poetry

250 years ago

250 years ago

James Douglas 14th Earl of Morton
begs for mercy, restraint, peaceful contact:

Exercise the utmost patience [and] respect for the Natives…shedding the blood of these people is a crime of the highest nature…every effort should be made to avoid violence; if it becomes inevitable then [they] should be treated with distinguished humanity, [so] the Crew still considers them as Lords of the Country

this is a scientific endeavor
tracking Venus’s transit across the sun
establishing our exact place
in the scheme of things
it’s a boat full of scientists
and the Royal Society of London
guards against making men murderers
reminds them to be civil

and
almost immediately, they kill

Te Maro lies splayed on the sand –
these studious men prove
no better than conquistadors
and it all adds up to the same story again:
arrival means death

poetry

Dias Beach Absolution

Dias Beach Absolution

upon rounding sharp cliffs
after the men voted no confidence
and the final three days the crew allowed
before their bellies would mutiny
(a pathetically short extension
to reach a hopelessly faraway shore)
had elapsed with no end of Africa in sight
after he halted and buried
he dreams of Indian spices
at Kwaaihoek on the eastern Cape
the unused padrões lay heavy in the hold
and the threat of returning
to the mindless minding of Lisbon’s warehouses
grew more terrifying with each league
of aquamarine the São Cristóvão sliced through
he saw this crescent of inviting beach
and he fell upon it

I forgive you,
Bartolomeu,
for wanting to sink your ankles
in fine white sand
for wishing to slake your salty thirst
with waterfall
for wanting to warm yourself
by a blaze fed by armloads of driftwood
for nestling your body
into the yielding dunes
that molded themselves to your hips
for soiling this land with your unwanted presence

before the Khoikhoi hurled rocks in righteous anger
before the Cabo das Tormentas
seized your own heart and limbs
despite all the damage
your kind wrought
I forgive your need for one night
of slowly spinning stars

poetry

Marco Polo

Marco Polo

in the blue cold of pool
we split his name in half
echo discovery
find innocent contact
bubbling with laughter
even as we’re trapped