NYU Black Renaissance Noire NYU Black Renaissance Noire Volume 16.2: Fall 2016 - Page 88
Spice-Jack “ Buju ” Ambroise
Blues in Red , the peasants ’ blues , they holler as they hoe Harsh earth . Denim rolled-up calf-high , bare backs And straw hats , singing working songs since arrival As they sweat to till the land . Field blues of field hands . Colonies erected from us . We are blues people With blazing rara rhythm . As we cook , Spice-jack Ambroise caravans notes and spirits to the spine .
Carrying me across brass mountains as I ride Spice-Jack ’ s Hybrid music . African Drums pivoting inside my head , And I am alighted by colossal Mapou trees Where earthly spirits dwell . I dive inside of an earthen-jar , To refresh my sore and deprived soul . A caravan Of spirits encircle me , I meditate on harmony .
Drenched , my body charged , I dwell in music . Hands on a mother drum beckon Hips to rise like waves . I must bathe In sea water , must hearken a drum beat , And taste spiced salt-fish with plantains . I am transfixed on a note _ A rara rhythm located at the base of the spine .
Ambroise ’ s climo-chromatics mounted me and Flapped like the sea against scales . I am scaled . My ears inundated with waves , ceaseless and visceral . I libate white rum to Azaka , spirit of agriculture , Around a center post , anointing earth ’ s elements . Peasants are the guardians of food , and their venerated Music feeds the soul . Ambroise , a spice-jack , suffused notes .