties,
as the parade winds down, the energy revs up
as the police lose control of the crowds
bursting at the seams, spilling over the barricades
people throw themselves out into the street to jump up
as the music boils, the men in blue throw up their hands
& some are seen even to shuffle their feet in time
with the rhythm, in sync with the flow,
cause nothing's going to happen
but a good time for all—& what's wrong with that
in this age of children being shot & blown up,
missiles & death everywhere we look—
what's wrong with jumping up, jumping down for a day,
what's wrong with watching people having a great time,
their faces bright as the dazzling sun on this day,
what's wrong, what's wrong with that?
Copyright Credit: Quincy Troupe, "The West Indian Day Parade" from The Architecture of Language. Copyright © 2006 by Quincy Troupe. Reprinted by permission of Coffee House Press, www.coffeehousepress.org.
Source: The Architecture of Language (Coffee House Press, 2006)