s w i f t s  &  s l o w s: a quarterly of crisscrossings

Still No Red Bird
Kofi Fosu & Emer Martin

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Fosu and Martin’s fine art interpretation of Kofi Fosu Forson’s poem
“That Red Bird Painting is not a Painting”.

That red bird painting, spotless blank canvas, with no red bird is not a painting
Look at me in Nirvana tee-shirt puts me in “white place”, magical negro-ghost

Black meta-modernism; life after make-shift European jail, I had become post-
traumatized, fearful of pale faces traveling through trains within The South Bronx.

New Hampshire biker bar restaurant, long-haired bearded brash men threatening.
What would brown art boy want, sitting beside blue art girl, arms locked together?

No sleep ‘til Brooklyn – memories of Italian-American boys and their baseball bats
Bedford Avenue bar, one black person in between funk of scented skin, bar breath

At Gun Hill Road stop, red-headed woman, business suit and heels, typed on PC
I had become animal – horror in my eyes, laugh-less hyena, burnt-throated, fang

Mid-western, rugged good looks, charismatic man reading, slouched and stared
Room of black faces, I sat paranoid, clay-figure, senior-citizened, scatter-brained

Age of Grunge-loving Riot Grrls, young, wild Unis-girls licked chocolate off my skin
Godiva breath, rock ’n roll machine, I battered drum kits; spectacular beat-down

Sight of younger-looking, fashion photographer model; Grand Concourse station
Upset enough to cry, hunger ate me up, standing, spaghetti arms, hell on my face

Those dark days; gang warfare, petty crimes, graffiti, murder – NYC transit system
Something out of Stephen King – first time I accompanied stranger onto train

Older waspy woman, fear mangled in her veins, asked me come along underground
Others her kind, might’ve clutched bag, hurled insults, hollered for policeman

Only black character in Fassbinder film – decolonizing his way up Boogie-down
Dead-tired, consciously black, feeling blood boil next to hyper-real, strong men

Stress from brother is blackness in coffee cup; the kind you heave against wall
Hurt for color of skin; your alt-city cowboy for my tortured, Afro-politan cow-heck

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Emer Martin is a Dubliner who has lived in Paris, London, The Middle East, and various places in the U.S.