Where is the Cockpit Country | Maroon Settlements in Jamaica.

Many Maroon settlements in Jamaica, are mentioned in this poem by, author and poet, E Lloyd Kelly. Here for you is a poem called Cockspur in the Cockpits. I'm here writing love letters to my black brothers, and yes, sisters too. Cock spurs in the cockpits. A poem of the time by E Lloyd Kelly. In solidarity with the Jamaican Cockpit Maroons.

Yes mi fren. Cock spur Makkah gwine juck dem, right here in the Cockpit Mountains. Getting ready they are, yes. Getting ready to knock fists, by knocking it downhole, in the cockpits. They thought it was going to be easy, just go get it done, they say, and come back quickly. But it was the first time ever, that night, that some of them were going to the cockfight, so. They were wandering in the car, “Hey!” they asked, “What are those bowls really for?” They were to find out really soon, when she was to fall-in, upon the boom. Yes mi fren. Zooming-in, on the other end of the other broom, you know, the sort that was not what they were there whoring for, to go spoon. They wanted to hit upon a big score, yes mister mistar. “Just go on in and run those locals over, and more. Just like we’ve done to them, oftentimes before.” But they were about to learn the new score. Can’t do us the same way as you’ve done those others, on the floor. We’d asked you to clearly define, our borderlines. You came back bringing us, a protected area sign. Which was to be falling [quite inconveniently,] within the well-known, and well-established square yards of mine. Thinking that we wouldn’t hear you before the sign. You know, like, before the signing in of the machines, to get done. And for them to come over and clear us out. Yeah, that would be us, all of us. Like, to clear us out of your guts’ bus rife and stout, but beware. Your ears are tough, so you couldn’t hear us, it would have seemed. Fair enough, we’ll give you that square, in a dream. But, as for those other men? Look at them. See? Those pimps were newbies, new to this sort of show biz. They did not know these things, like, -Kids. No, they didn’t really know about it, you know, about what really goes on down there in the cockpit. Not to worry though, somebody is about to know. The game is now on, the roosters are in game mode plan. All holes are corked, and plugged up. The money pot done scrubbed fast, and the bugs zapped. Let’s go Jack as is, cubs, monkeys, and clowns. Cockpit cock mouth is about to kill cockpit stout, in a round of john crow batty rum, man, guh siddung. yes man. Cockpit cockspur Makkah gwine juck somebody’s cockatrice. Way up there in the range of those rear-end mountainous lattices. So, bring it on in, bring your best legs to come bust out dancing. “We’ve got something cooking up here for you, yes, the bell-a-gut pot is simmering a stew. Your madda-woman knows just what to do. To keep the family fed and get them sent to bed-down in a place called, Content Town, as said. Now, sleep tight, and have a good night. But she was about to wipe the smile and turn to sell them yet more unrefined snake oil. Upon the batched-up plan, and the schemes already spoiled. Was to have happened when they’d hatched up another plan, and be seen filing those files, and bringing them in. “This,” they say, was only the entry mile in, they were going to further wipe the smile off our facing, soon. But our troops were ready and raring to go. Just as troops had done, oft-times before. About things such as that, though, they did not know the score. So, come on in, my friends, come join us and dig into this steaming skin, yes. This little thing that we’ve got here cooking. “What’s on the menu?” He asked. Not too much to worry you, just a little chicken stew, to take to task. Well-seasoned, and simmering. With a dash of dried cockspur Makkah dust, along with a pinch of guinea hen weed, for you to trust. A head-cup of rum, mingled with dried petal blossoms from floral cock comb. All mixed-in, in there. Yet more garden eggs, sprinkled with grated nutmeg and stirring, I hear. Three duppy pumpkins, and nine cornmeal dumplings. Thirteen sliced eggplants to eat, then go beat the Kette drum around the boiling pot, and chant defeat. Freetown is not that free for none that everyone may come and see, then go slicing off a portion of the ground to go down with a cup of; gang up on dem –JAH, tea. Comical stooges want to drill strange holes throughout the conical hills. The very hills through which many fools were to pursue prey, that they could not quite see-through, still. In those days, and were to get themselves killed, yeah. Right there in paradise on the top of the hill. Nice, eh. Yeah man, but still. Look at this, if you will. Look at those liars thee, lying back down on the ground, dying. Eyes wide open as if looking back up at our chirping, chattering black-billed amazon parrots, not flying. But was sitting there on the chieftain’s head top, eying them. Whom they could not quite see, as he was watching out for me. Watching the cast as those fools walked fast into a trap laid out smartly on the ancestors back pass, and in for the attack. Now, know this fact. We’re not going to sit passively by, while you plunder and spoil the sacred endemic species. No, not that which the hands of my forefathers gave me on these hills, thriving sweetly. Your big missteps would have happened near Quickstep, where you’d supposed that you’ve found your golden basket. Yes, your basket of lost treasures, there, in the land of look behind you, but -never. Beware! The troop you were to rally and send into Cave Valley. Did make one of the worst mistakes on the boobie-trap near to our own doorstep. Yes, on the spot right there, at the gate. You would have lost the five lovely barley loaves, the lunch that the mother-woman gave you, near Martha-tick cove. Nearer to the cave than the nose. The rest, they say, its history, as the story goes. It was not to be told, so, it’s still a mystery left lying listlessly there, at Minocal’s glory hole. Our glory is in that holy hole, not yours. Turning now to see these things, looking back at me. You take our children away and put them out there on display, then get into boasting of the wonderful things that you have done for them, well, okay. Still doing for them, today. But, answer me this single question, right away: what were our children doing before you came along, this way? Well not one, here’s another for you to answer, and go mix in with your plan. What will they be doing after you’re done dead and gone, as is seen written in your plans, and moving on? Aah, but sir… Yes! I hear you, but sir… If you should open up this little door, our land won’t be the same as before. A precedent would have been set for the claimants to come in, to claim and to get. To score yet some more, and to spoil our lands. The people’s good name too, and more, much more, and all the same. While dumping their poison on our door, in the water main, and on everything else, again. Now, tell me this, even this. What will then become of our children? These very children whom you’re here loving so very much? Hiss. Whom you’re hastening in to come and plunder, and to spend? Fist. Now, take your dirty hands off our children’s pickiney dem, and gweh. I mean, go, go away, please. And get thee lost, pleaser. ⁓⸪⁓ Be sure to bookmark this page and come again. Bring a friend too, to share hits after hits with them, and yes, the misses too. Thank you for subscribing on the YouTube channel, and for hitting the bell. You will be notified whenever we post new content. Thank you.