The great iroko tree
Has fallen down;
Our king, the lion
Of this land has passed on
To the land of our silent fathers-
A journey of no return.
The land is in tears;
The soil is bleeding –
Things fall apart in every
......
When at dawn I find three stones at my
Doorstep, I smile at dawn
Prayers, in haste, come to my lips
My eyes rove wantonly and behold a
Poet caressing a naked virgin.
When at dawn I find three stones at my
Doorstep, messages rustle to my ears
I prepare a costly repast for a palmist
My smile is faint.
......
Zondagochtend breekt langzaam open,
de mist hangt laag over Maas en gevel,
en het dorp ademt oud ritme.
Kostuums die nooit uit de tijd raken,
vaandels zwaaien traag door de straten,
achter elke stap klinkt herinnering.
Mensen spreken met hun voeten,
lopend in stilte die meer zegt
......
By moonlight when the moon shone with all her majesty,
My ancestors told us the story of the Tiger,
Which crouched at every rumble of the jungle-thunder,
Either out of fright or from bravery;
Tiger, male and ferocious,
With wicked fangs,
Tiger which breathed fire upon the foliage that shielded
Our village from the rage of the sun,
Which raped lady antelopes with utter contempt,
Which dined lavishly on forest flesh
......
Like the comet —far gone —
they return,
accompanied by wavelengths of torture
and secreted grief;
on their tired shoulders
weak and pale faces of drums, slung
with the sombreness of traded pride,
and, rested, their countenances dimly poor;
and also pale among them.
the fast-setting sun.
......
To read is to err. The joke—mmm, perhaps there. Maybe you’re drawn to the line, a promise, a breath held-
spaced out-
too long. But here it lay. Your eyes move, dutiful, grazing
the terms,
the conditions,
-THE-
reality; plastic clattering, clacking modernity. The killing keys center the stage, perform their allusion.
You wanted something, now you're here.
But, so it is. “That’s just showbiz,” someone says, parroters' conviction.
......
Langs de route verschijnen ze,
onopvallend en heilig tegelijk.
Bloemen in vazen,
kant op tafels,
beelden onder gewelfde doeken
alsof de hemel even afdaalt
tot op straatniveau.
Een stoel,een kruisbeeld,
het zachte kaarslicht
......
Een lange ketting van mensen,
hand in hand,schouder aan schouder,
een slinger die zich door straten weeft
zoals rivier door bedding.
De klaroenen blazen,
de trom rolt het ritme open,
en voeten vinden vanzelf de maat
die niemand ooit is vergeten.
......
Zondagochtend breekt langzaam open,
de mist hangt laag over Maas en gevel,
en het dorp ademt oud ritme.
Kostuums die nooit uit de tijd raken,
vaandels zwaaien traag door de straten,
achter elke stap klinkt herinnering.
Mensen spreken met hun voeten,
lopend in stilte die meer zegt
......
Mother of stars,
friend of the moon,
it is often quiet but for its own heartbeatꓽ
the rhythmic sentence pronounced
in one benign-hammering syllable,
which pounds away hostile darkness
laid bare by the wakeful heavens
whose ears listen to tales from
old folks passed on to a glowing age,
and proverbs that leave one and all in awe.
......