Three Poems from “Konbit”

PRoB is proud to present three poems from Sony Ton-Aime’s new collection “Konbit” alongside original glosses from the poet himself.

The Seer Predicts Boukman’s Death
on the Eve of the Bois Caïman Ceremony

You, who brought the sun and showed us its light,
whose voice moved our bodies like the sea and
turned their fire into roaring thunders, listen well.
You, bodiless and motionless cloud, watch over us.
Their god demanded crimes, and they delivered.
Now, show us what good deeds mean. O you,
severed head, a warning on display. What does
the lord ask of us now that your arms are gone?
O you, beautiful phantom torso, ball of caged words,
direct our hands and guide us away from theirs.
Feed the voice of liberty unto us. And forgive
them for they know not the pit they have dug.
This all will come to pass on Assumption Day;
your soul will rise up as you become a savage.

On November 7, 1791, less than four months after Dutty Boukman started the Haitian revolution, he was captured and killed by French planters. Boukman who was initially enslaved in Jamaica, then an English colony, ended up in a plantation Saint Domingue where he soon escaped to the mountains. Boukman is thought to have been able to read, thus his name Bookman, but some believe it is due to his Muslim origins. On the night of the August 14, 1791, he and the Mambo (Vodou Priestess) Cécile Fatiman organized a religious ceremony in the mountains of Bois Caïman, a maroon’s enclave. At the ceremony, the participants swore to fight and gain their independence. One week later, on the night of August 22nd, the maroons went down the mountains and burned down plantations and their former masters. After his captured and demised, the French planters decapitated him and displayed his head as a warning. This, however, only strengthened the maroons’ resolve.

The Good Master Explains Things
on the Day of the Bois Caïman Ceremony

things were different then
our present can’t explain then
then it was what everyone did
those who ran away then
we amputated and cut their tongues
then they were silent/unpeopled

true things were different
like now, things are different
our children will say so we hope
those silent and unpeopled
are not our doing for all who
have eyes can now see it

those who will run away
or wag their tongues will make
things different and everyone
will need to do the silent nod
and together we will explain
just wait a little for us
to catch up baby steps please

Many a time, we justify our actions by placing the onus on future generations, hoping that they will correct our wrongs or absolve us of any wrongdoings. I spent a lot of time thinking about the ways a colonizer would justify perpetuating the odious system of slavery. In other poems in the collections, I address the materials aspects of these kinds of justifications. In this poem, I decide to confront the “good master” myth that some still so foolishly clink unto, with excuses like things were different then, or they had different moral standards. As this poem conveys, when people present these excuses, they are not necessarily defending their ancestors. They are defending themselves. They are hoping that the next generations will be kind to them and ignore their current wrongdoings.

Praise the Colony Built on the Day After
the Bois Caïman Ceremony

A colony is a place, borderless, engulfing lives. Yet
a colony of minds, a borderless place, can heal lives.

Mars comes to mind, a soil-poisoned place. What
colony wasn’t built on lies and broken lives?

On the eve of the happening lies were told and a broken
colony was the result and out came, they say, new lives.

The poet lost his name, so there could be no ghazal in
a colony. Bless those ready to lose their lives,

for even the name is ambivalent. In the new
colony, will it degrade or enhance our lives?

This poem is characteristic of my relationship to poetic forms in this collection. I find it boring and predictable to stick to the prescriptions of a poetic form. This poem is instantly recognizable as a ghazal, but I turned it on its head a bit. It is not the only one in the collection. My sonnets, ballads, and villanelle are always either broken or out of shape. In a ghazal, the poet usually needs to state their name in the poem, but I decided to omit mine, but still nodded to the rule, and at the end I broke the last couplet.  It is a form of revolution to mirror the content of the collection, of creating something new, but most importantly, it is a fun exercise.

From Konbit Used with permission of Carnegie Mellon University Press. Copyright © 2026 by Sony Ton-Aime.