How magnificent the war isHow eagerand efficient!Early in the morningit wakes up the sirensand dispatches ambulancesto various placesswings corpses through the airrolls stretchers to the woundedsummons rainfrom the eyes of mothersdigs into the earthdislodging many thingsfrom under the ruinssome are lifeless and glisteningothers are pale and still throbbingit produces the most questionsin the minds of childrenentertains the godsby shooting fireworks and missilesinto the skysows mines in the fieldsand reaps punctures and blistersurges families to emigratestands beside the clergymenas they curse the devil(while the poor remainwith one hand in the searing fire). The war continues working day and nightit inspires tyrantsto deliver long speechesawards medals to generalsand themes to poetsit contributes to the industryof artificial limbsprovides food for fliesadds pages to the history booksachieves equalitybetween killerand killedteaches lovers to write lettersaccustoms young women to waitingfills the newspaperswith articles and picturesbuilds new housesfor the orphansinvigorates the coffin makersand gives grave diggersa pat on the backpaints a smile on the leader’s face. It works with unparalleled diligence!Yet no one gives ita word of praise.
You take faith and a horse -Reasonably Arab looking one - feed himRusgullas and milk for a year. While you fatten him you terrorize himWith different Asiatic techniquesInto mildness and meekness.
Then you take a procession orTwo out in the month of JuneWith the horse leadingProperly bedecked with buntings and ribbons. You mourn and cry your heart out in the heat,And those of us who have faithThen crawl under the belly of the horseWhenever it comes to a stop.
Whatever else we learnedat school like solemn Afro-Gods eager for grades,of Helen and the shadesof borrowed ancestors,there are no ritesfor those who undergo returned,only when her looms fade,drilled in our skulls the doom-surge-haunted nights,only this well-known passage
under the coconuts’ salt-rustedswords these rottedleathery sea-grape leaves,the seacrabs’ brittle helmets andthis barbeque of branches like the ribsof sacrificial oxen on scorched sand;only this fish-gut-reeking beachwhose frigates tack like buzzards overhead,whose spindly sugar-headed children racepelting up from the shallowsbecause your clothes,your postureseem a tourist’s. They swarm like fliesround your heart’s sore.
Suffer them to come,entering your needle’s eye,knowing whether they live or die,what others make of life will pass them bylike that far silvery freighterthreading the horizon like a toy;for once like them,you wanted no careerbut this sheer light this clear,infinite boring paradisal sea,but hoped it would mean something to declaretoday. I am your poet yours,all this you knew,but never guessed you’d cometo know there are homecomings without home.
You give them nothing. Their curses melt in air. The black cliffs scowl,the ocean sucks its teeth,like that dugout canoea drifting petal fallen in a cup,with nothing but its image,your sway reflecting nothing. The freighter’s silvery ghostis gone the children gone. Dazed by the sunyou trudge back to the villagepast the white salty esplanadeunder whose palms deadfishermen act their draughts in shade,crossing eating their islands,and one with a politician’signorant sweet smile nods,as if all fateswayed in his lifted transfer.
I loved to carryHer violin case its noseIn air its back endNice and heavy the balanceFactored in and factored out.
Every time she placedHer two thumbs to the two snibsAnd opened the lidShe couldn’t help a quick frown(Disguised pleasure?) as she checked.
Then her brow would clearAnd the sun disc of her faceTilt up and brightenAt the tap of a baton,At the tip of a baton…
In the baize-lined caseEmptied of the ingrown jutOf the fiddlehead,A lump of ancient resinAnd a alter chamois cloth.
The conductor’s hands –Big and out of proportionTo his skinny weeProfessor’s body–always,she said. “interested” her.
Fiddlehead ferns: whydo I think of them do IThink: Toraiwa?Because–surprise–he quizzed meabout the erotic life.
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