Afua Cooper is an award-winning poet, historian, curator, cultural worker and recording artist. She is one of Canada’s most versatile poets of Afro- Carribean origin. Afua was chosen by Essence Magazine in October 2005 as one of the 25 women who is shaping the world. Her poems have been anthologized in national and international publications and translated into several languages.

Afua has published several books of poetry including the Memories Have Tongue. She is one of Canada’s premier experts and chroniclers of our black past. She has a PhD in Canadian History and the African Diaspora with a focus on Black 19th century communities.  She is also Halifax's Poet Laureate. She has performed at music and poetry festivals nationally and internationally. She has written a multitude of poems including Bird of Paradise, At the Centre, Woman A Wail, Horus of my Heart, The Child Is Alive, Confessions of a Woman who burnt down a town, Memories Have Tongue.

 

For the very first time on KQxMedia, here is Dr Afua Cooper's Bird Of Paradise

 

At dawn my mother stands on the hill
behind our house 
and invokes the sun to rise
then she goes to the outdoor kitchen
and prepares tortillas and cocotea for our breakfast

My mother sells fruits and flowers in the market
stuff she grows with her own hands 
she does not solicit customers
they come to her of their own volition
and at the end of each day
her items are all sold out

Now at age 42, my mother decides to stop having children
but not because her blood has ceased
"I have peopled the world with the numerous men
and women that my body has birthed," she says
"now it's time for me to birth other things"

At times my mother's back and feet grow tired
so I anoint them with coconut oil
her feet is a detailed map
her back is the starapple tree outside our front door

My mother has never travelled abroad
but she knows tales of every land
she says the flowers in her gardens 
especially the ginger lily, orchids, 
and the bird of paradise, bring her such tidings

My mother is short in stature 
all her children tower above her
some do not even want to recognise 
or acknowledge her as they pass by in the marketplace
they are ashamed of this fruit and flower woman
this woman who fed them milk and tortillas 
that made them so strong
sometimes they mock her 
"she looks like something out of a Rivera mural," they jest
but my mother does not hear 
her ears are beyond their words.
In the evening when she grows weary 
my mother sings lullabies to the sun to entice it to sleep
so the dark can come and we all be rejuvenated
"It's in the darkness that we grow strong," she tells us

How wise she is
this woman with a life that no one can capture
how essential she is 
this woman who makes gardens flower
and who feed us milk and tortillas
I watch her as she descends the hill to the marketplace

her skirt at her knee
her black hair flecked with grey