My Friendship Poem

  © Hazel Campbell 2016

                                            

Laughing in Church

I just saw a video of a stand-up comedian doing  a piece titled Laughing in Church  is Illegal. Took me back to my childhood growing up in the Church of God- very strict evangelical - and having to deal with the desire to laugh – uncontrollably, more so because it was in church.

   One night service, the young sister of a friend was put to sit on the front bench, presumably this would prevent her from falling asleep. But fall sleep she did and fell off the bench, sprawled out right beneath the parson. Us teens, sitting in the second bench, could not control our laughter and were shooed out of the service in deep disgrace.

   Thereafter, there was a concerted effort to keep us from sitting together. We were forced to sit beside our mothers or some elder who would not hesitate to pinch us at the first sign of mirth. Strangely though, most of the pastors jokes at which they laughed politely were not funny to us.  As I grew older I began to think that maybe they didn’t think his jokes funny either. Like somebody was holding up a sign behind the parson – LAUGH NOW.  

   But when Sister Jordan's wig flew off when she fell under the spirit; OR Brother  Morgen's false teeth fell out when he was giving a fiery testimony, OR fat Sister Tome's white dress billowed out in the baptism pool and drew her away from the baptizing deacon, there was no controlling our laughter. 

   As I grew older, I found out that these holier- than- thou mothers and elders, also found these things funny, but they had better control and only laughed afterwards when they were out of church, because laughter in church, unless directed by the Holy Spirit ( read the parson) was really sinful.

   I guess that children who grow up in these 'strict' churches have similar experiences

Selah

Poetry Anyone? #2

 Throwback to the 70's when I thought I might become a poet. (It didn't happen)

Old Colonial

I have no

rhythm.

Reggae I

cannot.

I learned to dance

with 

Wordsworth and

some daffodils.

I have no

drums.

I have no

songs.

Once I

jingled bells 

as I dashed through snow 

Yodeled with cowboys.

Crooned myself

into love

with Bing,

Sinatra ...... 

What a foolishness?

Poetry anyone?

I started writing in the 70s when all sorts of interesting changes were taking place in Jamaica – both good and bad. Writers were encouraged to use our 'nation language' as Kamau Brathwaite insisted on naming our patwa/patois. 

Experimentation was encouraged in politics and cultural activities. Infancy for dub poetry and other experimental aspects of the arts. Culture nights were enthusiastically arranged under the titles - Poetry, Drama, Music in the Service of the Revolution. Heady days indeed.

I had ambitions of becoming a poet. It didn’t happen.  I thought some of my attempts were lost until I found an old file with a few. I still can't find copies of the ones which won awards in the JCDC literary festivals of the day. Still looking for "God is" and "Plastic People."

Here is one of my early attempts: Alas the title should perhaps now be "In Jamaica" as we mourn the increased senseless killings.

IN THE GHETTO

Guns spit dead people

Spit blood.

Fire eats flesh

consumes bone.

The machete

cuts

life.

False words entice

hands

to make guns

spit blood,

to light

the consuming fires,

to wield the machete

to cut

life.