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enguin  African  Library 


Modern  Poetry 


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Ramsey  &  Muspratt,  Cambridge 


Gerald  Moore  was  born  in 
London  in  1924  and  read 
English  at  Cambridge.  He 
began  to  be  interested  in 
African  writing  during  three 
years  he  spent  as  an  extra- 
mural tutor  in  Nigeria.  From 
1956  to  i960  he  was  the  first 
director  of  extra-mural 
studies  at  Hong  Kong 
University  and  visited  China, 
Siam,  Cambodia,  and  Malaya. 
Since  i960  he  has  been 
director  of  extra-mural 
studies  at  Makerere  College 
in  Uganda.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  Black  Orpheus 
committee  and  his  first  book; 
Seven  African  Writers, 
was  published  in  1962. 


Ulli  Beier  was  born  in 
Germany  in  1922  and  studied 
literature  in  England.  Since 
1950  he  has  been  living  in 
Nigeria,  where  he  is  a 
lecturer  in  the  department  of 
extra-mural  studies  at 
University  College,  Ibadan. 
He  is  editor  of  the  literary 
magazine.  Black  Orpheus,  and 
in  1 96 1  helped  to  found 
Mbari,  a  club  for  Ibadan 
writers  and  artists,  which  is 
already  having  an  influence 
on  African  cultural  life.  He 
is  also  joint-editor  of  '  Mbari 
PubUcations'.  Among  his 
books  are  Yoruba  Poetry 
(i959)>  ^^^  i^  Nigeria  i960 
(i960),  and  West  African  Mud 
Sculpture  (1962). 


Cover  design  by  Massimo  Vignelli 


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.■■^T-.;-.-^— ^-^>^..  ■■■■■■-.:■  ^■if;-,jpii-,1li-,arV"*-'^''™ 


Ramsey  &  Muspratt,  Cambridge 


Gerald  Moore  was  born  in 
London  in  1924  and  read 
English  at  Cambridge.  He 
began  to  be  interested  in 
African  writing  during  three 
years  he  spent  as  an  extra- 
mural tutor  in  Nigeria.  From 
1956  to  i960  he  was  the  first 
director  of  extra-mural 
studies  at  Hong  Kong 
University  and  visited  China, 
Siam,  Cambodia,  and  Malaya. 
Since  i960  he  has  been 
director  of  extra-mural 
studies  at  Makerere  College 
in  Uganda.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  Black  Orpheus 
committee  and  his  first  book; 
Seven  African  Writers, 
was  published  in  1962. 


UUi  Beier  was  born  in 
Germany  in  1922  and  studied 
literature  in  England.  Since 
1950  he  has  been  living  in 
Nigeria,  where  he  is  a 
lecturer  in  the  department  of 
extra-mural  studies  at 
University  College,  Ibadan. 
He  is  editor  of  the  literary 
magazine.  Black  Orpheus j  and 
in  1 96 1  helped  to  found 
Mbari,  a  club  for  Ibadan 
writers  and  artists,  which  is 
already  having  an  influence 
on  African  cultural  life.  He 
is  also  joint-editor  of  '  Mbari 
PubHcations*.  Among  his 
books  are  Yoruba  Poetry 
(i959)j  ^^t  in  Nigeria  i960 
(i960),  and  West  African  Mud 
Sculpture  (1962). 


Cover  design  by  Massimo  Vigneili 


PENGUIN  AFRICAN  LIBRARY  AP7 

Edited  by  Ronald  Segal 

Modem  Poetry  from  Africa 

GERALD   MOORE   AND   ULLI   BEIER 


\ 


Modern  Poetry  from  Africa 

EDITED  BY  GERALD  MOORE 
AND  ULLI  BEIER 


Penguin  Books 


\ 


Penguin  Books  Ltd,  Hannondsworth,  Middlesex 
U.S.A. :  Pengviin  Books  Inc.,  3300  Clipper  Mill  Road.  Baltimore  11  Md 
AUSTRALIA:  Penguin  Books  Pty  Ltd,  762  Whitehorse  Road, 
Mitcham,  Victoria 

This  selection  first  published  1963 

This  selection  copyright  ©  Gerald  Moore  and  Ulh  Beier,  1963 

Made  and  printed  in  Great  Britain 
by  Cox  and  Wyman  Ltd, 
London,  Fakenham,  and  Reading 

Set  in  Monotype  Plantin 


This  book  is  S0I4  subject  to  the  condition  that  it  shall  not, 
by  way  of  trade,  be  lent,  re-sold,  hired  out,  or  otherwise  disposed 
of  without  the  publisher's  consent,  in  any  form  of  binding  or 
cover  other  than  that  in  which  it  is  published 


Contents 


Acknowledgements 

II 

Introduction 

13 

MADAGASCAR 

Jean-Joseph  Rahearivelo  Four  poems  from  Traduits 

delanuit: 

(2)  *What  invisible  rat' 

(3)  'The  hide  of  the 

33 

black  cow' 

33 

(4)  'She  whose  eyes' 

34 

(17)  *The  black  glassmaker' 

35 

Cactus 

36 

Flavien  Ranaivo 

Song  of  a  Young  Girl 

37 

Song  of  a  Common  Lover 

38 

SENEGAL 

Leopold  Sedar  Senghor 

'  In  Memoriam 

43 

Night  of  Sine 

44 

Luxembourg  1939 

45 

Totem 

46 

Paris  in  the  Snow 

46 

Blues 

47 

The  Dead 

48 

Prayer  to  Masks 

49 

Visit 

50 

All  Day  Long 

50 

In  what  Tempestuous  Night 

51 

N 


CONTENTS 


Leopold  Sedar  Senghor  New  York  51 

You  Held  the  Black  Face  54 

I  will  Pronounce  your  Name  54 

Be  not  Amazed  55 


David  Diop 


Birago  Diop 


Listen  Comrades 

Your  Presence 

The  Renegade 

Africa 

The  Vultures 

To  a  Black  Dancer 

Nigger  Tramp 

Diptych 

Omen 

Vanity 

Ball 

Viaticum 


56 
57 
57 
58 
59 
59 
60 

62 
63 
63 
64 
64 


GAMBIA 

Lenrie  Peters 


Homecoming 

Song 

We  have  Come  Home 


69 

70 
70 


GHANA 

Kwesi  Brew 


A  Plea  for  Mercy 
The  Search 


Ellis  Ayitey  Komey        The  Change 


G,  Awoonor-Williams 


75 
76 

77 


Songs  of  Sorrow  78 

Song  of  War  80 

The  Sea  Eats  the  Land  at  Home  8 1 


NIGERIA 

John  Pepper  Clark 


Olokun  85 

Night  Rain  86 

The  Imprisonment  of  Obatala  87 


CONTENTS 

John  Pepper  Clark 

Easter 

88 

For  Granny  (from  Hospital) 

88 

Ibadan 

89 

Fulani  Cattle 

89 

Cry  of  Birth 

90 

Abiku 

91 

Gabriel  Okara 

The  Snowflakes  Sail  Gently 

Down 

92 

Piano  and  Drums 

93 

Were  I  to  Choose 

94 

The  Mystic  Drum 

95 

Adhiambo 

96 

Spirit  of  the  Wind 

97 

One  Night  at  Victoria  Beach 

98 

Frank  Aig-Imoukhuede  One  Wife  for  One  Man 


Michael  Echeruo 
Christopher  Okigbo 


Sophia 

Love  Apart 

Eight  poems  from  Heavens- 
gate: 
Overture 

Eyes  Watch  the  Stars 
Water  Maid 
Transition 
Sacrifice 
Passion  Flower 
Lustra 
Bridge 
Four  poems  from  Limits 
Siren  {&  the  mortar  is  not 
yet  dry.  .  .  .) 
(i)  *  Suddenly  becoming 

talkative' 
(2)  '  For  he  was  a  shrub 
among  the  poplars' 
(3)*  Banks  of  reed.' 


100 


102 


103 


103 

104 
104 
105 
105 
106 
106 
107 


107 

107 

108 
108 


CONTENTS 


Christopher  Okigho 
Wole  Soyinka 


(4)  *An  image  insists' 

Telephone  Conversation 

Death  in  the  Dawn 

Requiem 

Prisoner 

I  Think  it  Rains 

Season 

Night 

Abiku 


CONGO   (BRAZZAVILLE) 

Tchicaya  U  TanCsi        Brush-fire 

Dance  to  the  Amulets 

StiU  Life 

A  Mat  to  Weave 

CONGO    (L]E0P0LDVILLE) 

Antoine-Roger  Bolamha  Portrait 

A  Fistful  of  News 

CAPE  VERDE   ISLANDS 

Aguinaldo  Fonseca         Tavern  by  the  Sea 

SAO   TOME 

Aldo  do  Espirito  Santo  Where  are  the  Men  Seized  in 

this  Wind  of  Madness? 


no 

in 
112 
113 

"5 
116 
117 
118 
118 


123 
123 
124 
124 


129 
130 

135 


139 


ANGOLA 

Agostinho  Neto 

Farewell  at  the  Moment  of 

Parting 

145 

Antonio  Jacinto 

Monangamba 

147 

SOUTH  AFRICA 

Mazisi  Kunene 

To  the  Proud 

151 

The  Echoes 

152 

Farewell 

152 

As  Long  as  I  Live 

153 

CONTENTS 


Bloke  Modisane 

lonely 

154 

NYASALAND 

David  Ruhadiri 

An  African  Thunderstorm 

159 

KENYA 

John  Mbiti 

New  York  Skyscrapers 

163 

Joseph  Kariuki 

Come  Away,  my  Love 

164 

MOgAMBIQUE 

Jose  Craveirinha 

The  Seed  is  in  Me 

167 

Three  Dimensions 

168 

Noemia  de  Sousa 

Appeal 

169 

Valente  Malangatana 

To  the  Anxious  Mother 

171 

Woman 

172 

Sources  of  the  Poems 

173 

Notes  on  the  Authors 

175 

Index  of  First  lines 

183 

^ 


Acknowledgements 


For  permission  to  republish  the  poems  in  this  anthology 
acknowledgement  is  made  to  the  following: 

For  Awoonor- Williams  to  Ikyeame^  Accra;  for  Antoine- 
Roger  Bolamba  to  Presence  Africaine,  Paris  i  for  Kwesi  Brew  to 
Ikyeame;  for  John  Clark  to  Black  Orpheus;  for  Jose  Craveirinha 
to  Pierre-Jean  Oswald,  Paris;  for  Birago  Diop  to  Presence 
Africaine;  for  David  Diop  to  Presence  Africaine  and  Black 
Orpheus;  for  Aguinaldo  Fonseca  to  Pierre- Jean  Oswald;  for 
Antonio  Jacinto  to  Pierre- Jean  Oswald;  for  Ellis  Ayitey  Komey 
to  Black  Orpheus;  for  Valente  Malangatana  to  Black  Orpheus; 
for  Agostinho  Neto  to  Pierre- Jean  Oswald;  for  Gabriel  Okara 
to  Black  Orpheus;  for  Jean- Joseph  Rabearivelo  and  Flavien 
Ranaivo  to  Presses  Universitaires  de  France;  for  Aldo  do 
Espirito  Santo  to  Pierre- Jean  Oswald;  for  Leopold  Sedar 
Senghor  to  Editions  du  Seuil,  Paris,  and  Black  Orpheus;  for 
Noemia  de  Sousa  to  Pierre- Jean  Oswald;  for  Wole  Soyinka  to 
Encounter  and  Black  Orpheus;  for  Tchicaya  U  Tam'si  to 
Caracteres. 


Introduction 


Lewis  Nkosi,  the  South  African  journalist^  wrote 
recently  in  the  Observer,  *  Black  consciousness  really  begins 
with  the  shock  of  discovery  that  one  is  not  only  black  but 
is  also  non-white,^  The  resonance  of  this  remark  extends  in 
many  directions  and  will  find  its  peculiar  echoes  in  many 
situations.  The  black  South  African  makes  this  discovery 
through  being  utterly  rejected  by  a  hostile  white-domin- 
ated society.  But  his  particular  pHght^  tragic  enough  in 
itselfj  is  not  of  much  significance  so  far  as  the  origin  of 
the  following  poems  is  concerned.  The  discovery  may^ 
however,  be  made  in  utterly  different  circumstances.  The 
French  African  made  it  precisely  because  of  his  acceptance 
-  on  certain  terms  -  by  a  metropolitan  white  society.  This 
society  was  quite  prepared  to  forgive  him  his  colour  just 
so  long  as  he  would  clothe  it  decently  in  the  culture, 
religion,  and  manners  of  a  Western  civilization.  The 
effect  of  this  approach  was  to  force  upon  him  a  reappraisal 
of  what  it  meant  to  be  a  non-white  in  such  a  situation.  Had 
his  colour  really  no  more  significance  than  this?  Was  he 
not,  after  all,  rather  a  black  man  existing  in  his  own  rich 
if  ruined  world  than  a  non-white  entering  on  sufferance 
into  another? 

Thus  the  effect  of  the  policy  of  assimilation  was  to  turn 
the  attention  of  the  assimiU  back  upon  the  one  factor 
which  the  colonizer  wanted  him  to  forget  -  his  blackness. 
Smothered  by  the  paternal  embrace  of  metropolitan 
culture,  he  escaped  from  it  to  examine  his  own  with  fresh 
eyes  and  new  understanding.  ^ 

13 


INTRODUCTION 

This  gesture,  simultaneously  one  of  rejection  and  asser- 
tion,  was  Negritude.  In  the  words  of  Aime  Cesaire, 
'Blackness  is  not  absence,  but  refusal.'  The  fact  that  the 
gesture  itself  was  often  made  from  the  genial  surroundings 
of  a  Paris  cafe,  that  it  was  often  an  affair  of  the  intellect  and 
emotions  rather  than  of  manners  or  ways  of  life,  does  not 
alter  its  cardinal  importance  in  the  development  of  modern 
African  poetry.  The  gesture  of  Negritude  embraces  a  good 
deal  of  the  poetry  in  this  book,  notably  that  of  Senghor, 
David  Diop,  Birago  Diop,  and  the  Congolese  poets 
U  Tam'si  and  Bolamba.  Without  some  understanding  of 
it,  at  least  in  its  historical  importance,  it  is  impossible 
to  see  any  shape  in  the  poetic  events  of  the  continent 
over  the  past  twenty  years. 

The  two  poets  of  Madagascar  included  here,  though  en- 
thusiastically embraced  by  Senghor  in  his  exciting  Antholo- 
gie  de  la  nouvelle  poesie  negre  et  malgache  (1948),  do  not 
belong  entirely  in  the  company  of  their  French  African 
contemporaries.  Madagascar  was  the  last  part  of  the 
African  world  (with  which  it  is  now  generally  classed)  to 
fall  under  French  rule,  yet  it  was  the  first  in  which  France 
practised  her  cultural  policy  of  assimilation  with  even 
lirhited  effectiveness.  The  island  was  not  fully  occupied  by 
French  troops  until  1896,  and  one  of  the  first  acts  of  the 
strongly  anti-clerical  metropolitan  government  was  to 
close  down  hundreds  of  mission  schools  which  had  already 
sprung  up  there.  Soon,  however,  this  policy  was  reversed 
and  France  began  producing  a  small  Malagasy  elite  which 
could  assist  in  the  administration  of  the  country.  By  the 
1920s  Madagascar  had  produced  a  poet  of  genius  who 
wrote  and  thought  in  French,  Jean- Joseph  Rabearivelo. 
This  tragic  and  brilliant  figure,  with  his  passionate  love  of 
French  literature,  was  so  effectively  assimile  that  he  com- 
mitted suicide  in  1937  when  the  local  officials  persistently 
blocked  his  efforts  to  go  to  France.  His  poetry  is  imdoubt- 
edly  influenced  by  the  symbolists;  there  are  echoes  of 

14 


INTRODUCTION 

Laforgue's  Pierrotesque  tone  in  What  invisible  rati  and 
perhaps  of  Rimbaud  in  Cactus,  Yet  his  poetry  is  very 
strongly  itself.  The  brilliant  intensity  of  its  imagery,  like 
Leconte  de  Lisle' s,  may  be  the  feature  which  most  marks 
him  as  a  child  of  the  tropics.  Rabearivelo  never  hectors 
the  reader  in  the  modern  didactic  manner,  but  instead 
leads  him  confidently  into  his  own  visionary  world.  His 
ability  to  sustain,  elaborate,  and  explore  a  single  image 
throughout  an  entire  poem,  as  in  Cactus  or  The  black 
glassmaker,  distinguishes  him  from  the  more  engages  poets 
of  French  Africa.  Furthermore,  at  the  time  when  Rabeari- 
velo was  writing,  Madagascar  did  not  regard  itself  as  part 
of  the  African  world,  a  world  of  which  it  was  only  dimly 
aware. 

In  Flavien  Ranaivo,  a  more  recent  poet,  Madagascar 
asserts  its  own  poetic  traditions  more  vigorously.  The 
slangy  insolent  tone  of  his  verse  reveals  an  authentic 
inspiration  from  the  popular  vernacular  songs  of  the  island. 
So7tg  of  a  Young  Girl  combines  very  successfully  this 
lounging  gait  with  a  delightful  impudence  of  language, 
while  Song  of  a  Common  Lover  employs  the  line-by-Hne 
ingenuity  of  the  riddling  ballad. 

Madagascar  has  a  third  established  poet  in  Jacques 
Rabemananjara.  He  has  played  a  valiant  part  in  his  coun- 
try's liberation,  and  suffered  imprisonment  for  many  years 
after  the  savage  suppression  of  the  1947  revolt.  He  is  not 
represented  here  because  his  rhetorical,  rather  long-winded 
poetry  does  not  translate  well  into  English  and  is  difficult 
to  quote  shortly  with  proper  effect.  Much  more  clearly 
than  the  other  two,  he  belongs  to  the  Negritude  tradition, 
and  in  the  company  of  other  poet-poHticians  like  Senghor, 
Damas,  Cesaire,  and  Keita  Fodeba. 

Senegal  is  the  only  part  of  the  African  mainland  which 
really  witnessed  assimilation  in  practice.  Elsewhere  it  was 
not  even  attempted  until  after  1946  and  was  abandoned 
altogether  as  official  policy  some  ten  years  later.  Leopold 

15 


INTRODUCTION 

Sedar  Senghor  was  one  of  the  very  few  Senegalese  to  find 
his  way  to  a  French  university  before  the  war.  Bom  in  1906 
of  a  Serere  family  in  the  little  Portuguese  settlement  of 
Joal,  he  came  to  Paris  in  1928  and  soon  after  met  the  two 
men  with  whom  he  was  to  be  associated  as  an  apostle  of 
Negritude,  Aime  Cesaire  of  Martinique  and  Leon  Damas 
of  French  Guinea.  It  was  Damas  who  first  found  a  voice 
for  the  group  of  Negro  'exiles'  in  Paris  in  his  bitter,  stac- 
cato volume  Pigments^  issued  by  G.L.M.  in  1937  and  later 
destroyed  by  the  French  police: 

. . .  my  hatred  thrived  on  the  margin  of  culture 
the  margin  of  theories  the  margin  of  idle  talk 
with  which  they  stuffed  me  since  birth 
even  though  all  in  me  aspired  to  be  Negro 
while  they  ransack  my  Africa.* 

But  it  was  Cesaire  who  two  years  later  coined  the  word 
Nigritude  and  established  himself  as  the  chief  poet  and 
inspiration  of  the  movement  with  his  great  poem  Cahier 
d'un  retour  au  pays  nataL  This  poem  was  soon  afterwards 
hailed  by  Andre  Breton  as  a  surrealist  masterpiece;  but  in 
his  ambitious  survey  of  neo-African  culture,  Muntu 
(Faber,  1961),  the  German  scholar  Janheinz  Jahn  has 
argued  that  Cesaire's  purpose  was  far  more  rational  and 
deliberate  than  a  mere  'dive  into  the  imconscious'.  When 
he  arranges  certain  words  in  an  apparently  surrealist 
paradox  he  does  so  in  order  to  break  their  conventional 
association  and  make  them  anew.  Thus  he  writes  of  the 
imprisoned  hero  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  dying  in  the 
Jura  mountains  amid  the  snows  of  the  Northern  winter: 

What  I  am 

is  a  man  alone  imprisoned  in 

white 

is  a  man  alone  who  defies 

the  white  cries  of  white  death 

(toussaint,  toussaint 

*  From  Pigments  by  L.  G,  Damas  (G.L.M.,  PariSj  I937)>  translation  by  Ulli 
Beier. 

16 


INTRODUCTION 

l'ouverture) 
is  a  man  who  fascin- 
ates the  white  hawk  of  white  death 
is  a  man  alone  in  the  ster- 
ile sea  of  white  sand 
is  an  old  darky  braced  against 
the  waters  of  the  sky* 

Against  Jahn  it  could  be  argued  that,  although  Cesaire's 
ideology  embraces  Negritude,  his  technique  is  unmistak- 
ably surrealist^  and  to  describe  it  as  peculiarly  negro  is 
a  piece  of  critical  obscurantism.  It  is  true  that  Senghor, 
who  also  began  to  write  at  this  time,  occasionally  uses 
language  in  a  rather  similar  way;  but  he  does  so  with  a 
characteristic  rhetorical  amplitude  which  woos  the  reader 
instead  of  shocking  him. 

Perhaps  I  was  the  light  which  slept  upon  your 

forms  fluid  as  a  statue 
The  green  Ught  which  gilded  youj  which  made 

you  the  Sim  of  my  splendid  nightf 

In  Senghor's  poetry  all  the  familiar  themes  of  Negritude 
appear  one  by  one;  the  pervasive  presence  of  the  dead  and 
their  protective  guiding  influence  upon  the  living  (In 
Memoriam^  Night  of  Sine);  the  devastation  of  ancient 
Africa  and  its  culture  by  white  Europe  {Paris  in  the  Snozv); 
the  harsh  rigidity  of  the  modern  West  and  its  desperate 
need  for  the  complementing  qualities  of  Africa  (Nezv 
York);  the  warm  triumphant  beauty  of  African  woman 
{You  Held  the  Black  Face),  But  a  poem  Uke  Luxembourg 
J 9 39  shows  another  facet  of  Senghor,  his  profound  love 
and  understanding  of  what  is  great  and  enduring  in 
Western  achievement,  his  need  to  live  in  both  cultures,  to 
be  what  he  himself  calls  *a  cultural  mulatto*. 

Many  of  these  themes  recur  in  the  slender,  exquisite 

*  From  Cahier  d'un  retour  aupays  natal  by  Aime  C&aire  (Presence  Africaine, 
Paris,  1956),  pp.  45-6.  ^ 

t  From  D'autres  chants  (published  in  ^thiopiquest  Boitions  du  Seuil,  Paris, 
1956). 

17 


INTRODUCTION 

verses  of  Birago  Diop,  a  contemporary  of  Senghor's  who  has 
spent  far  more  of  his  life  in  Africa^  working  as  a  govern- 
ment official.  But  in  the  angry,  stabbing  lines  of  David 
Diopj  killed  in  an  air  crash  at  the  age  of  thirty-three,  there 
is  no  room  for  gentle  nostalgia  or  forgiveness.  His  poems 
move  inexorably  towards  a  triumphant  affirmation.  He 
does  not  hope  for  better  things,  he  commands  them  by  the 
power  of  the  word,  just  as  Agostinho  Neto  does  from  the 
coffee-fields  of  Angola. 

In  the  Congolese  poets  U  Tam'si  and  Bolamba  the 
influence  of  Cesaire  is  much  more  direct.  Instead  of  the 
sonorous  monotony  of  Senghor,  they  offer  a  series  of 
intense,  enigmatic  images  related  to  each  other  by  associa- 
tion rather  than  by  any  perceptible  string  of  meaning. 
Naturally  such  a  technique  is  only  occasionally  successful. 
Yet,  at  their  best,  they  both  produce  some  memorable 
images,  like  U  Tam'si's : 

My  race  remembers 

The  taste  of  bronze  drunk  hot. 

With  the  poets  of  English-speaking  Africa  we  move  to 
an  entirely  different  world,  one  which  knows  little  of 
Negritude,  and  generally  dislikes  what  it  knows.  The  dis- 
missive comment  of  Mphahlele  ('To  us  in  the  multi-racial 
communities  .  .  .  Negritude  is  just  so  much  intellectual 
talk,  a  cult')  can  be  matched  by  the  Nigerian  Wole 
Soyinka,  who  ridicules  the  idea  of  a  Tiger  having  to  pro- 
claim his  tigritude.  This  attitude  is  a  trifle  imfair,  but  its 
origins  are  not  difficult  to  find.  To  begin  with,  the  taste 
for  Uterary  ^  movements '  is  much  more  Gallic  than  Anglo- 
Saxon,  and  there  can  be  httle  doubt  that  the  intellectual 
attitudes  of  the  colonial  powers  have  affected  their  respec- 
tive former  subjects  profoundly.  Again,  Britain  never 
pursued  a  policy  of  cultural  assimilation  but,  character- 
istically, had  no  cultural  policy  at  all.  Consequently,  there 
was  far  less  to  react  against,  emotionally  and  intellectually, 

i8 


INTRODUCTION 

than  in  French  Africa.  But  correspondingly,  it  was  con- 
siderably longer  before  a  generation  of  West  Africans 
grew  up  who  felt  able  to  write  English  with  real  confidence 
and  fluency.  At  a  time  when  Senghor  and  others  were 
already  publishing  in  Parisian  literary  reviews,  Nigeria 
and  Ghana  had  nothing  to  show  but  a  few  verses  strongly 
influenced  by  missionary  hymns  and  slogans,  reflecting 
an  attitude  which  would  make  any  Negritude  poet  see  red: 

My  simple  fathers 

In  childlike  faith  believed  all  things; 

It  cost  them  much 

And  their  offspring  lost  a  lot; 

They  questioned  not  the  Ues  of  magic 

And  fetish  seemed  to  have  some  logic* 

So  wrote  the  Nigerian  Denis  Osadebey  only  about  a  dozen 
years  ago.  Similar  sentiments  are  still  occasionally  to  be 
found  in  Nigerian  poetry,  which  shows  how  thoroughly 
the  job  of  Jesimilation,  at  least,  was  accomplished.  Here  a 
Nigerian  student,  writing  only  two  or  three  years  ago, 
reflects  smugly  how  his  ancestors  gibbered  with  super- 
stitious terror  at  the  mere  sight  of  a  sunrise: 

What  in  ancestral  days  was  fear 
In  me  is  grandeur; 
What  in  ages  gone  was  dread. 
In  me  is  splendourf 

Other  pioneer  poets  of  English-speaking  Africa  were 
Dei-Anang  of  Ghana  and  H.  Carey  Thomas  of  Liberia. 
These  writers  show  rather  more  respect  for  indigenous 
culture,  but  their  handling  of  the  theme  is  somewhat  super- 
ficial. Thus  Carey  Thomas  points  the  opposite  moral  from 
Osadebey  in  equally  flat  language: 

Be  v/arned: 

That  palefaced  strangers 

*  Six  lines  from  Denis  Osadebey,  quoted  by  Ulli  Beier  iaBIack  Orpheus,  No.  lo 
t  Four  lines  by  J.  D.  Ekwere,  quoted  from  Nigerian  Student  Verse  (Ibadan, 
1959). 

19 


INTRODUCTION 

With  unhallowed  feet 

Profane  this  heritage  our  fathers  gave.* 

Recently  poetry  of  this  recognizably  *  pioneer'  type  has 
begun  to  appear  in  East  Africa  also.  The  young  Kikuyu 
poet  Joe  Mutiga  writes  of  the  desecration  of  holy  ground 
by  the  plantation  of  new  crops : 

Our  customs  are  dug  up. 

And  put  aside,  like  the  grass 

On  which  the  dancer  trod. 

And  foreign  crops  implanted; 

And  we  pass  by,  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Submitting  to  the  foreign  as  ours.f 

Poets  like  these  have  performed  a  useful  function  by  re- 
establishing poetry, as  an  occupation  for  educated  men, 
and  their  verses  are  often  of  great  political  and  sociological 
interest;  but  their  failure  to  penetrate  the  rich  traditions 
either  of  English  or  of  vernacular  poetry  afflicts  their  work 
with  a  total  lack  of  style.  An  anthology  of  these  poems 
would  be  an  important  and  moving  document  in  the 
history  of  African  nationalism.  In  this  anthology  they  are 
not  included  because  they  cannot  be  classified  as  'modern', 
in  the  sense  that  they  do  not  represent  a  fresh  exploration 
of  language. 

It  was  not  until  about  five  years  ago  that  a  new  genera- 
tion of  poets  began  to  show  themselves,  notably  in  Nigeria. 
With  the  exception  of  Gabriel  Okara,  all  these  young  poets 
studied  at  University  College,  Ibadan.  Hence  they  were 
able  to  acquire  a  literary  culture  without  suffering  the 
sense  of  alienation  and  exile  which  afflicted  the  black 
writers  gathered  in  Paris  twenty  and  thirty  years  ago. 
Having  grown  up  and  been  educated  in  a  purely  African 
environment,  their  work  is  extraordinarily  free  from  slo- 
gans or  stereotypes.  They  are  eclectic  in  their  choice  of 

*  Four  lines  from  H.  Carey  Thomas,  quoted  by  UUi  Beier  in  Black  Orpheus^ 
No.  I. 

t  From  To  the  Ceremonial  Mugumbo  by  Joe  Mutigaj  quoted  from  Transitiorii 
3  (Kampala,  1962). 

20 


INTRODUCTION 

influences,  which  range  from  Dylan  Thomas,  Pound,  and 
Hopkins  to  Shakespeare  and  even  Aeschylus;  yet  out  of 
these,  each  has  compounded  a  strongly  individual  voice. 
Wole  Soyinka,  for  instance,  who  studied  at  Ibadan  before 
moving  to  Britain,  is  the  only  African  poet  to  date  who 
deploys  a  gift  for  Ught,  sophisticated  irony  {Telephone 
Conversation^  My  Next-door  Neighbour).  Okara  is  an 
introspective,  withdrawn  poet,  whose  best  work  has  great 
beauty  and  resonance.  Poems  like  One  Night  at  Victoria 
Beach  and  The  Snowflakes  Sail  Gently  Down  are  among 
the  finest  things  yet  to  come  out  of  Nigeria.  Frank  Aig- 
Imoukhuede  has  demonstrated  the  humorous  possibilities 
of  pidgin.  Does  it,  perhaps,  also  have  possibilities  for 
pathos? 

Jahn  has  argued  in  Muntu  that  the  genius  of  African 
poetry  is  collective: 

In  African  poetry  .  .  .  the  expression  is  always  in  the  service 
of  the  content;  it  is  never  a  question  of  expressing  oneself,  but 
of  expressing  something  .  .  .  Nor  is  the  African  poet  ever  con- 
cerned with  his  inner  nature,  with  his  individuality.* 

Like  so  many  pronouncements  on  African  poetry,  this 
does  not  seem  especially  true,  except  to  the  extent  that  it 
is  true  of  all  good  poetry  -  do  not  all  poets  speak  for 
mankind?  A  poem  like  John  Pepper  Clark's  Night  Rain 
tingles  in  every  line  with  the  sense  of  individual  experience 
in  a  particular  time  and  place.  In  general,  these  young 
poets  do  not  seem  at  all  intent  upon  expressing  the  collec- 
tive African  soul,  nor  do  they  clamour  in  every  line  about 
being  black  and  proud  of  it.  The  maturity  and  confidence 
of  their  writing  is  one  of  its  most  encouraging  aspects. 

It  is  interesting  to  see  the  use  which  has  been  made  of 
vernacular  poetry  by  two  of  these  English-speaking  poets, 
George  Awoonor- Williams  of  Ghana  and  Mazisi  Kunene 
of  South  Africa.  Both  have  understood  and  assimilated  the 
cryptic,    rather    oracular    quality    of   n^uch    vernacular 

*  Muntu,  p.  148. 

21 


INTRODUCTION 

imagery.  This  has  given  both  freshness  and  weight  to  their 
language.  Bothj  incidentally,  come  from  areas  where  a 
great  deal  of  fine  vernacular  poetry  has  been  collected, 
Eweland  and  Zululand. 

Much  of  the  poetry  from  Portuguese  Africa  is  little 
more  than  a  cry  of  sheer  agony  and  loss.  These  territories 
are  still  politically  and  socially  in  a  condition  from  which 
most  of  Africa  emerged  many  years  ago.  The  tiny  group  of 
assimilados  (about  5,000  in  Angola,  after  over  400  years  of 
coastal  occupation)  provides  the  principal  target  of  govern- 
ment repression.  Dr  Agostinho  Neto,  for  instance,  was 
imprisoned  in  Portugal  for  over  two  years  until  his  recent 
escape.  Yet,  if  few  of  these  poets  can  write  of  anything 
but  their  immediate  dilemma,  their  work  is  testimony 
enough  to  the  imquenchable  spirit  of  their  humanity.  An 
exception  is  Valente  Malangatana  who,  alone  among  the 
poets  in  this  collection,  is  also  a  painter  of  distinction. 
Like  the  Haitian  painter-poet  Max  Pinchinat,  his  imagery 
has  great  immediacy  and  presence,  a  presence  which  is 
more  than  visual: 

and  I  all  fresh,  fresh 

breathed  gentiy,  wrapped  in  my  napkins. 

His  two  poems  seem  to  us  among  the  most  beautiful  and 
rewarding  in  the  whole  volimie. 

Few  writers  on  African  poetry  can  resist  the  temptation 
to  pontificate.  It  is  interesting  to  see  to  what  extent  these 
generalizations  can  be  squared  with  the  reality  of  modern 
African  writing  as  represented  here.  For  a  starting-point 
let  us  take  a  statement  like  this,  of  Senghor's : 

Monotony  of  tone,  that  is  what  distinguishes  poetry  from  prose, 
it  is  the  seal  of  Negritude,  the  incantation  which  opens  the  way 
to  essential  things,  the  Forces  of  the  Cosmos.* 

In  point  of  fact,  it  is  only  in  Senghor's  own  work  that  a 
monotony  of  this  kind  is  exhibited,  and  there  it  is  only 
tolerable  because  of  the  splendour  of  his  musical  effects: 

*  ^thiopi'queSi  p.  120. 
22 


INTRODUCTION 

Que  j'ecoute,  dans  la  case  enfumee  que  visite  un 

reflet  d'ames  propices 
Ma  tete  sur  ton  sein  chaud  comme  un  dang  au  sortir 

du  feu  et  fumant 
Que  je  respire  Todeur  de  nos  Morts,  que  je  recueille 

et  redise  leur  voix  vivantej  que  j'appreuve  a 
Vivre  avant  de  descendre,  au  dela  du  plongeur,  dans 

les  hautes  profondeurs  du  sommeil.* 

David  Diop  exhibits  a  certain  monotony  of  content,  but  his 
movement  is  too  fierce  and  swift  to  permit  any  monotony 
of  style.  Could  it  be  that  Senghor  was  merely  vindicating 
his  own  sonority? 

Again,  Jahn  takes  Jean-Paul  Sartre  to  task  for  having 
argued  in  UOrphee  noir  that  Negro  poetry  is  *the  true 
revolutionary  poetry  of  our  time '5  and  that  Negritude  is 
the  voice  of  a  particular  historical  moment,  when  the  black 
race  has  given  tongue  to  its  revolt  against  white  rule. 
Against  this  Jahn  argues,  somewhat  primly,  that  neo- 
African  poetry  is  not  revolutionary  at  all,  but  a  return  to 
authentic  tradition,  and  that  Negritude,  far  from  being  the 
voice  of  a  particular  historical  moment,  is  the  style  in 
which  all  African  poetry  must  henceforth  be  written : 

Once  for  all  it  took  the  stain  from  Africa;  it  demonstrated  that 
poetry  and  literature  were  not  only  possible  in  the  African 
manner  and  out  of  an  African  attitude  of  mind,  but  that  only 
such  poetry  zvas  legitimate  [editors'  italics].! 

Yet  already  it  begins  to  look  as  though  Sartre  was  right.  In 
the  last  few  years  there  have  been  signs  that  the  wellspring 
of  Negritude  is  running  dry.  The  great  period  was  in 
the  forties  and  early  fifties,  and  since  then  Cesaire,  Damas, 
and  Senghor  have  all  been  notably  unproductive.  Birago 
Diop  has  published  only  one  slim  volume  of  verse  in 
twenty  years.  David  Diop  was  killed  after  writing  only  a 
handful  of  poems  and  before  it  was  possible  to  say  in  what 
direction  his  style  might  have  moved.  A^eanwhile  the 

*  From  Nutt  de  Sine  (French  text), 
t  Muntu,  p.  207. 

23 


INTRODUCTION 

centre  of  poetic  activity  seems  to  have  shifted  from  Sene- 
gal-Paris to  Nigeria,  where  the  last  five  years  have  seen  a 
remarkable  upsurge.  And,  as  already  pointed  out,  these 
yoimg  poets  'of  EngHsh  expression'  are  not  merely  indif- 
ferent to,  but  actually  hostile  towards,  the  concept  of 
Negritude. 

The  answer  may  be  that  Negritude  has  served  its  pur- 
pose in  giving  neo-African  poets  a  bridgehead  and  a  point 
of  departure.  But  as  Africa  moves  into  independence,  the 
conflicts  of  the  core  of  Negritude  become  more  and  more 
apparent.  It  is  no  coincidence  that  the  word  itself  was 
coined  by  a  West  Indian,  or  that  he  should  also  have 
written  the  most  extended  poetic  exposition  of  it.  The 
situation  of  the  black  West  Indian  was  always  essentially 
different  from  that  of  the  continental  African,  and  has 
become  increasingly  so  as  Africa  itself  has  passed  back 
into  African  hands.  The  black  man  in  Haiti,  Cuba,  Puerto 
Rico,  Martinique,  or  Jamaica  grew  up  in  a  permanent 
state  of  exile.  He  had  no  name,  no  tolerated  religion,  and 
scarcely  any  distinct  culture  of  his  own,  yet  until  recently 
he  could  not  expect  any  position  of  power  or  influence  in 
the  new  mixed  societies  which  had  been  built  upon  his 
labours.  Without  even  knowing,  in  the  vast  majority  of 
cases,  from  which  part  of  Africa  his  ancestors  came,  he 
was  obliged  to  build  up  a  romantic,  idealized  vision  of 
'Guinea',  a  kind  of  heaven  to  which  aU  good  Negroes  go 
when  they  die: 

It's  the  long  road  to  Guinea 
Death  takes  you  there.* 

His  dilemma  has  been  perfectly  expressed  by  the  Cuban 
poet  Nicolas  Guillen,  who  finds  nothing  except  his  colour 
to  distinguish  him  from  those  who  reject  him  and  who  is 
therefore  obUged  to  investigate  the  meaning  of  that  colour 
afresh: 

*  From  Guinea  by  Jacques  Rovimain,  quoted  from  The  Poetry  of  the  Negro 
(New  Yorkj  I949). 

24 


I 


INTRODUCTION 

.  .  .  All  my  skin  (I  should  have  said  so) 

all  my  skin  -  does  it  really  come 

from   that    Spanish  marble   statue?    And  my 

fearful  voice 
the  harsh  cry  from  my  gorge?  And  all  my  bones 
do  they  come  from  there?  ... 
Are  you  quite  sure? 

Is  there  nothing  else,  only  that  which  you  wrote 
that  which  you  sealed 
with  a  sign  of  wrath. . . . 
Do  you  not  see  these  drums  in  my  eyes? 
Do  you  not  see  these  drums  hammering  out 
two  dry  tears? 

Have  I  not  got  an  ancestor  of  night 
with  a  large  black  mark 
(blacker  than  the  skin) 
a  large  mark 
written  with  a  whip? 
Have  I  got  not  an  ancestor 
from  MandingOj  the  Congo,  Dahomey?* 

One  reaction  to  this  dilemma  v^as  to  plimge  into  a  glorifica- 
tion of  sensuality -blood,  drums,  rhythmic  ecstasy -such  as 
we  find  in  a  poem  like  Rumba  by  Jose  Tallet: 

The  climax  of  passion,  the  dancers  are  trembling 

and  ecstasy  presses  Jos6  to  the  ground. 

The  Bongo  is  thundering  and  in  a  mad  whirl 

the  daemon  has  broken  Tomasa's  limbs. 

Piqm-tiqui-pan,  piqui-tiqui-pan! 

Piqui-tiqui-pan,  piqui-tiqui-pan! 

The  blackish  Tomasa  now  falls  to  the  ground 

and  down  also  falls  Che  Encamaci6n. 

there  tliey  are  rolling,  convulsing,  and  twitchingj 

with  whirling  drum  and  raging  Bong6 

the  rumba  now  fades  with  con-con-co-mab6! 

And  pa-ca,  pa-ca,  pa-ca,  pa-cal 

Pam!  Pam!  Pamlf  J 

*  Akanji's  translation  of  The  Name  in  Black  Orpheus,  No.  7. 
t  Akanji's  translation  of  Rurnha  in  Black  Orpheus^  No.  7. 

25 


INTRODUCTION 

It  was  these  attitudes  of  alienation  and  protest  which  gave 
rise  to  the  Uterary  movement  of  Negrismo  in  Cuba  during 
the  late  twenties,  and  to  a  similar  movement  in  Haiti  at 
about  the  same  time.  And  these  same  Caribbean  move- 
ments are  the  direct  ancestors  of  Negritude. 

It  is  interesting  that  Senghor's  great  anthology  of  1948, 
the  chef  d^ceuvre  of  Negritude,  should  contain  the  work  of 
only  three  poets  from  continental  Africa,  and  those  three 
all  from  Senegal.  For  it  was  in  Senegal  that  a  handful  of 
African  intellectuals  were  treated  to  the  full  rigours  of 
assimilations  and  later  to  those  of  exile  -  albeit  a  voluntary 
exile  in  Paris.  Naturally,  the  passionate  chords  of  Cesaire 
found  an  echo  in  their  hearts.  Naturally,  too,  they  found 
less  echo  in  the  hearts  of  poets  brought  up  and  educated  in 
the  bosom  of  a  functioning  African  society  which,  even  at 
the  fuU  tide  of  coloniaUsm,  never  truly  resembled  the 
Caribbean  situation. 

This  is  what  makes  it  so  dangerous  for  critics  to  try  and 
establish  a  literary  orthodoxy,  in  the  manner  of  Jahn  in 
Muntu : 

Whether  the  work  of  an  author  whatever  his  colour,  belongs  to 
Western  or  African  culture,  depends  on  whether  we  find  in  it 
those  criteria  of  African  culture  which  we  have  set  forth  in  the 
preceding  chapters.* 

Thus  Jahn  estabUshes  himself  as  the  keeper  of  the  narrow 
gate  which  leads  to  the  African  Parnassus.  Fortunately,  as 
the  following  pages  show,  African  poetry  is  already  too 
rich  and  various  to  follow  one  path  only. 

Probably  the  nearest  thing  to  an  acceptable  generaliza- 
tion about  African  poetry  has  been  made  by  Senghor: 

The  word  here  is  more  than  the  image,  it  is  the  analagous 

image,  without  even  the  help  of  metaphor  or  comparison.  It 

is  enough  to  name  the  thing,  and  the  sense  appears  beneath  the 

sign.f 

*  MuntUi  p.  195. 

t  ithiopiquesj  p.  I08. 

26 


INTRODUCTION 

This  process  is  essentially  one  of  verbal  magic :  the  poet- 
magus  makes  by  naming.  It  undoubtedly  lies  at  the  root 
of  all  poetry,  but  it  is  probably  closer  to  the  surface  of  the 
poet's  mind  in  Africa  than  elsewhere  because  of  the  recent 
arrival  of  literacy  in  the  area,  and  because  he  inhabits  a 
society  where  a  vast  body  of  traditional  ritual,  dance,  song, 
poetry,  and  story  is  still  aHve.  In  a  recent  article  on  Ife, 
WiUiam  Fagg  and  Frank  Willett  have  argued  that,  because 
he  worked  in  perishable  -materials,  the  African  carver  was 
forced  continually  to  renew  his  commimion  with  the  gods, 
to  *make'  them  afresh.  A  parallel  attitude  is  expressed  by 
Senghor,  who  is  happiest  when  his  poetry  is  sung  to 
music  in  the  traditional  style  and  so  passes  into  the  main- 
stream of  tradition.  In  discussing  poetic  diction  he  writes : 

A  poem  is  like  a  passage  of  jazz^  where  the  execution  is  just  as 
important  as  the  text. ...  I  still  think  that  the  poem  is  not  com- 
plete until  it  is  sung,  words  and  music  together.* 

And  in  Congo  he  expresses  contempt  for  the  'permanence* 
of  ink,  as  compared  with  the  true  permanence  of  rhythmic 
recreation : 

Oho!  Congo  oho!  to  beat  out  your  great  name  on  the 

waters  on  the  rivers  on  all  memory 
May  I  move  the  voice  of  the  kdras  Koyate.  The  scribe's 

ink  has  no  memory,  f 

In  compiling  this  anthology,  we  have  imposed  certain 
limitations  upon  ourselves.  We  have  confined  ourselves  to 
black  writers  and  to  texts  originally  composed  in  one  or 
other  of  the  European  languages  spoken  in  Africa.  The 
first  restriction  is  a  matter  of  definition  -  African.  A  collec- 
tion of  this  title  might  logically  include  the  work  of  all  good 
poets  resident  in  Africa  or  of  African  background,  whether 
black,  coloured,  Indian,  or  white.  This  would  imply  the 
inclusion  of  such  well-anthologized  poets  as  Roy  Camp- 
bell, William  Plomer,  and  Guy  Butler,  as  well  as  the 


*  Ethiopiques,  pp.  121  and  I23. 

t  From  Congo,  published  in  JEthioptques. 


27 


INTRODUCTION 

various  Africaans  writers.  It  seemed  to  us  that  such  a 
collection  would  lack  the  more  particular  significance  to  be 
found  in  an  anthology  of  poetry  by  black  Africans,  who  at 
least  share  the  experience  of  a  historic  awakening  and  have 
not  hitherto  been  assembled  for  study  in  a  convenient 
form.  The  second  limitation  is  a  matter  of  feasibility. 
There  is  poetry  awaiting  collection  in  hundreds  of  African 
vernaculars.  But  how  is  one  to  make  a  critical  selection 
without  being  fully  familiar  with  all  the  vernaculars  con- 
cerned? How  much  of  this  poetry  could  be  legitimately 
regarded  as  'modern'?  And  how,  having  made  a  selection, 
could  adequate  translations  be  secured?  The  present 
dominance  of  European  languages  in  African  creative 
writing  may  be  temporary,  but  there  is  no  denying  its 
existence  or  the  strength  of  the  factors  making  towards  it. 

Our  concept  of  the  modern  is  perhaps  more  difficult  to 
define.  In  part  it  is  simply  a  matter  of  quality;  hence  the 
exclusion  of  the  rather  tractarian  verse  of  the  West 
African  pioneers.  In  part  it  is  a  matter  of  the  poets'  aware- 
ness of  the  modern  idiom  in  European  and  American 
poetry.  It  is  this  awareness  that  enables  them  to  use  their 
respective  languages  without  distracting  archaism  and  in 
a  way  that  appeals  instantly  to  the  contemporary  ear. 

The  most  important  limitation  we  imposed  was  the 
attempt  to  set  a  high  standard  and  to  include  only  those 
poems  which  have  other  claims  to  attention  than  the  mere 
fact  of  having  been  written  by  Africans.  The  cause  of 
literature  has  been  poorly  served  already  by  imcritical 
selection.  We  thought  it  indefensible  to  include  bad  poems 
for  the  sake  of  keeping  everyone  happy.  Furthermore, 
anthologies  based  on  a  sense  of  duty  rather  than  of  pleasure 
are  always  unreadable. 

The  result  of  this  policy  is  that  some  countries,  such  as 
Senegal  and  Nigeria,  are  well  represented,  while  others  do 
not  appear  at  all.  This  is  an  interesting  fact  in  itself;  part 
of  the  function  of  an  anthology  of  this  kind  is  to  bring  out 
creative  strength  where  it  exists.  We  believe  that  the 

28 


INTRODUCTION 

balance  of  selection  here,  apparently  so  weighted  towards 
West  Africa,  represents  the  actual  situation  of  African 
poetry  at  the  moment.  An  anthology  compiled  five  years 
hence  may  be  able  to  announce  a  new  pattern. 

Finally,  we  should  like  to  thank  all  those  poets  who  have 
allowed  us  to  reprint  their  published  works  and  to  look 
over  their  impublished  manuscripts.  Their  generosity  has 
made  this  anthology  possible.  Special  thanks  are  also  due 
to  Alan  Ryder,  who  translated  all  the  Portuguese  texts, 
except  Neto*s  Farewell  at  the  Moment  of  Parting,  trans- 
lated by  the  editors,  and  the  two  poems  by  Malangatana 
translated  by  Dorothy  Guedes  and  Philippa  Rumsey. 
Thanks  are  also  due  to  Arnold  von  Bradshaw  for  his  trans- 
lation of  Senghor's  New  York.  All  the  other  translations 
are  the  work  of  the  editors.  We  hope  that  this  collection 
will  convince  even  the  most  sceptical  that  African  poetry 
not  only  exists,  but  is  among  the  most  original  and  exciting 
now  being  written  anywhere  in  the  world. 


\i 


Madagascar 


\. 


4 


Jean- Joseph  Rabearivelo 


Four  poems  from  Traduits  de  la  nuit 

2  What  invisible  rat 

come  from  the  walls  of  night 

gnaws  at  the  milky  cake  of  the  moon? 

Tomorrow  morning, 

when  it  has  gone, 

there  will  be  bleeding  marks  of  teeth. 

Tomorrow  morning 

those  who  have  dnmk  all  night 

and  those  who  have  abandoned  their  cards, 

blinking  at  the  moon 

will  stammer  out: 

'Whose  is  that  sixpence 

that  rolls  over  the  green  table?' 

*  Ah!  *  one  of  them  will  add, 

*our  friend  has  lost  everything 

and  killed  himself! ' 

And  all  will  snigger 

and,  staggering,  will  fall. 

The  moon  will  no  longer  be  there: 

the  rat  will  have  carried  her  into  his  hole. 


The  hide  of  the  black  cow  is  stretched, 
stretched  but  not  set  to  dry, 
stretched  in  the  sevenfold  shadow. 

B  33 


MADAGASCAR 

But  who  has  killed  the  black  cow, 

dead  without  having  lowed^  dead  without  having  roared, 

dead  without  having  once  been  chased 

over  that  prairie  flowered  with  stars? 

She  who  calves  in  the  far  half  of  the  sky. 

Stretched  is  the  hide 

on  the  sounding-box  of  the  wind 

that  is  sculptured  by  the  spirits  of  sleep. 

And  the  drum  is  ready 

when  the  new-born  calf, 

her  horns  crowned  with  spear  grass 

leaps 

and  grazes  the  grass  of  the  hills. 

It  reverberates  there 

and  its  incantations  will  become  dreams 

until  the  moment  when  the  black  cow  Hves  again, 

white  and  pink 

before  a  river  of  light. 


She 

whose  eyes  are  prisms  of  sleep 

and  whose  lids  are  heavy  with  dreams, 

she  whose  feet  are  planted  in  the  sea 

and  whose  shiny  hands  appear 

fuU  of  corals  and  blocks  of  shining  salt. 

She  will  put  them  in  little  heaps  beside  a  misty  gulf 
and  sell  them  to  naked  sailors 
whose  tongues  have  been  cut  out, 
until  the  rain  begins  to  fall. 


34 


JEAN-JOSEPH  RABEARIVELO 


Then  she  will  disappear 

and  we  shall  only  see 

her  hair  spread  by  the  wind 

like  a  bunch  of  seaweed  unravelling, 

and  perhaps  some  tasteless  grains  of  salt. 


17 

The  black  glassmaker 

whose  coimtless  eyeballs  none  has  ever  seen, 

whose  shoulders  none  has  overlooked, 

that  slave  all  clothed  in  pearls  of  glass, 

who  is  strong  as  Atlas 

and  who  carries  the  seven  skies  on  his  head, 

one  would  think  that  the  vast  river  of  clouds  might  carry 

him  away, 
the  river  in  which  his  loincloth  is  already  wet. 

A  thousand  particles  of  glass 
fall  from  his  hands 
but  rebound  towards  his  brow 
shattered  by  the  mountains 
where  the  winds  are  born. 

Arid  you  are  witness  of  his  daily  suffering 

and  of  his  endless  task; 

you  watch  his  thunder-riddled  agony 

until  the  battlements  of  the  East  re-echo 

the  conches  of  the  sea  - 

but  you  pity  him  no  more 

and  do  not  even  remember  that  his  sufferings  begin  again 

each  time  the  sun  capsizes. 


35 


MADAGASCAR 

Cactus 

{from  Presque-songes) 

That  multitude  of  moulded  hands 

holding  out  flowers  to  the  azure  sky 

that  multitude  of  fingerless  hands 

imshaken  by  the  wind 

they  say  that  a  hidden  source 

wells  from  their  untainted  palms 

they  say  that  this  inner  source 

refreshes  thousands  of  cattle 

and  numberless  tribes,  wandering  tribes 

in  the  frontiers  of  the  South. 

Fingerless  hands,  springing  from  a  source. 
Moulded  hands,  crowning  the  sky. 

Here,  when  the  flanks  of  the  City  were  still  as  green 

as  moonbeams  glancing  from  the  forests, 

when  they  still  left  bare  the  hills  of  larive 

crouching  like  bulls  upthrust, 

it  was  upon  rocks  too  steep  even  for  goats 

that  they  hid,  to  protect  their  sources, 

these  lepers  sprouting  flowers. 

Enter  the  cave  from  which  they  came 

if  you  seek  the  origin  of  the  sickness  which  ravages  them  - 

origin  more  shrouded  than  the  evening 

and  further  than  the  dawn  - 

but  you  will  know  no  more  than  I. 

The  blood  of  the  earth,  the  sweat  of  the  stone, 

and  the  sperm  of  the  wind, 

which  flow  together  in  these  palms 

have  melted  their  fingers 

and  replaced  them  with  golden  flowers. 


36 


1 


Flavien  Ranaivo 


Song  of  a  Young  Girl 
Oaf 

tlie  young  man  who  lives  down  there 
beside  the  threshing  floor  for  rice; 
like  two  banana-roots 
on  either  side  the  village  ditch, 
we  gaze  on  each  other, 
we  are  lovers, 
but  he  won't  marry  me. 
Jealous 

his  mistress  I  saw  two  days  since  at  the  wash  house 
coming  down  the  path  against  the  wind. 
She  was  proud; 

was  it  because  she  wore  a  lamba  thick 
and  studded  with  coral 
or  because  they  are  newly  bedded? 
However  it  isn't  the  storm 
that  will  flatten  the  delicate  reed, 
nor  the  great  sudden  shower 
at  the  passage  of  a  cloud 
that  will  startle  out  of  his  wits 
the  blue  bull. 
I  am  amazed; 
the  big  sterile  rock 
survived  the  rain  of  the  flood  , 
and  it's  the  fire  that  crackles 
the  bad  grains  of  maize. 

37 


MADAGASCAR 


Such  this  famous  smoker 

who  took  tobacco 

when  there  was  no  more  hemp  to  burn. 

A  foot  of  hemp? 

-  Sprung  in  Andringitra^ 
spent  in  Ankaratraj 

no  more  than  cinders  to  us. 
False  flattery 
stimulates  love  a  little 
but  the  blade  has  two  edges; 
why  change  what  is  natural? 

-  If  I  have  made  you  sad 

look  at  yourself  in  the  water  of  repentance, 

you  will  decipher  there  a  word  I  have  left. 

Good-bye^  whirling  puzzle, 

I  give  you  my  blessing: 

wrestle  with  the  crocodile, 

here  are  your  victuals  and  three  water-lily  flowers 

for  the  way  is  long. 


Song  of  a  Common  Lover 

Don't  love  me,  my  sweet, 

like  your  shadow  i 

for  shadows  fade  at  evening 

and  I  want  to  keep  you 

right  up  to  cockcrow; 

nor  like  pepper 

which  makes  the  belly  hot 

for  then  I  couldn't  take  you 

when  I'm  hungry; 

nor  like  a  pillow 

for  we'd  be  together  in  the  hours  of  sleep 

but  scarcely  meet  by  day; 

nor  like  rice 

for  once  swallowed  you  think  no  more  of  it ; 

38 


FLAVIEN   RANAIVO 


nor  like  soft  speeches 

for  they  quickly  vanish; 

nor  like  honey^ 

sweet  indeed  but  too  common. 

Love  me  like  a  beautiful  dream, 

your  life  in  the  night, 

my  hope  in  the  day; 

like  a  piece  of  money, 

ever  with  me  on  earth, 

and  for  the  great  journey 

a  faithful  comrade; 

like  a  calabash, 

intact,  for  drawing  water; 

in  pieces,  bridges  for  my  guitar. 


39 


Senegal 


Leopold  Sedar  Senghor 


In  Memoriam 

It  is  Sunday. 

I  fear  the  crowd  of  my  brothers  with  stony  faces. 

From  my  tower  of  glass  filled  with  pain,  the  nagging  An- 
cestors 

I  gaze  at  roofs  and  hills  in  the  fog 

In  the  silence  -  the  chimneys  are  grave  and  bare. 

At  their  feet  sleep  my  dead,  all  my  dreams  are  dust 

All  my  dreams,  the  Uberal  blood  spills  ail  along  the  streets, 
mixing  with  the  blood  of  the  butcheries. 

And  now,  from  this  observatory  as  from  a  suburb 

I  watch  my  dreams  float  vaguely  through  the  streets,  lie  at 
the  hills'  feet 

Like  the  guides  of  my  race  on  the  banks  of  Gambia  or 
Saloum, 

Now  of  the  Seine,  at  the  feet  of  these  hills. 

Let  me  think  of  my  dead ! 

Yesterday  it  was  Toussaint,  the  solemn  anniversary  of  the 
sun 

And  no  remembrance  in  any  cemetery. 

Ah,  dead  ones  who  have  always  refused  to  die,  who  have 
known  how  to  fight  death 

By  Seine  or  Sine,  and  in  my  fragile  veins  pushed  the  in- 
vincible blood. 

Protect  my  dreams  as  you  have  made  your  sons,  wanderers 
on  delicate  feet. 

Oh  Dead,  protect  the  roofs  of  Paris  in  the  Sunday  fog 

43 


SENEGAL 

The  roofs  which  guard  my  dead 

That  from  the  perilous  safety  of  my  tower  I  may  descend 

to  the  streets 
To  join  my  brothers  with  blue  eyes 
With  hard  hands. 


Night  of  Sine 

Woman,  rest  on  my  brow  your  balsam  hands,  your  hands 

gentler  than  fur. 
The  tall  palmtrees  swinging  in  the  nightwind 
Hardly  rustle.  Not  even  cradlesongs. 
The  rhythmic  silence  rocks  us. 
Listen  to  its  song,  listen  to  the  beating  of  our  dark  blood, 

Hsten 
To  the  beating  of  the  dark  pulse  of  Africa  in  the  mist  of 

lost  villages. 
Now  the  tired  moon   sinks  towards  its  bed  of  slack 

water. 
Now  the  peals  of  laughter  even  fall  asleep,  and  the  bards 

themselves 
Dandle  their  heads  like  children  on  the  backs  of  their 

mothers. 
Now  the  feet  of  the  dancers  grow  heavy  and  heavy  grows 

the  tongue  of  the  singers. 
This  is  the  hour  of  the  stars  and  of  the  night  that  dreams 
And  reclines  on  this  hill  of  clouds,  draped  in  her  long 

gown  of  milk. 
The  roofs  of  the  houses  gleam  gently.  What  are  they  telling 

so  confidently  to  the  stars? 
Inside  the  hearth  is  extinguished  in  the  intimacy  of  bitter 

and  sweet  scents. 
Woman,  light  the  lamp  of  clear  oil,  and  let  the  children  in 

bed  talk  about  their  ancestors,  like  their  parents. 
Listen  to  the  voice  of  the  ancients  of  Elissa.  Like  we, 

exiled, 

44 


LEOPOLD  SEDAR  SENGHOR 

They  did  not  want  to  die,  lest  their  seminal  flood  be  lost  in 
the  sand. 

Let  me  listen  in  the  smoky  hut  for  the  shadowy  visit  of 
propitious  souls. 

My  head  on  your  breast  glowing,  like  a  kuskus  ball  smok- 
ing out  of  the  fire. 

Let  me  breathe  the  smell  of  our  dead,  let  me  contemplate 
and  repeat  their  living  voice,  let  me  learn 

To  live  before  I  sink,  deeper  than  the  diver,  into  the  lofty 
depth  of  sleep. 


Luxembourg  1939 

This  morning  at  the  Luxembourg,  this  autumn  at  the 

Luxembourg,  as  I  Hved  and  reUved  my  youth 
No  loafers,  no  water,  no  boats  upon  the  water,  no  children, 

no  flowers. 
Ah!  the  September  flowers  and  the  sunburnt  cries  of  chil- 
dren who  defied  the  coming  winter. 
Only  two  old  boys  trying  to  play  tennis. 
This  autumn  morning  without  children  -  the  children's 

theatre  is  shut ! 
This  Luxembourg  where  I  cannot  trace  my  youth,  those 

years  fresh  as  the  lawns. 
My  dreams  defeated,  my  comrades  despairing,  can  it  be 

so? 
Behold  them  falling  like  leaves  with  the  leaves,  withered 

and  wounded  trampled  to  death  the  colour  of  blood 
To  be  shovelled  into  what  common  grave?  . 
I  do  not  know  this  Luxembourg,  these  soldiers  mounting 

guard. 
They  have  put  guns  to  protect  the  whispering  retreat  of 

Senators, 
They  have  cut  trenches  under  the  bench  where  I  first  learnt 

the  soft  flowering  of  lips. 
That  notice  again!  Ah  yes,  dangerous  youth! 

45 


SENEGAL 

I  watch  the  leaves  fall  into  the  shelters,  into  the  ditches, 

into  the  trenches 
Where  the  blood  of  a  generation  flows 
Europe  is  burying  the  yeast  of  nations  and  the  hope  of 

newer  races. 


Totem 

I  must  hide  him  in  my  innermost  veins 

The  Ancestor  whose  stormy  hide  is  shot  with  lightning  and 

thunder 
My  animal  protector,  I  must  hide  him 
That  I  may  not  break  the  barriers  of  scandal: 
He  is  my  faithful  blood  that  demands  fidelity 
Protecting  my  naked  pride  against 
Myself  and  the  scorn  of  luckier  races. 


Paris  in  the  Snow 

Lord,  you  visited  Paris  on  the  day  of  your  birth 

Because  it  had  become  paltry  and  bad. 

You  purified  it  with  incorruptible  cold, 

The  white  death. 

This  morning  even  the  factory  funnels  hoisted  in  harmony 

The  white  flags. 

'Peace  to  all  men  of  good  will.' 

Lord,  you  have  offered  the  divided  world,  divided  Europe, 

The  snow  of  peace. 

And  the  rebels  fired  their  fourteen  hundred  cannons 

Against  the  mountains  of  your  peace. 

Lord,  I  have  accepted  your  white  cold  that  burns  worse 

than  salt. 
And  now  my  heart  melts  like  snow  in  the  sun. 
And  I  forget 

46 


LEOPOLD  SEDAR  SENGHOR 

The  white  hands  that  loaded  the  guns  that  destroyed  the 

kingdoms. 
The  hands  that  whipped  the  slaves  and  that  whipped  you 
The  dusty  hands  that  slapped  you,  the  white  powdered 

hands  that  slapped  me 
The  sure  hands  that  pushed  me  into  soHtude  and  hatred 
The  v/hite  hands  that  felled  the  high  forest  that  dominated 

Africa, 
That  felled  the  Sara,  erect  and  firm  in  the  heart  of  Africa, 

beautiful  like  the  first  men  that  were  created  by  your 

brown  hands. 
They  felled  the  virgin  forest  to  turn  into  railway  sleepers. 
They  felled  Africa's  forest  in  order  to  save  civilization  that 

was  lacking  in  men. 
Lord,  I  can  still  not  abandon  this  last  hate,  I  know  it,  the 

hatred  of  diplomats  who  show  their  long  teeth 
And  who  will  barter  with  black  flesh  tomorrow. 
My  heart,  oh  lord,  has  melted  like  the  snow  on  the  roofs  of 

Paris 
In  the  sun  of  your  Goodness, 
It  is  kind  to  my  enemies,  my  brothers  with  the  snowless 

white  hands. 
Also  because  of  the  hands  of  dew  that  lie  on  my  burning 

cheeks  at  night. 


Blues 

The  spring  has  svv^ept  the  ice  from  all  my  frozen  rivers 
My  young  sap  trembles  at  the  first  caresses  along  the 

tender  bark. 
But  see  how  in  the  midst  of  July  I  am  blinder  than  the 

Arctic  winter! 
My  wings  beat  and  break  against  the  barriers  of  heaven 
No  ray  pierces  the  deaf  vault  of  my  bitterness. 
What  sign  is  there  to  find?  What  key  to  strike? 
And  how  can  god  be  reached  by  hurling  javelins? 

47 


SENEGAL 

Royal  Summer  of  the  distant  South,  you  will  come  too 

late,  in  a  hateful  September! 
In  what  book  can  I  find  the  thrill  of  your  reverberation? 
And  on  the  pages  of  what  book,  on  what  impossible  lips 

taste  your  delirious  love? 

The  impatient  fit  leaves  me.  Oh!  the  dull  beat  of  the  rain 

on  the  leaves ! 
Just  play  me  your  'Solitude',  Duke,  till  I  cry  myself  to 

sleep. 


The  Dead 

They  are  lying  out  there  beside  the  captured  roads,  all 

along  the  roads  of  disaster 
Elegant  poplars,  statues  of  sombre  gods  draped  in  their 

long  cloaks  of  gold, 
Senegalese  prisoners  darkly  stretched  on  the  soil  of  France. 

In  vain  they  have  cut  off  your  laughter,  in  vain  the  darker 

flower  of  your  flesh. 
You  are  the  flower  in  its  first  beauty  amid  a  naked  absence 

of  flowers 
Black  flower  with  its  grave  smile,  diamond  of  immemorial 

ages. 
You  are  the  slime  and  plasma  of  the  green  spring  of  the 

world 
Of  the  first  couple  you  are  the  flesh,  the  ripe  belly  the 

milkiness 
You  are  the  sacred  increase  of  the  bright  gardens  of 

paradise 

And  the  invincible  forest,  victorious  over  fire  and  thimder- 

bolt. 
The  great  song  of  your  blood  will  vanquish  machines  and 

cannons 
Your  throbbing  speech  evasions  and  lies. 

48 


LEOPOLD  SEDAR  SENGHOR 

No  hate  in  your  soul  void  of  hatred,  no  cunning  in  your 

soul  void  of  cunning. 
O  Black  Martyrs  immortal  race,  let  me  speak  the  words  of 

pardon. 


Prayer  to  Masks 

Masks !  Oh  Masks ! 

Black  mask,  red  mask,  you  black  and  white  masks. 
Rectangular  masks  through  whom  the  spirit  breathes, 
I  greet  you  in  silence ! 
And  you  too,  my  pantherheaded  ancestor. 
You  guard  this  place,  that  is  closed  to  any  feminine  laugh- 
ter, to  any  mortal  smile. 
You  purify  the  air  of  eternity,  here  where  I  breathe  the  air 

of  my  fathers. 
Masks  of  maskless  faces,  free  from  dimples  and  wrinkles. 
You  have  composed  this  image,  this  my  face  that  bends 

over  the  altar  of  white  paper. 
In  the  name  of  your  image,  listen  to  me! 
Now  while  the  Africa  of  despotism  is  dying  -  it  is  the  agony 

of  a  pitiable  princess 
Just  like  Europe  to  whom  she  is  connected  through  the 

navel. 
Now  turn  your  immobile  eyes  towards  your  children  who 

have  been  called 
And  who  sacrifice  their  lives  like  the  poor  man  his  last 

garment 
So  that  hereafter  we  may  cry  'here'  at  the  rebirth  of  the 

world  being  the  leaven  that  the  white  flour  needs. 
For  who  else  would  teach  rhythm  to  the  world  that  has 

died  of  machines  and  cannons? 
For  who  else  should  ejaculate  the  cry  of  joy,  that  arouses 

the  dead  and  the  wise  in  a  new  dawn? 
Say,  who  else  could  return  the  memory  of  life  to  men  with 

a  torn  hope? 

49 


SENEGAL 

They  call  us  cotton  heads,  and  coffee  men,  and  oily  men. 
They  call  us  men  of  death. 

But  we  are  the  men  of  the  dance  whose  feet  only  gain 
power  when  they  beat  the  hard  soil. 


Visit 

I  dream  in  the  intimate  semi-darkness  of  an  afternoon. 
I  am  visited  by  the  fatigues  of  the  day. 
The  deceased  of  the  year,  the  souvenirs  of  the  decade. 
Like  the  procession  of  the  dead  in  the  village  on  the  horizon 

of  the  shallow  sea. 
It  is  the  same  sun  bedewed  with  illusions. 
The  same  sky  unnerved  by  hidden  presences. 
The  same  sky  feared  by  those  Vv^ho  have  a  reckoning  with 

the  dead. 
And  suddenly  my  dead  draw  near  to  me.  . , . 


All  Day  Long 

All  day  long,  over  the  long  straight  rails 

Like  an  inflexible  will  over  the  endless  sands 

Across  parched  Cayor  and  Baol  where  the  baobabs  twist 

their  arms  in  torment 
All  day  long,  all  along  the  line 
Past  the  same  little  stations,  past  black  girls  jostling  like 

birds  at  the  gates  of  schools 
All  day  long,  sorely  rattled  by  the  iron  train  and  dusty  and 

hoarse 
Behold  me  seeking  to  forget  Europe  in  the  pastoral  heart 

of  Sine! 


50 


LEOPOLD  SEDAR  SENGHOR 

In  what  Tempestuous  Night 

What  dark  tempestuous  night  has  been  hiding  your  face? 

And  what  claps  of  thunder  frighten  you  from  the  bed 

When  the  fragile  wails  of  my  breast  tremble? 

I  shudder  with  cold,  trapped  in  the  dew  of  the  clearing. 

Oi  I  am  lost  in  the  treacherous  paths  of  the  forest. 

Are  these  creepers  or  snakes  that  entangle  my  feet? 

I  sUp  into  the  mudhole  of  fear  and  my  cry  is  suffocated  in  a 
watery  rattle. 

But  when  shall  I  hear  your  voice  again,  happy  luminous 
morn? 

When  shall  I  recognize  myself  again  in  the  laughing  mirror 
of  eyes,  that  are  large  like  windows? 

And  what  sacrifice  will  pacify  the  white  mask  of  the  god- 
dess? 

Perhaps  the  blood  of  chickens  or  goats,  or  the  worthless 
blood  in  my  veins? 

Or  the  prelude  of  my  song,  the  ablution  of  my  pride? 

Give  me  propitious  words. 


New  York 

{for  jazz  orchestra :  trumpet  solo) 

I 

New  York!  At  first  I  was  confused  by  your  beauty,  by 

those  great  golden  long-legged  girls. 
So  shy  at  first  before  your  blue  metallic  eyes,  your  frosted 

smile 
So  shy.  And  the  anguish  in  the  depths  of  skyscraper  streets 
Lifting  eyes  hawkhooded  to  the  sun's  eclipse. 
Sulphurous  your  Hght  and  Uvid  the  towers  with  heads  that 

thunderbolt  the  sky 
The  skyscrapers  which  defy  the  storms  with  muscles  of 

steel  and  stone-glazed  hide. 
But  two  weeks  on  the  bare  sidewalks  of  Manhattan 

51 


SENEGAL 

-  At  the  end  of  the  third  week  the  fever  seizes  you  with  the 

pounce  of  a  leopard 
Two  weeks  without  rivers  or  fields,  all  the  birds  of  the  air 
Falling  sudden  and  dead  on  the  high  ashes  of  flat  rooftops. 
No  smile  of  a  child  blooms,  his  hand  refreshed  in  my  hand. 
No  mother's  breast,  but  only  nylon  legs.  Legs  and  breasts 

that  have  no  sweat  nor  smell. 
No  tender  word  for  there  are  no  lips,  only  artificial  hearts 

paid  for  in  hard  cash 
And  no  book  where  wisdom  may  be  read.  The  painter's 

palette  blossoms  with  crystals  of  coral. 
Nights  of  insomnia  oh  nights  of  Manhattan !  So  agitated 

by  flickering  lights,  while  motor-horns  howl  of  empty 

hours 
And  while  dark  waters  carry  away  hygienic  loves,  like 

rivers  flooded  with  the  corpses  of  children. 


Now  is  the  time  of  signs  and  reckonings 

New  York !  Now  is  the  time  of  manna  and  hyssop. 

You  must  but  listen  to  the  trombones  of  God,  let  your 

heart  beat  in  the  rhythm  of  blood,  your  blood. 
I  saw  in  Harlem  humming  with  noise  with  stately  colours 

and  flamboyant  smells 
-  It  was  teatime  at  the  house  of  the  seller  of  pharmaceutical 

products  - 
I  saw  them  preparing  the  festival  of  night  for  escape  from 

the  day. 
I  proclaim  night  more  truthful  than  the  day. 
It  was  the  pure  hour  when  in  the  streets  God  makes  the 

fife  that  goes  back  beyond  memory  spring  up 
All  the  amphibious  elements  shining  like  suns. 
Harlem  Harlem!  Now  I  saw  Harlem!  A  green  breeze  of 

corn  springs  up  from  the  pavements  ploughed  by  the 

naked  feet  of  dancers 
Bottoms  waves  of  silk  and  sword-blade  breasts,  water-lily 

ballets  and  fabulous  masks. 

52 


LEOPOLD  SEDAR  SENGHOR 

At  the  feet  of  police-horses  roll  the  mangoes  of  love  from 

low  houses. 
And  I  saw  along  the  sidewalks  streams  of  white  rum 

streams  of  black  milk  in  the  blue  fog  of  cigars. 
I  saw  the  sky  in  the  evening  snow  cotton-flowers  and 

seraphims'  wings  and  sorcerers'  plumes. 
Listen  New  York!  Oh  listen  to  your  male  voice  of  brass 

vibrating  with  oboes,  the  anguish  choked  with  tears 

falling  in  great  clots  of  blood 
Listen  to  the  distant  beating  of  your  nocturnal  heart, 

rhythm  and  blood  of  the  tom-tom,  tom-tom  blood  and 

tom-tom. 

3 

New  York!  I  say  to  you:  New  York  let  black  blood  flow 

into  your  blood 
That  it  may  rub  the  rust  from  your  steel  joints,  like  an  oil 

of  life. 
That  it  may  give  to  your  bridges  the  bend  of  buttocks  and 

the  suppleness  of  creepers. 
Now  return  the  most  ancient  times,  the  unity  recovered, 

the  reconciUation  of  the  Lion  the  Bull  and  the  Tree 
Thought  linked  to  act,  ear  to  heart,  sign  to  sense. 
There  are  your  rivers  murmuring  with  scented  crocodiles 

and  mirage-eyed  manatees.  And  no  need  to  invent  the 

Sirens. 
But  it  is  enough  to  open  the  eyes  to  the  rainbow  of  April 
And  the  ears,  above  all  the  ears,  to  God  who  out  of  the 

laugh  of  a  saxophone  created  the  heaven  and  the  earth  in 

six  days. 
And  the  seventh  day  he  slept  the  great  sleep  of  the  Negro. 


53 


SENEGAL 

You  Held  the  Black  Face 
(for  Khalam) 

You  held  the  black  face  of  the  warrior  between  your 

hands 
Which  seemed  with  fateful  twilight  luminous. 
From  the  hill  I  watched  the  sunset  in  the  bays  of  your 

eyes. 
When  shall  I  see  my  land  again^  the  pure  horizon  of  your 

face? 
When  shall  I  sit  at  the  table  of  your  dark  breasts? 
The  nest  of  sweet  decisions  lies  in  the  shade. 
I  shall  see  different  skies  and  different  eyes^ 
And  shall  drink  from  the  sources  of  other  lipSj  fresher  than 

lemons^ 
I  shall  sleep  under  the  roofs  of  other  hair,  protected  from 

storms. 
But  every  year,  when  the  rum  of  spring  kindles  the  veins 

afresh, 
I  shall  mourn  anew  my  home,  and  the  rain  of  your  eyes 

over  the  thirsty  savannah. 


/  will  Pronounce  your  Name 
(for  Tama) 

I  will  pronounce  your  name,  Naett,  I  will  declaim  you, 

Naett! 
Naett,  your  name  is  mild  like  cinnamon,  it  is  the  fragrance 

in  which  the  lemon  grove  sleeps, 
Naett,  your  name  is  the  sugared  clarity  of  blooming  coffee 

trees 
And  it  resembles  the  savannah,  that  blossoms  forth  under 

the  mascuHne  ardour  of  the  midday  sun. 
Name  of  dew,  fresher  than  shadows  of  tamarind, 
Fresher  even  than  the  short  dusk,  when  the  heat  of  the  day 

is  silenced. 

54 


LEOPOLD  SEDAR  SENGHOR 

Naett,  that  is  the  dry  tornado^  the  hard  clap  of  lightning 
Naett,  coin  of  gold,  shining  coal,  you  my  night,  my  sun! 
I  am  your  hero,  and  now  I  have  become  your  sorcerer,  in 

order  to  pronounce  your  names. 
Princess  of  Elissa,  banished  from  Futa  on  the  fateful  day. 


Be  not  Amazed 

Be  not  amazed  beloved,  if  sometimes  my  song  grows  dark. 
If  I  exchange  the  lyrical  reed  for  the  Khalam  or  the  tama 
And  the  green  scent  of  the  ricefields,  for  the  swiftly  gallop- 
ing war  drums. 
I  hear  the  threats  of  ancient  deities,  the  furious  cannonade 

of  the  god. 
Oh,  tomorrow  perhaps,  the  purple  voice  of  your  bard  will 

be  silent  for  ever. 
That  is  why  my  rhythm  becomes  so  fast,  that  the  fingers 

bleed  on  the  Khalam. 
Perhaps,  beloved,  I  shall  fall  tomorrow,  on  a  restless  earth 
Lamenting  your  sinking  eyes,  and  the  dark  tom-tom  of  the 

mortars  below. 
And  you  will  weep  in  the  twilight  for  the  glowing  voice 
that  sang  your  black  beauty. 


55 


David  Diop 


Listen  Comrades 

Listen  comrades  of  the  struggling  centuries 

To  the  keen  clamour  of  the  Negro  from  Africa  to  the 

Americas 
They  have  killed  Mamba 
As  they  killed  the  seven  of  Martinsville 
Or  the  Madagascan  down  there  in  the  pale  light  on  the 

prisons 
He  held  in  his  look  comrades 
The  warm  faith  of  a  heart  without  anguish 
And  his  smile  despite  agony 
Despite  the  wounds  of  his  broken  body 
Kept  the  bright  colours  of  a  bouquet  of  hope 
It  is  true  that  they  have  killed  Mamba  with  his  white  hairs 
Who  ten  times  poured  forth  for  us  milk  and  light 
I  feel  his  mouth  on  my  dreams 
And  the  peaceful  tremor  of  his  breast 
And  I  am  lost  again 

Like  a  plant  torn  from  the  maternal  bosom 
But  no 

For  there  rings  out  higher  than  my  sorrows 
Purer  than  the  morning  where  the  wild  beast  wakes 
The  cry  of  a  hundred  people  smashing  their  cells 
And  my  blood  long  held  in  exile 
The  blood  they  hoped  to  snare  in  a  circle  of  words 
Rediscovers  the  fervour  that  scatters  the  mists 
Listen  comrades  of  the  struggling  centuries 

56 


DAVID   DIOP 

To  the  keen  clamour  of  the  Negro  from  Africa  to  the 

Americas 
It  is  the  sign  of  the  dawn 
The  sign  of  brotherhood  which  comes  to  nourish  the 

dreams  of  men. 


Your  Presence 

In  your  presence  I  rediscovered  my  name 

My  name  that  was  hidden  under  the  pain  of  separation 

I  rediscovered  the  eyes  no  longer  veiled  with  fever 

And  your  laughter  like  a  flame  piercing  the  shadows 

Has  revealed  Africa  to  me  beyond  the  snows  of  yesterday 

Ten  years  my  love 

With  days  of  illusions  and  shattered  ideas 

And  sleep  made  restless  with  alcohol 

The  suffering  that  burdens  today  with  the  taste  of  to- 
morrow 

And  that  turns  love  into  a  boundless  river 

In  your  presence  I  have  rediscovered  the  memory  of  my 
blood 

And  necklaces  of  laughter  hung  aroimd  our  days 

Days  sparkling  with  ever  new  joys. 


The  Renegade 

My  brother  you  flash  your  teeth  in  response  to  every 

hypocrisy 
My  brother  with  gold-rimmed  glasses 
You  give  your  master  a  blue-eyed  faithful  look 
My  poor  brother  in  immaculate  evening  dress 
Screaming  and  whispering  and  pleading  in  the  parlours  of 

condescension 
We  pity  you 
Your  country's  burning  sim  is  nothing  but  a  shadow 

57 


SENEGAL 

On  your  serene  *  civilized'  brow 

And  the  thought  of  your  grandmother's  hut 

Brings  blushes  to  your  face  that  is  bleached 

By  years  of  humiliation  and  bad  conscience 

And  while  you  trample  on  the  bitter  red  soil  of  Africa 

Let   these   words   of  anguish   keep   time   with   your 

restless  step  - 
Oh  I  am  lonely  so  lonely  here. 


Africa 

Africa  my  Africa 

Africa  of  proud  warriors  in  ancestral  savannahs 

Africa  of  whom  my  grandmother  sings 

On  the  banks  of  the  distant  river 

I  have  never  known  you 

But  your  blood  flows  in  my  veins 

Your  beautiful  black  blood  that  irrigates  the  fields 

The  blood  of  your  sweat 

The  sweat  of  your  work 

The  work  of  your  slavery 

The  slavery  of  your  children 

Africa  tell  me  Africa 

Is  this  you  this  back  that  is  bent 

This  back  that  breaks  under  the  weight  of  humiliation 

This  back  trembling  with  red  scars 

And  saying  yes  to  the  whip  under  the  midday  sun 

But  a  grave  voice  answers  me 

Impetuous  son  that  tree  young  and  strong 

That  tree  there 

In  splendid  loneliness  amidst  white  and  faded  flowers 

That  is  Africa  your  Africa 

That  grows  again  patiently  obstinately 

And  its  fruit  gradually  acquire 

The  bitter  taste  of  Hberty. 


.58 


DAVID   DIOP 

The  Vultures 

In  those  days 

When  civilization  kicked  us  in  the  face 

When  holy  water  slapped  our  cringing  brows 

The  vultures  built  in  the  shadow  of  their  talons 

The  bloodstained  monument  of  tutelage 

In  those  days 

There  was  painful  laughter  on  the  metallic  hell  of  the 

roads 
And  the  monotonous  rhythm  of  the  paternoster 
Drowned  the  howling  on  the  plantations 
O  the  bitter  memories  of  extorted  kisses 
Of  promises  broken  at  the  point  of  a  gun 
Of  foreigners  who  did  not  seem  human 
Who  knew  all  the  books  but  did  not  know  love 
But  we  whose  hands  fertilize  the  womb  of  the  earth 
In  spite  of  your  songs  of  pride 
In  spite  of  the  desolate  villages  of  torn  Africa 
Hope  was  preserved  in  us  as  in  a  fortress 
And  from  the  mines  of  Swaziland  to  the  factories  of 

Europe 
Spring  will  be  reborn  imder  our  bright  steps.     - 


To  a  Black  Dancer 

Negress  my  warm  rumour  of  Africa 

My  land  of  mystery  and  my  fruit  of  reason 

You  are  the  dance  by  the  naked  joy  of  your  smile 

By  the  offering  of  your  breasts  and  secret  pov/ers 

You  are  the  dance  by  the  golden  tales  of  marriage  nights 

By  new  tempos  and  more  secular  rhythms 

Negress  repeated  triumph  of  dreams  and  stars 

Passive  mistress  to  the  koras'  assault 

You  are  the  dance  of  giddyness 

By  the  magic  of  loins  restarting  the  v/orld 

You  are  the  dance 

59 


SENEGAL 

And  the  myths  burn  around  me 

Around  me  the  wigs  of  learning 

In  great  fires  of  joy  in  the  heaven  of  your  steps 

You  are  the  dance 

And  burn  false  gods  in  yovir  vertical  flame 

You  are  the  face  of  the  initiate 

Sacrificing  his  childhood  before  the  tree-god 

You  are  the  idea  of  All  and  the  voice  of  the  Ancient 

Gravely  rocketed  against  our  fears 

You  are  the  Word  which  explodes 

In  showers  of  light  upon  the  shores  of  obUvion. 


Nigger  Tramp 

You  who  move  like  a  battered  old  dream 

A  dream  transpierced  by  the  blades  of  the  mistral 

By  what  bitter  ways 

By  what  muddy  wanderings  of  accepted  suffering 

By  what  caravels  drawing  from  isle  to  isle 

The  curtains  of  Negro  blood  torn  from  Guinea 

Have  you  carried  your  old  coat  of  thorns 

To  the  foreign  cemetery  where  you  read  the  sky 

I  see  in  your  eyes  the  drooping  halts  of  despair 

And  dawn  restarting  the  cottonfields  and  mines 

I  see  Soxmdiata  the  forgotten 

And  Chaka  the  invincible 

Fled  to  the  seabed  with  the  tales  of  silk  and  fire 

I  see  all  that 

Martial  music  soimding  the  call  to  murder 

And  bellies  that  burst  open  amid  snowy  landscapes 

To  comfort  the  fear  crouched  in  the  entrails  of  cities 

O  my  old  Negro  harvester  of  imknown  lands 

Lands  of  spice  where  everyone  could  live 

What  have  they  done  with  the  dawn  that  Hfted  on  your 

brow 
With  your  bright  stones  and  sabres  of  gold 

60 


DAVID   DIOP 

Now  you  stand  naked  in  your  filthy  prison 

A  quenched  volcano  exposed  to  other's  laughter 

To  others'  riches 

To  others'  hideous  greed 

They  called  you  Half- White  it  was  so  picturesque 

And  they  shook  their  great  jaws  to  the  roots 

Delighted  at  a  joke  not  malicious  in  the  least 

But  I  what  was  I  doing  on  your  morning  of  wind  and  tears 

On  that  morning  drowned  in  spray 

Where  the  ancient  crowns  perished 

What  did  I  do  but  endure  seated  upon  my  clouds 

The  nightly  agonies 

The  imhealing  wounds 

The  petrified  bundles  of  rags  in  the  camps  of  disaster 

The  sand  was  all  blood 

And  I  saw  the  day  Uke  any  other  day 

And  I  sang  Yeba 

Yeba  like  a  delirious  beast 

O  buried  promise 

0  forsaken  seed 
Forgive  me  Negro  guide 
Forgive  my  narrow  heart 

The  belated  victories  the  abandoned  armour 
Have  patience  the  Carnival  is  over 

1  sharpen  the  hurricane  for  the  furrows  of  the  future 
For  you  we  will  remake  Ghana  and  Timbuktu 
And  the  guitars  shuddering  with  a  thousand  strokes 
Great  mortars  booming  under  the  blows 

Pestles 

Pounding 

From  house  to  house 

In  the  coming  day. 


6i 


Birago  Diop 


Diptych 

The  Sun  hung  by  a  thread. 

In  the  depths  of  the  Calabash  dyed  indigo 

Boils  the  great  Pot  of  Day. 

Fearful  of  the  approach  of  the  Daughters  of  fire 

The  Shadow  squats  at  the  feet  of  the  faithful. 

The  savannah  is  bright  and  harsh 

All  is  sharp,  forms  and  colours. 

But  in  the  anguished  Silences  made  by  Rumours 

Of  tiny  sounds,  neither  hollov/  nor  shrill. 

Rises  a  ponderous  Mystery, 

A  Mystery  muffled  and  formless 

Which  surrounds  and  terrifies  us. 

The  dark  Loincloth  pierced  with  nails  of  fire 

Spread  out  on  the  Earth  covers  the  bed  of  Night. 

Fearful  at  the  approach  of  the  Daughters  of  shadow 

The  dog  howls,  the  horse  neighs 

The  Man  crouches  deep  in  his  house. 

The  savannah  is  dark. 

All  is  black,  forms  and  colours 

And  in  the  anguished  Silences  made  by  Rumours 

Of  tiny  sounds  infinite  or  hollow  or  sharp 

The  tangled  Paths  of  the  Mystery 

Slowly  reveal  themselves 

For  those  who  set  out 

And  for  those  who  return. 


62 


BIRAGO   DIOP 


Omen 


A  naked  sun  -  a  yellow  sun 
A  sun  all  naked  at  early  dawn 
Pours  v/aves  of  gold  over  the  bank 
Of  the  river  of  yellow. 

A  naked  sun  -  a  white  sun 
A  sun  all  naked  and  white 
Pours  waves  of  silver 
Over  the  river  of  white. 

A  naked  sun  -  a  red  sun 
A  sun  all  naked  and  red 
Pours  v/aves  of  red  blood 
Over  the  river  of  red. 


Vanity 

If  we  tellj  gently,  gently 

All  that  we  shall  one  day  have  to  tell. 

Who  then  will  hear  our  voices  without  laughter. 

Sad  complaining  voices  of  beggars 

Who  indeed  will  hear  them  without  laughter? 

If  we  cry  roughly  of  our  torments 
Ever  increasing  from  the  start  of  things. 
What  eyes  will  watch  our  large  mouths 
Shaped  by  the  laughter  of  big  children 
What  eyes  will  watch  our  large  mouths? 

What  heart  will  listen  to  our  clamouring? 

What  ear  to  our  pitiful  anger 

Which  grows  in  us  like  a  tumour 

In  the  black  depth  of  our  plaintive  throats? 

When  our  Dead  come  with  their  Dead 

When  they  have  spoken  to  us  with  their  clumsy  voices ; 

Just  as  our  ears  were  deaf 

63 


SENEGAL 

To  their  cries,  to  their  wild  appeals 

Just  as  our  ears  were  deaf 

They  have  left  on  the  earth  their  cries. 

In  the  air,  on  the  water,  where  they  have  traced  their  signs 

For  us,  blind  deaf  and  unworthy  Sons 

Who  see  nothing  of  what  they  have  made 

In  the  air,  on  the  water,  where  they  have  traced  their  signs. 

And  since  we  did  not  understand  our  dead 

Since  we  have  never  listened  to  their  cries    - 

If  we  weep,  gently,  gently 

If  we  cry  roughly  of  our  torments 

What  heart  will  listen  to  our  clamouring. 

What  ear  to  our  sobbing  hearts? 


Ball 

A  scroll  of  blue,  an  exquisite  thought 
Moves  upwards  in  a  secret  accord 
And  the  gentle  pink  explosion  the  shade  filters 
Drowns  a  woman's  perfume  in  a  heavy  regret. 

The  languorous  lament  of  the  saxophone 
Counts  a  string  of  troubles  and  vague  promises 
And,  jagged  or  monotonous,  its  raucous  cry 
Sometimes  awakes  a  desire  I  had  thought  dead. 

Stop  jazz,  you  scan  the  sobs  and  tears 

That  jealous  hearts  keep  only  to  themselves. 

Stop  your  scrap-iron  din.  Your  uproar 

Seems  like  a  huge  complaint  where  consent  is  bom. 


Viaticum 

In  one  of  the  three  pots 

the  three  pots  to  which  on  certain  evenings 

the  happy  souls  return 

the  serene  breath  of  the  ancestors, 

64 


•: 


BIRAGO   DIOP 

the  ancestors  who  were  men, 
the  forefathers  who  were  wise. 
Mother  wetted  three  fingers, 
three  fingers  of  her  left  hand: 
the  thumb,  the  index  and  the  next; 
I  too  wetted  three  fingers, 
three  fingers  of  my  right  hand: 
the  thumb,  the  index  and  the  next. 

With  her  three  fingers  red  with  blood, 

with  dog's  blood, 

with  bull's  blood, 

with  goat's  blood. 

Mother  touched  me  three  times. 

She  touched  my  forehead  with  her  thumb. 

With  her  index  my  left  breast 

And  my  navel  with  her  middle  finger. 

I  too  held  my  fingers  red  with  blood, 

with  dog's  blood, 

with  bull's  blood, 

with  goat's  blood. 

I  held  my  three  fingers  to  the  winds 

to  the  winds  of  the  North,  to  the  winds  of  the  Levant, 

to  the  winds  of  the  South,  to  the  winds  of  the  setting  sun; 

and  I  raised  my  three  fingers  towards  the  Moon, 

towards  the  full  Moon,  the  Moon  full  and  naked 

when  she  rested  deep  in  the  largest  pot. 

Afterwards  I  plunged  my  three  fingers  in  the  sand 

in  the  sand  that  had  grown  cold. 

Then  Mother  said,  *Go  into  the  world,  go! 

They  will  follow  your  steps  in  life.' 

Since  then  I  go 

I  follow  the  pathways 

the  pathways  and  roads 

beyond  the  sea  and  even  farther, 

beyond  the  sea  and  beyond  the  beyond; 

G  65 


SENEGAL 


And  whenever  I  approach  the  wicked, 

the  Men  with  black  hearts, 

whenever  I  approach  the  envious, 

the  Men  with  black  hearts 

before  me  moves  the  Breath  of  the  Ancestors. 


66 


Gambia 


Lenrie  Peters 


Homecoming 

The  present  reigned  supreme 
Like  the  shallow  floods  over  the  gutters 

Over  the  raw  paths  where  we  had  been. 
The  house  with  the  shutters. 

Too  strange  the  sudden  change 

Of  the  times  we  buried  when  we  left 

The  times  before  we  had  properly  arranged 
The  memories  that  we  kept. 

Our  sapless  roots  have  fed 

The  wind-swept  seedlings  of  another  age. 
Luxuriant  weeds  have  grown  where  we  led 

The  Virgins  to  the  water's  edge. 

There  at  the  edge  of  the  town 

Just  by  the  burial  ground 
Stands  the  house  without  a  shadow 

Lived  in  by  new  skeletons. 

That  is  all  that  is  left 

To  greet  us  on  the  home  coming 
After  we  have  paced  the  world 

And  longed  for  returning. 


69 


GAMBIA 

Song 


Clawed  green-eyed 

Feline  of  night 

Palsy-breasted 

Selling  old  boot 

On  wet  pavement 

In  hour-glass  baskets 

Coconut  bellied 

Unyielding  copra 

Gland  exhausted 

Whore  fatigued 

Worm-tunnelled  sod 

Prostituted  fruit  of  Eve 

Edging  the  Park  trees 

Like  dancing  Caterpillars 

In  folded  leaves 

Softened  by  Social  Conscience 

Hoxmded  by  Prudes 

Friend  of  the  falling  star 

Victim  of  the  lonely  bed.    . 


We  have  Come  Home 

We  have  come  home 

From  the  bloodless  war 

With  simken  hearts 

Our  boots  full  of  pride  - 

From  the  true  massacre  of  the  soul 

When  we  have  asked 

*What  does  it  cost 

To  be  loved  and  left  alone?' 


We  have  come  home^ 

Bringing  the  pledge 

Which  is  written  in  rainbow  colours 

Across  the  sky  -  for  burial 


70 


LENRIE  PETERS 

But  it  is  not  the  time 

To  lay  wreaths 

For  yesterday's  crimes 

Night  threatens 

Time  dissolves 

And  there  is  no  acquaintance 

With  tomorrow 

The  gurgling  drums 

Echo  the  star 

The  forest  howls  - 

And  between  the  trees 

The  dark  sun  appears. 

We  have  come  home 

When  the  dawn  falters 

Singing  songs  of  other  lands 

The  Death  March 

Violating  our  ears 

Knowing  all  our  lore  and  tears 

Determined  by  the  spinning  coin. 

We  have  come  home 

To  the  green  foothills 

To  drink  from  the  cry 

Of  warm  and  mellow  birdsong. 

To  the  hot  beaches 

Where  boats  go  out  to  sea 

Threshing  the  ocean's  harvest 

And  the  harassing,  plxmging 

gliding  gulls  shower  kisses  on  the  waves. 

We  have  come  home 

Where  through  the  lightning  flash 

And  thundering  rain 

The  Pestilence,  the  drought 

The  sodden  spirit 

Lingers  on  the  sandy  road 

71 


GAMBIA 


Supporting  the  tortiired  remnants 

Of  the  flesh 

That  spirit  which  asks  no  favour 

Of  the  world 

But  to  have  dignity. 


72 


Ghana 


J 


Kwesi  Brew 


A  Plea  for  Mercy 

We  have  come  to  your  shrine  to  worship  - 
We  the  sons  of  the  land. 
The  naked  cowherd  has  brought 
The  cows  safely  home. 
And  stands  silent  with  his  bamboo  flute 
Wiping  the  rain  from  his  brow; 
As  the  birds  brood  in  their  nests 
Awaiting  the  dawn  with  imsung  melodies; 
The  shadows  crowd  on  the  shores 
Pressing  their  lips  against  the  bosom  of  the  sea; 
The  peasants  home  from  their  labours 
Sit  by  their  log  fires 
Telling  tales  of  long  ago. 
Why  should  we  the  sons  of  the  land 
Plead  unheeded  before  your  shrine. 
When  our  hearts  are  full  of  song 
And  our  lips  tremble  with  sadness? 
•  The  little  firefly  vies  with  the  star. 
The  log  fire  with  the  sun 
The  water  in  the  calabash 
With  the  mighty  Volta. 
But  we  have  come  in  tattered  penury 
Begging  at  the  door  of  a  Master. 


75 


GHANA 

The  Search 


The  past 

Is  but  the  cinders 

Of  the  present; 

The  future 

The  smoke 

That  escaped 

Into  the  cloud-bound  sky. 

Be  gentle,  be  kind  my  beloved 
For  words  become  memories. 
And  memories  tools 
In  the  hands  of  jesters. 
When  wise  men  become  silent. 
It  is  because  they  have  read 
The  palms  of  Christ 
In  the  face  of  the  Buddha. 

So  look  not  for  wisdom 

And  guidance 

In  their  speech,  my  beloved. 

Let  the  same  fire 

Which  chastened  their  tongues 

Into  silence. 

Teach  us  -  teach  us! 

The  rain  came  down. 

When  you  and  I  slept  away 

The  night's  burden  of  our  passions; 

Their  new-found  wisdom 

In  quick  lightning  flashes 

Revealed  the  truth 

That  they  had  been 

The  slaves  of  fools. 


76 


Ellis  Ayitey  Komey 


The  Change 

Your  infancy  now  a  wall  of  memory 
In  harmattan  the  locusts  filled  the  sky 
Destroying  the  sweat  put  into  the  field 
And  restless  seas  shattered  canoes 
The  fisher-folk  put  to  sail  by  noon. 
The  impatience  in  your  teens 
Yet  silent  were  your  dreams 
With  the  fires  in  your  heart 
Breaking  the  mask  of  innocence. 
The  evasive  soUtude  in  your  womb 
And  the  determination  of  your  limbs 
With  eyes  like  the  soaring  eagle 
Shattering  the  glass  of  ignorance. 
Your  infancy  now  a  wall  of  memory 
Before  this  you,  like  the  worms. 
Leaning  on  for  vain  indecorous  dreams 
And  the  cobras  with  venomous  tongues 
Licking  the  tepid  blooms  of  hibiscus. 


77 


G.  Awoonor- Williams 


Songs  of  Sorrow 
Dzogbese  Lisa  has  treated  me  thus 
It  has  led  me  among  the  sharps  of  the  forest 
Returning  is  not  possible 
And  going  forward  is  a  great  difficulty 
The  affairs  of  this  world  are  Hke  the  chameleon  faeces 
Into  which  I  have  stepped 
When  I  clean  it  cannot  go.* 

I  am  on  the  world's  extreme  corner^ 

I  am  not  sitting  in  the  row  with  the  eminent 

But  those  who  are  lucky 

Sit  in  the  middle  and  forget 

I  am  on  the  world's  extreme  corner 

I  can  only  go  beyond  and  forget. 

My  people,  I  have  been  somewhere 
If  I  turn  here,  the  rain  beats  me 
If  I  turn  there  the  sim  burns  me 
The  firewood  of  this  world 
Is  for  only  those  who  can  take  heart 
That  is  why  not  all  can  gather  it. 
The  world  is  not  good  for  anybody 
But  you  are  so  happy  with  your  fate; 
Alas !  the  travellers  are  back 
All  covered  with  debt. 

*  Colloquial :  It  [the  faeces]  will  not  go  [come  off]. 

78 


G.    AWOONOR-WILLIAMS 

Something  has  happened  to  me 

The  things  so  great  that  I  cannot  weep; 

I  have  no  sons  to  fire  the  gim  when  I  die 

And  no  daughters  to  wail  when  I  close  my  mouth 

I  have  wandered  on  the  wilderness 

The  great  wilderness  men  call  life 

The  rain  has  beaten  me. 

And  the  sharp  stumps  cut  as  keen  as  knives 

I  shall  go  beyond  and  rest. 

I  have  no  kin  and  no  brother. 

Death  has  made  war  upon  our  house; 

And  Kpeti's  great  household  is  no  more. 

Only  the  broken  fence  stands; 

And  those  who  dared  not  look  in  his  face 

Have  come  out  as  men. 

How  well  their  pride  is  with  them. 

Let  those  gone  before  take  note 

They  have  treated  their  offspring  badly. 

What  is  the  wailing  for? 

Somebody  is  dead.  Agosu  himself 

Alas !  a  snake  has  bitten  me 

My  right  arm  is  broken. 

And  the  tree  on  which  I  lean  is  fallen. 

Agosu  if  you  go  tell  them. 
Tell  Nyidevu,  Kpeti,  and  Kove 
That  they  have  done  us  evil; 
Tell  them  their  house  is  falling 
And  the  trees  in  the  fence 
Have  been  eaten  by  termites; 
That  the  martels  curse  them. 
Ask  them  why  they  idle  there 
While  we  suffer,  and  eat  sand. 
And  the  crow  and  the  vulture 
Hover  always  above  our  broken  fences 
And  strangers  walk  over  our  portion. 


79 


GHANA 

Song  of  War 

I  shall  sleep  in  white  calico; 

War  has  come  upon  the  sons  of  men 

And  I  shall  sleep  in  calico; 

Let  the  boys  go  forward, 

Kpli  and  his  people  should  go  forward; 

Let  the  white  man's  guns  boom. 

We  are  marching  forward; 

We  all  shall  sleep  in  calico. 

When  we  start,  the  ground  shall  shake; 

The  war  is  within  our  very  huts; 

Cowards  should  fall  back 

And  live  at  home  with  the  women; 

They  who  go  near  our  wives 

While  we  are  away  in  battle 

Shall  lose  their  calabashes  when  we  come. 

Where  has  it  been  heard  before 

That  a  snake  has  bitten  a  child 

In  front  of  its  own  mother; 

The  war  is  upon  us 

It  is  within  our  very  huts 

And  the  sons  of  men  shall  fight  it 

Let  the  white  man's  guns  boom 

And  its  smoke  cover  us 

We  are  fighting  them  to  die. 

We  shall  die  on  the  battlefield 

We  shall  like  death  at  no  other  place. 

Our  guns  shall  die  with  us 

And  our  sharp  knives  shall  perish  with  us 

We  shall  die  on  the  battlefield. 


80 


G.   AWOONOR-WILLIAMS 

The  Sea  Eats  the  Land  at  Home 

At  home  the  sea  is  in  the  town. 

Running  in  and  out  of  the  cooking  places. 

Collecting  the  firewood  from  the  hearths 

And  sending  it  back  at  night; 

The  sea  eats  the  land  at  home. 

It  came  one  day  at  the  dead  of  night. 

Destroying  the  cement  walls. 

And  carried  away  the  fowls. 

The  cooking-pots  and  the  ladles. 

The  sea  eats  the  land  at  home; 

It  is  a  sad  thing  to  hear  the  wails. 

And  the  mourning  shouts  of  the  women. 

Calling  on  all  the  gods  they  worship. 

To  protect  them  from  the  angry  sea. 

Aku  stood  outside  where  her  cooking-pot  stood. 

With  her  two  children  shivering  from  the  cold. 

Her  hands  on  her  breast. 

Weeping  mournfully. 

Her  ancestors  have  neglected  her. 

Her  gods  have  deserted  her. 

It  was  a  cold  Sunday  morning. 

The  storm  was  raging. 

Goats  and  fowls  were  struggling  in  the  water. 

The  angry  water  of  the  cruel  sea; 

The  lap-lapping  of  the  bark  water  at  the  shore. 

And  above  the  sobs  and  the  deep  and  low  moans. 

Was  the  eternal  hum  of  the  living  sea. 

It  has  taken  away  their  belongings 

Adena  has  lost  the  trinkets  which 

Were  her  dowry  and  her  joy. 

In  the  sea  that  eats  the  land  at  home. 

Eats  the  whole  land  at  home. 


8i 


Nigeria 


John  Pepper  Clark 


Olokun 

I  love  to  pass  my  fingers^ 

As  tide  through  weeds  of  the  sea. 

And  wind  the  tall  fern-fronds 

Through  the  strands  of  your  hair 

Dark  as  night  that  screens  the  naked  moon: 

I  am  jealous  and  passionate 

Like  Jehovahj  God  of  the  Jews^ 

And  I  would  that  you  reaHze 

No  greater  love  had  woman 

From  man  than  the  one  I  have  for  you! 

But  what  wakeful  eyes  of  man. 
Made  of  the  mud  of  this  earth. 
Can  stare  at  the  touch  of  sleep 
The  sable  vehicle  of  dream 
Which  indeed  is  the  look  of  your  eyes? 

So  drunken,  like  ancient  walls 
We  crumble  in  heaps  at  your  feet; 
And  as  the  good  maid  of  the  sea. 
Full  of  rich  boxmties  for  men, 
You  lift  us  all  beggars  to  your  breast. 


85 


NIGERIA 

Night  Rain 

What  time  of  night  it  is 

I  do  not  know 

Except  that  like  some  fish 

Doped  out  of  the  deep 

I  have  bobbed  up  bellywise 

From  stream  of  sleep 

And  no  cocks  crow. 

It  is  drumming  hard  here 

And  I  suppose  everywhere 

Droning  with  insistent  ardour  upon 

Our  roof-thatch  and  shed 

And  through  sheaves  sUt  open 

To  lighting  and  rafters 

I  cannot  make  out  overhead 

Great  water  drops  are  dribbling 

Falling  like  orange  or  mango 

Fruits  showered  forth  in  the  wind 

Or  perhaps  I  should  say  so 

Much  like  beads  I  could  in  prayer  tell 

Them  on  string  as  they  break 

In  wooden  bowls  and  earthenware 

Mother  is  busy  now  deploying 

About  our  roomlet  and  floor. 

Although  it  is  so  dark 

I  know  her  practised  step  as 

She  moves  her  bins,  bags,  and  vats 

Out  of  the  nm  of  water 

That  like  ants  filing  out  of  the  wood 

Will  scatter  and  gain  possession 

Of  the  floor.  Do  not  tremble  then 

But  turn  brothers,  turn  upon  your  side 

Of  the  loosening  mats 

To  where  the  others  lie. 

We  have  drimk  tonight  of  a  spell 

Deeper  than  the  owl's  or  bat's 

86 


JOHN   PEPPER   CLARK 


That  wet  of  wings  may  not  fly. 
Bedraggled  upon  the  iroko^  they  stand 
Emptied  of  hearts,  and 
Therefore  will  not  stir,  no,  not 
Even  at  dawn  for  then 
They  must  scurry  in  to  hide. 
So  we'll  roll  over  on  our  back 
And  again  roll  to  the  beat 
Of  drumming  all  over  the  land 
And  under  its  ample  soothing  hand 
Joined  to  that  of  the  sea 
We  will  settle  to  sleep  of  the  innocent. 


The  Imprisonment  of  Obatala 

Those  stick-insect  figures !  they  rock  the  dance 
Of  snakes,  dart  after  Him  daddy-long  arms. 
Tangle  their  loping  strides  to  mangrove  stance 
And  He,  roped  in  the  tightening  pit  of  alarms 
Dangles  in  His  front,  full  length. 
Invincible  Umbs  cramped  by  love  of  their  strength. 

And  that  mischievous  stir,  late  sown  or  spilt 
On  the  way  between  homestead  and  stream. 
Wells  up  in  pots  long  stagnant  on  stilt. 
Brims  out  to  where  ancestral  eyes  gleam 
Till  angry  waves  dam  His  track 
And  caterpillars  riding  break  their  back. 

One  leap  upon  the  charcoal-coloured  ass 
Swishing  ochre  urine  towards  palace  and  sim. 
Kicking  impatient  tattoo  on  the  grass. 
And  generations  unborn  spared  the  wrong. 
But  the  cry  of  a  child  at  what  it  knows  not 
Evokes  trebly  there  the  droop,  mud-crack,  and  clot. 


87 


NIGERIA 

Easter 
So  death 

being  the  harvest  of  God 
when  this  breath 

has  blov^Ti  uncertain  above  the  sod, 
what  seed,  cast  out  in  turmoil 
to  sprout,  shall  in  despair 
not  beat  the  air 
v/ho  falls  on  rock  swamp  or  the  yielding  soil? 

In  thrall 

mute  with  the  soft  pad  of  sheet 

himg  up  on  the  wall, 

I  draw  in  my  hook-feet : 

hear  the  reaper's  cry!  the  rap 

of  his  crook  on  the  door  - 

but  the  poor 

dupe!  opening,  shall  find  bats  far  gone  with  my  sap. 


For  Granny  (from  Hospital) 

Tell  me,  before  the  ferryman's  return. 

What  was  that  stirred  within  your  soul. 

One  night  fifteen  floods  today. 

When  upon  a  dugout 

Mid  pilgrim  lettuce  on  the  Niger, 

You  with  a  start  strained  me  to  breast: 

Did  you  that  night  in  the  raucous  voice 

Of  yesterday's  rain. 

Tumbling  down  banks  of  reed 

To  feed  a  needless  stream. 

Then  recognize  the  loud  note  of  quarrels 

And  endless  dark  nights  of  intrigue 

In  Father's  house  of  many  wives? 

Or  was  it  wonder  at  those  footless  stars 

8S 


JOHN   PEPPER   CLARK 


Who  in  their  long  translucent  fall 
Make  shallow  silten  floors 
Beyond  the  pale  of  muddy  waters 
Appear  more  plumbless  than  the  skies? 


Ibadan 


Ibadan, 

running  splash  of  rust 
and  gold  -  flung  and  scattered 
among  seven  hills  Uke  broken 
china  in  the  sun. 


Fulani  Cattle 

Contrition  twines  me  like  a  snake 

Each  time  I  come  upon  the  wake 

Of  your  clan. 

Undulating  along  in  agony. 

You  face  a  stool  for  mystery: 

What  secret  hope  or  knowledge. 

Locked  in  your  hump  away  from  man. 

Imbues  you  with  courage 

So  mute  and  fierce  and  wan 

That,  not  demurring  nor  kicking. 

You  go  to  the  house  of  slaughter? 

Can  it  be  in  the  forging 

Of  your  gnarled  and  crooked  horn 

You'd  experienced  passions  far  stronger 

Than  storms  which  brim  up  the  Niger? 

Perhaps,  the  drover's  whip  no  more 

On  your  balding  hind  and  crest 

Arouses  shocks  of  ecstasy: 

Or  likely  the  drunken  journey 

From  desert,  through  grass  and  forest. 


89 


NIGERIA 


To  the  hungry  towns  by  the  sea 
Does  call  at  least  for  rest  - 
But  will  you  not  first  vouchsafe  to  me^ 
As  true  the  long  knife  must  prevail. 
The  patience  of  even  your  tail? 


Cry  of  Birth 

An  echo  of  childhood  stalks  before  me 
like  evening  shadows  on  the  earth, 
rolling  back  into  piquant  memory 
the  anguished  cry  of  my  birth; 

Out  of  the  caverns  of  nativity 

a  voice,  I  little  knew  as  my  own 

and  thought  to  have  shed  with  infancy, 

returns  with  a  sharpness  before  unknown. 

Poor  castaways  to  this  darkling  shore, 
void  out  of  the  sea  of  eternity 
and  blind,  we  catch  by  reflex  horror 
an  instant  glimpse,  the  guilt  of  our  see: 

The  souls  of  men  are  steeped  in  stupor 
who,  tenants  upon  this  wild  isle  imblest, 
sleep  on,  obUvious  of  its  loud  nightmare 
with  wanton  motions  bedevilling  our  breast. 

All  night,  through  its  long  reaches  and  black 
I  wander  as  lo,  driven  by  strange  passions, 
within  and  out,  and  for  gadfly  have  at  my  back 
one  harrowing  shriek  of  pain  and  factions  - 

It  comes  ceaseless  as  from  the  wilderness ! 
commingled  with  the  vague  cogitation 
of  the  sea,  its  echo  of  despair  and  stress 
precedes  me  like  a  shade  to  the  horizon. 


90 


JOHN   PEPPER   CLARK 

Abiku 

Coming  and  going  these  several  seasons^ 

Do  stay  out  on  the  baobab  tree. 

Follow  where  you  please  your  kindred  spirits 

If  indoors  is  not  enough  for  you. 

True,  it  leaks  through  the  thatch 

When  floods  brim  the  banks. 

And  the  bats  and  the  owls 

Often  tear  in  at  night  through  the  eaves. 

And  at  harmattan,  the  bamboo  walls 

Are  ready  tinder  for  the  fire 

That  dries  the  fresh  fish  up  on  the  rack. 

Still,  it's  been  the  healthy  stock 

To  several  fingers,  to  many  more  will  be 

Who  reach  to  the  sim. 

No  longer  then  bestride  the  threshold 

But  step  in  and  stay 

For  good.  We  know  the  knife-scars 

Serrating  down  your  back  and  front 

Like  beak  of  the  sword-fish. 

And  both  your  ears,  notched 

As  a  bondsman  to  this  house. 

Are  all  reHcs  of  your  first  comings. 

Then  step  in,  step  in  and  stay 

For  her  body  is  tired. 

Tired,  her  milk  going  sour 

Where  many  more  mouths  gladden  the  heart. 


91 


Gabriel  Okara 


The  Snowflakes  Sail  Gently  Down 

The  snowflakes  sail  gently 
down  from  the  misty  eye  of  the  sky 
and  fall  lightly  lightly  on  the 
winter-weary  elms.  And  the  branches 
winter-stripped  and  nude^  slowly 
with  the  weight  of  the  weightless  snow 
bow  like  grief-stricken  mourners 
as  white  funeral  cloth  is  slowly 
unrolled  over  deathless  earth. 
And  dead  sleep  stealthily  from  the 
heater  rose  and  closed  my  eyes  with 
the  touch  of  silk  cotton  on  water  falling. 

Then  I  dreamed  a  dream 

in  my  dead  sleep.  But  I  dreamed 

not  of  earth  dying  and  elms  a  vigil 

keeping.  I  dreamed  of  birds,  black 

birds  flying  in  my  inside,  nesting 

and  hatching  on  oil  palms  bearing  sims 

for  fruits  and  with  roots  denting  the 

uprooters'  spades.  And  I  dreamed  the 

uprooters  tired  and  limp,  leaning  on  my  roots 

their  abandoned  roots 

and  the  oil  palms  gave  them  each  a  sun. 


But  on  their  palms 

they  balanced  the  blinding  orbs 


92 


GABRIEL   OKARA 


and  frowned  with  schisms  on  their 
brows  -  for  the  suns  reached  not 
the  brightness  of  gold ! 

Then  I  awoke.  I  awoke 

to  the  silently  falling  snow 

and  bent-backed  elms  bowing  and 

swaying  to  the  winter  wind  like 

white-robed  Moslems  salaaming  at  evening 

prayer,  and  the  earth  lying  inscrutable 

like  the  face  of  a  god  in  a  shrine. 


Piano  and  Drums 

When  at  break  of  day  at  a  riverside 

I  hear  jungle  drums  telegraphing 

the  mystic  rhythm,  urgent,  raw 

like  bleeding  flesh,  speaking  of 

primal  youth  and  the  beginning, 

I  see  the  panther  ready  to  pounce, 

the  leopard  snarling  about  to  leap 

and  the  himters  crouch  with  spears  poised; 

And  my  blood  ripples,  turns  torrent, 

topples  the  years  and  at  once  I'm 

in  my  mother's  lap  a  suckling; 

at  once  I'm  walking  simple 

paths  with  no  innovations, 

rugged,  fashioned  with  the  naked 

warmth  of  hurrying  feet  and  groping  hearts 

in  green  leaves  and  wild  flowers  pulsing. 

Then  I  hear  a  wailing  piano 
solo  speaking  of  complex  ways 
in  tear-furrowed  concerto; 
of  far-away  lands 
and  new  horizons  with 


93 


NIGERIA 


coaxing  diminuendo,  coutiterpointa 
crescendo.  But  lost  in  the  labyrinth 
of  its  complexities^  it  ends  in  the  middle 
of  a  phrase  at  a  daggerpoint. 

And  I  lost  in  the  morning  mist 
of  an  age  at  a  riverside  keep 
wandering  in  the  mystic  rhythm 
of  jungle  drums  and  the  concerto. 


Were  I  to  Choose 

When  Adam  broke  the  stone 
and  red  streams  raged  down  to 
gather  in  the  womb, 
an  angel  calmed  the  storm; 

And  I3  the  breath  mewed 
in  Cain,  unblinking  gaze 
at  the  world  without 
from  the  brink  of  an  age 

That  draws  from  the  groping  Hps 
a  breast-muted  cry 
to  thread  the  years. 
(O  were  I  to  choose) 

And  now  the  close  of  one 
and  thirty  turns,  the  world 
of  bones  is  Babel,  and 
the  different  tongues  within 
are  flames  the  head 
continually  burning. 

And  O  of  this  dark  halo 
were  the  tired  head  free. 

And  when  the  harmattan 

of  days  has  parched  the  throat 

94 


GABRIEL  OKARA 


and  skin^  and  sucked  the  fever 
of  the  head  away^ 

Then  the  massive  dark 
descends^  and  flesh  and  bone 
are  razed.  And  (O  were  I 
to  choose)  I'd  cheat  the  worms 
and  silence  seek  in  stone. 


The  Mystic  Drum 

The  mystic  drum  beat  in  my  inside 
and  fishes  danced  in  the  rivers 
and  men  and  women  danced  on  land 
to  the  rhythm  of  my  drum 

But  standing  behind  a  tree 

with  leaves  around  her  waist 

she  only  smiled  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 

Still  my  drum  continued  to  beat, 
rippling  the  air  with  quickened 
tempo  compelling  the  quick 
and  the  dead  to  dance  and  sing 
with  their  shadows  - 

But  standing  behind  a  tree 

with  leaves  around  her  waist 

she  only  smiled  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 

Then  the  drum  beat  with  the  rhythm 

of  the  things  of  the  groimd 

and  invoked  the  eye  of  the  sky 

the  Sim  and  the  moon  and  the  river  gods  - 

and  the  trees  began  to  dance, 

the  fishes  turned  men 

and  men  turned  fishes 

and  things  stopped  to  grow  - 

95 


NIGERIA 


But  Standing  behind  a  tree 

with  leaves  around  her  waist 

she  only  smiled  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 

And  then  the  mystic  drum 

in  my  inside  stopped  to  beat  - 

and  men  became  men^ 

fishes  became  fishes 

and  trees,  the  sun  and  the  moon 

found  their  places,  and  the  dead 

went  to  the  groimd  and  things  began  to  grow. 

And  behind  the  tree  she  stood 
with  roots  sprouting  from  her 
feet  and  leaves  growing  on  her  head 
and  smoke  issuing  from  her  nose 
and  her  lips  parted  in  her  smile 
turned  cavity  belching  darkness. 

Then,  then  I  packed  my  mystic  drum 

and  turned  away;  never  to  beat  so  loud  any  more. 


Adhiambo 

I  hear  many  voices 

like  it's  said  a  madman  hears; 

I  hear  trees  talking 

like  it's  said  a  medicine  man  hears. 

Maybe  I'm  a  madman, 
I'm  a  medicine  man. 

Maybe  I'm  mad, 
for  the  voices  are  luring  me, 
urging  me  from  the  midnight 
moon  and  the  silence  of  my  desk 
to  walk  on  wave  crests  across  a  sea. 

Maybe  I'm  a  medicine  man 
hearing  talking  saps, 

96 


GABRIEL  OKARA 


seeing  behind  trees; 
but  who's  lost  his  powers 
of  invocation. 

But  the  voices  and  the  trees 

are  now  name-spelling  and  one  figure 

silence-etched  across 

the  moonface  is  walking,  stepping 

over  continents  and  seas. 

And  I  raised  my  hand  - 

my  trembUng  hand,  gripping 

my  heart  as  handkerchief 

and  waved  and  waved  -  and  waved  - 

but  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 


Spirit  of  the  Wind 

The  storks  are  coming  now  - 
white  specks  in  the  silent  sky. 
They  had  gone  north  seeking 
fairer  climes  to  build  their  homes 
when  here  was  raining. 

They  are  back  with  me  now  - 

Spirits  of  the  wind, 

beyond  the  gods'  confining 

hands  they  go  north  and  west  and  east, 

instinct  guiding. 

But  willed  by  the  gods 

I'm  sitting  on  this  rock 

watching  them  come  and  go 

from  sunrise  to  simdown,  with  the  spirit 

urging  within. 

And  urging  a  red  pool  stirs, 
and  each  ripple  is 


97 


NIGERIA 


the  instinct's  vital  call, 
a  desire  in  a  million  cells 
confined. 

O  God  of  the  gods  and  me, 
shall  I  not  heed 
this  prayer-bell  call,  the  noon 
angelus,  because  my  stork  is  caged 
in  Singed  Hair  and  Dark  Skin? 


One  Night  at  Victoria  Beach 

The  wind  comes  rushing  from  the  sea, 
the  waves  curling  like  mambas  strike 
the  sands  and  recoiling  hiss  in  rage 
washing  the  Aladuras'  feet  pressing  hard 
on  the  sand  and  with  eyes  fixed  hard 
on  what  only  hearts  can  see,  they  shouting 
pray,  the  Aladuras  pray;  and  coming 
from  booths  behind,  compelling  highlife 
forces  ears;  and  car  lights  startle  pairs 
arm  in  arm  passing  washer-words  back 
and  forth  like  haggling  sellers  and  buyers  - 

Still  they  pray,  the  Aladuras  pray 
with  hands  pressed  against  their  hearts 
and  their  white  robes  pressed  against 
their  bodies  by  the  wind;  and  drinking 
palm-wine  and  beer,  the  people  boast 
at  bars  at  the  beach.  Still  they  pray. 

They  pray,  the  Aladuras  pray 

to  what  only  hearts  can  see  while  dead 

fishermen  long  dead  with  bones  rolling 

nibbled  clean  by  nibbling  fishes,  follow 

four  dead  cowries  shining  like  stars 

into  deep  sea  where  fishes  sit  in  judgement; 

98 


GABRIEL   OKARA 

and  living  fishermen  in  dark  huts 
sit  round  dim  lights  with  Babalawo 
throwing  their  souls  in  four  cowries 
on  sandj  trying  to  see  tomorrow. 

Still,  they  pray,  the  Aladuras  pray 
to  what  only  hearts  can  see  behind 
the  curhng  waves  and  the  sea,  the  stars 
and  the  subduing  unanimity  of  the  sky 
and  their  white  bones  beneath  the  sand. 

And  standing  dead  on  dead  sands, 

I  felt  my  knees  touch  living  sands  - 

but  the  rushing  wind  killed  the  budding  words. 


99 


Frank  Aig-Imoukhuede 


One  Wife  for  One  Man 

I  done  try  go  church,  I  done  go  for  court 
Dem  all  day  talk  about  di  *new  culture': 
Dem  talk  about  'equality',  dem  mention  'divorce' 
Dem  holler  am  so-tay  my  ear  nearly  cut; 
One  wife  be  for  one  man. 

My  fader  before  my  fader  get  him  wife  borku.* 

E  no'  get  equality  palaver;  he  live  well 

For  he  be  ogaf  for  im  own  house. 

But  dat  time  done  pass  before  white  man  come 

Wit  'im 

One  wife  for  one  man. 

Tell  me  how  una  J  woman  no  go  make  yanga§ 
Wen'e  know  say  na'im  only  dey. 
Suppose  say  -  make  God  no  'gree  -  'e  no  born  at  all? 
A'teU  you  dat  man  bin  dey  crazy  wey  start 
One  wife  for  one  man. 

Jus'  tell  me  how  one  wife  fit  do  one  man; 
How  go  fit  stay  all  time  for  him  house 
For  time  when  beUeh  done  kommot. 
How  many  pickin',  self,  one  woman  fit  born 
Wen  one  wife  be  for  one  man? 


*borku  =  plenty,  t  oga  =  master  or  Lord.  %  una  =  variation  of  'your', 
§  yanga  ==  vanityi  pride,  and  perversity. 

100 


FRANK  AIG-IMOUKHUEDE 

Suppose,  self,  say  na  so-so  woman  your  wife  dey  bom 
Suppose  your  wife  sabe  book,  no'sabe  make  chop; 
Den,  how  you  go  tell  man  make'e  no'  go  out 
Sake  of  dis  divorce?  Bo,  dis  culture  na  waya  O! 
Wen  one  wife  be  for  one  man. 


lOI 


Michael  Echeruo 


Sophia 


Left  hand  is  God's  hand 
Devil's  hand  across  chaos 
When  Eve  began 
Was  hers  in  Eden  farm 
Through  cats'  tiger's  fur 
Through  Adam's  core. 

Multiply  and  till  the  earth 

Plough  on  virgin  land  is  temptation. 

And  there  was  a  fountain 

Of  rain  and  grain. 

Force  fountain  down  gorge 

Into  valley  of  shoots 

Is  not  spilling 

But  will  not  bloom  on  Martha 

Or  Vita  Nuova 

Eat  apples  by  the  left  hand. 
Much  sweeter.  Right  hand 
Is  Right's  hand,  bitter. 
Sweet  gorgeless  Sophia. 


102 


Christopher  Okigbo 


From  Lament  of  the  Lavender  Mist 

Love  Apart 

The  moon  has  ascended  between  us 
Between  two  pines 
That  bow  to  each  other 

Love  with  the  moon  has  ascended 
Has  fed  on  our  solitary  stems 

And  we  are  now  shadows 
That  cling  to  each  other 
But  kiss  the  air  only. 


Eight  poems  from  Heavensgate 

Overture 

Before  you,  mother  Idoto, 
naked  I  standi 

before  your  watery  presence, 
a  prodigal, 

leaning  on  an  oilbean, 
lost  in  yoiir  legend.  .  .  . 

Under  your  power  wait  I 
on  barefoot. 


103 


NIGERIA 


watchman  for  the  watchword 
at  heavensgate; 

out  of  the  depths  my  cry 
give  ear  and  hearken. 


Eyes  Watch  the  Stars 

Eyes  open  on  the  beach, 
eyes  open,  of  the  prodigal; 
upward  to  heaven  shoot 
where  stars  will  fall  from. 

Which  secret  I  have  told  into  no  ear; 

into  a  dughole  to  hold, 

not  to  drown  with  - 
Which  secret  I  have  planted  into  beachsand; 

now  breaks 
salt-white  surf  on  the  stones  and  me, 
and  lobsters  and  shells  in 
iodine  smell  — 
maid  of  the  salt-emptiness, 
sophisticreamy,  native, 

whose  secret  I  have  covered  up  with  beachsand. 

Shadow  of  rain 

over  sunbeaten  beach, 

shadow  of  rain 

over  man  with  woman. 


Water  Maid 

Bright 

with  the  armpit  dazzle  of  a  lioness, 

she  answers, 

wearing  white  light  about  her; 

104 


CHRISTOPHER  OKIGBO 


Transition 


Sacrifice 


and  the  waves  escort  her, 

my  lioness, 

crowned  with  moonlight. 

So  brief  her  presence  - 
match-flare  in  wind's  breath  - 
so  brief  with  mirrors  around  me. 

Downward  .  .  . 
the  waves  distil  her: 
gold  crop 
sinking  ungathered. 

Watermaid  of  the  salt  emptiness, 
grown  are  the  ears  of  the  secret. 


Drop  of  dew  on  green  bowl  fostered 
on  leaf  green  bowl  grows  under  the  lamp 

without  flesh  or  colour; 

under  the  lamp  into  stream  of 

song,  streamsong, 
in  flight  into  the  infinite  - 
a  blinded  heron 
thrown  against  the  infinite  - 

where  solitude 
weaves  her  interminable  mystery 
imder  the  lamp. 

The  moonman  has  gone  under  the  sea: 
the  singer  has  gone  under  the  shade. 


Thundering  drums  and  cannons 

in  palm  grove : 

the  spirit  is  in  ascent. 

105 


NIGERIA 


I  have  visited^ 

on  palm  beam  imprinted 

my  pentagon  - 

I  have  visitedj  the  prodigal.  .  .  , 

In  palm  grove 

long  drums  and  cannons: 

the  spirit  in  the  ascent. 


Passion  Flower 

And  the  flower  weeps 

unbruised, 
Lacrimae  Christie 

For  him  who  was  silenced; 

whose  advent 
dumb  bells  in  the  dim  light  celebrate 
with  wine  song: 

Messiah  will  come  again. 
After  the  argument  in  heaven; 
Messiah  will  come  again. 
Lumen  mundi.  .  .  . 

Fingers  of  penitence 

bring 

to  a  palm  grove 

vegetable  offering 

with  five 

fingers  of  chalk. 


Lustra 


So  would  I  to  the  hills  again 
so  would  I 

to  where  springs  the  fountain 
there  to  draw  from 


io6 


CHRISTOPHER   OKIGBO 


Bridge 


and  to  hilltop  clamber 
body  and  soul 

whitewashed  in  the  moondew 
there  to  see  from 

So  would  I  from  my  eye  the  mist 
so  would  I 

through  moonmist  to  hilltop 
there  for  the  cleansing 

Here  is  a  new-laid  egg 
here  a  white  hen  at  midterm. 


I  am  standing  above  you  and  tide 
above  the  noontide. 

Listening  to  the  laughter  of  waters 
that  do  not  know  why: 

Listening  to  incense.  .  .  . 

I  am  standing  above  the  noontide 
with  my  head  above  it. 

Under  my  feet  float  the  waters : 
tide  blows  them  under. 


Four  poems  from  Limits 

Siren  {&  the  mortar  is  not  yet  dry.  .  .  .) 

I  Suddenly  becoming  talkative 

like  weaverbird 
Summoned  at  offside  of 

dream  remembered 

Between  sleep  and  waking, 

I  hang  up  my  egg-shells 
To  you  of  palm  grove. 


107 


NIGERIA 


Upon  whose  bamboo  towers  hang 
Dripping  with  yesterupwine 

A  tiger  mask  and  nude  spear.  .  . . 

Queen  of  the  damp  half-light, 

I  have  had  my  cleansing. 

Emigrant  with  airborne  nose. 
The  he-goat-on-heat. 


For  he  was  a  shrub  among  the  poplars 
Needing  more  roots 
More  sap  to  grow  to  sunlight 
Thirsting  for  sunlight 

A  low  growth  among  the  forest. 

Into  the  soul 

The  selves  extended  their  branches 
Into  the  moments  of  each  living  hour 
Feeling  for  audience 

Straining  thin  among  the  echoes; 

And  out  of  the  solitude 

Voice  and  soul  with  selves  imite 

Riding  the  echoes 

Horsemen  of  the  apocalypse 

And  crowned  with  one  self 
The  name  displays  its  foliage. 
Hanging  low 

A  green  cloud  above  the  forest. 


Banks  of  reed. 

Mountains  of  broken  bottles. 


io8 


CHRISTOPHER   OKIGBO 
&  the  mortar  is  not  yet  dry,  .  .  . 

Silent  the  footfall 

soft  as  cat's  pawj 
Sandalled  in  velvety 

in  fur 

So  we  must  go. 
Wearing  evemist  against  the  shoulders. 
Trailing  sun's  dust  sawdust  of  combat. 
With  brand  burning  out  at  hand-end. 

&  the  mortar  is  not  yet  dry.  .  .  . 

Then  we  must  sing 
Tongue-tied  without  name  or  audience. 
Making  harmony  among  the  branches. 

And  this  is  the  crisis-point. 
The  twiUght  moment  between 

sleep  and  waking; 
And  voice  that  is  reborn  transpires 
Not  thro'  pores  in  the  flesh 

but  the  soul's  backbone 

Hurry  on  down 

through  the  high-arched  gate  - 
Hurry  on  down 

little  stream  to  the  lake; 
Hurry  on  down  - 

through  the  cinder  market 
Hurry  on  down 

in  the  wake  of  the  dream; 
Hurry  on  down  - 

To  rockpoint  of  cable 

To  pull  by  the  rope 

The  big  white  elephant.  .  .  . 

&  the  mortar  is  not  yet  dry 

&  the  mortar  is  not  yet  dry.  .  .  , 

109 


NIGERIA 


&  the  dream  wakes 

&  the  voice  fades 

In  the  damp  half-light. 
Like  a  shadow. 

Not  leaving  a  mark. 


An  image  insists 

from  the  flag-pole  of  the  heart. 
The  image  distracts 

with  the  cruelty  of  the  rose.  .  . . 

My  lioness, 
(No  shield  is  lead-plate  against  you) 
Wound  me  with  your  seaweed  face. 

Blinded  like  a  strongroom. 

Distances  of  your 

armpit-fragrance 
Turn  chloroform, 

enough  for  my  patience  - 

When  you  have  finished, 
&  done  up  my  stitches, 
Wake  me  near  the  altar, 

&  this  poem  will  be  finished. 


no 


Wole  Soyinka 


Telephone  Conversation 

The  price  seemed  reasonable,  location 

Indifferent.  The  landlady  swore  she  lived 

Off  premises.  Nothing  remained 

But  self-confession.  'Madam,'  I  warned, 

*I  hate  a  wasted  journey  -  I  am  African.' 

Silence.  Silenced  transmission  of 

Pressurized  good-breeding.  Voice,  when  it  came. 

Lipstick  coated,  long  gold-rolled 

Cigarette-holder  pipped.  Caught  I  was,  foully. 

'how  dark?'  ...  I  had  not  misheard.  .  .  .  *are  you 

LIGHT 

OR  VERY  DARK?'  Button  B.  Button  A.  Stench 

Of  rancid  breath  of  publicJiide-and-speak. 

Red  booth.  Red  pillar-box.  Red  double-tiered 

Omnibus  squelching  tar.  It  was  real!  Shamed 

By  ill-mannered  silence,  surrender 

Pushed  dumbfounded  to  beg  simplification. 

Considerate  she  was,  varying  the  emphasis  - 

*ARE  YOU  DARK?  OR  VERY  LIGHT?'  Revelation  came. 

'You  mean  -  Hke  plain  or  milk  chocolate?' 

Her  assent  was  clinical,  crushing  in  its  light 

Impersonality.  Rapidly,  wave-length  adjusted, 

I  chose.  'West  African  sepia'  -  and  as  afterthought, 

'  Down  in  my  passport.'  Silence  for  spectroscopic 

Flight  of  fancy,  till  truthfulness  clanged  her  accent 

Hard  on  the  mouthpiece,  'what's  that?'  conceding 

III 


NIGERIA 

*don't  know  what  that  is.'  *Like  brunette.' 

'that's  dark,  isn't  it?'  *Not  altogether. 

Faciallyj  I  am  brunette,  but  madam,  you  should  see 

The  rest  of  me.  Palm  of  my  handj  soles  of  my  feet 

Are  a  peroxide  blonde.  Friction,  caused  - 

Foolishly  madam  -  by  sitting  down,  has  turned 

My  bottom  raven  black  -  One  moment  madam! '  -  sensing 

Her  receiver  rearing  on  the  thunderclap 

About  my  ears  -  *  Madam,'  I  pleaded,  'wouldn't  you 

rather 
See  for  yourself?' 


Death  in  the  Dawn 

Traveller,  you  must  set  out 

At  dawn.  And  wipe  your  feet  upon 

The  dog-nose  wetness  of  the  earth.   . 

Let  simrise  quench  your  lamps.  And  watch 

Faint  brush  pricklings  in  the  sky  light 

Cottoned  feet  to  break  the  early  earthworm 

On  the  hoe.  Now  shadows  stretch  with  sap 

Not  twilight's  death  and  sad  prostration. 

This  soft  kindling,  soft  receding  breeds 

Racing  joys  and  apprehensions  for 

A  naked  day.  Burdened  hulks  retract. 

Stoop  to  the  mist  in  faceless  throng 

To  wake  the  silent  markets  -  swift,  mute 

Processions  on  grey  byways.  .  .  .  On  this 

Counterpane,  it  was  - 

Sudden  winter  at  the  death 

Of  dawn's  lone  tnmipeter.  Cascades 

Of  white  feather-flakes  .  .  .  but  it  proved 

A  futile  rite.  Propitiation  sped 

Grimly  on,  before. 

112 


WOLE   SOYINKA 


The  right  foot  for  joy,  the  left^  dread 
And  the  mother  prayed.  Child 
May  you  never  walk 
When  the  road  waits,  famished. 

Traveller,  you  must  set  forth 

At  dawn. 

I  promise  marvels  of  the  holy  hour 

Presages  as  the  white  cock's  flapped 

Perverse  impalement  -  as  who  would  dare 

The  wrathful  wings  of  man's  Progression.  .  . 

But  such  another  wraith!  Brother, 
Silenced  in  the  startled  hug  of 
Your  invention  -  is  this  mocked  grimace 
This  closed  contortion  -  I? 


Requiem 

I 

You  leave  your  faint  depressions 
Skim-flying  still,  on  the  still  pond's  surface. 
Where  darkness  crouches,  egret  wings 
Your  love  is  as  gossamer. 

2 

Hear  now  the  dry  wind's  dirge.  It  is 

The  hour  of  lesson,  and  you  teach 

Painless  dissolution  in  strange 

Disquietudes 

Sadness  is  twilight's  kiss  on  earth, 

3 

I  would  not  carve  a  pillow 

Off  the  clouds,  to  nest  you  softly. 

Yet  the  wonder,  swift  your  growth,  in-twining 

When  I  fold  you  in  my  thomed  bosom. 

113 


NIGERIA 


N0W3  your  blood-drops  are 

My  sadness  in  the  haze  of  day 

And  the  sad  dew  at  dawn,  fragile 

Dew-braiding  rivulets  in  hair-roots  where 

Desires  storm.  Sad^  sad 

Your  feather-tear  running  in  clefts  between 

Thorned  buttresses,  soon  gone,  my  need 

Must  drink  it  all.  Be  then  as 

The  dry  sad  air,  and  I  may  yield  me 

As  the  rain. 

So  let  your  palm,  ridge  to  ridge 

Be  cupped  with  mine 

And  the  thin  sad  earth  between  will  nurture 

Love's  misfoimdling  ~  and  there  it  ended. 

Storm-whispers  swayed  you  outward  where 

Once,  we  cupped  our  hands.  Alone  I  watched. 

The  earth  came  sifting  through. 

I  shall  sit  often  on  the  knoll 

And  watch  the  grafting. 

This  dismembered  limb  must  come 

Some  day 

To  sad  fruition. 

I  shall  weep  dryly  on  the  stone 
That  marks  the  gravehead  silence  of 
A  tamed  resolve. 

I  shall  sit  often  on  the  knoll 

Till  longings  crumble  too 

O  I  have  felt  the  termite  nuzzle 

White  entrails 

And  fine  ants  wither 

In  the  mind's  unthreaded  maze. 

Then  may  you  frolic  where  the  head 
Lies  shaven,  inherit  all. 


114 


WOLE   SOYINKA 


Death-watches,  cut  your  beetled  capers 
On  loam-matted  hairs.  I  know  this 
Weed-usurped  knoll.  The  graveyard  now 
Was  nursery  to  her  fears. 

This  cup  I  bore,  redeem 
When  yearning  splice 
The  torn  branch. 

This  earth  I  pour  outward  to 
Your  cry,  tend  it.  It  knows  full 
Worship  of  the  plough. 
Lest  burning  follow  breath,  learn 
This  air  was  tempered  in  wild 
Cadences  of  fire. 

No  phoenix  I.  Submission 

To  her  cleansing  flames  fulfilled 

Urn's  legacy. 

Yet  incandescing  was  the  roar  alone 
Sxm-searing  haze  pools  lit  the  kilns 
That  bronzed  me. 

It  is  peace  to  settle  on  life's  fingers 
Like  bran;  illusive  as  the  strained  meal's 
Bloodless  separateness. 

Be  still.  And  when  this  cup  would  crush 
The  lightness  of  your  hand,  build  no  shrine 
Strew  the  ashes  on  your  path. 


Prisoner 

Grey,  to  the  low  grass  cropping 
Slung,  wet-Uchened,  wisps  from  such. 
Smoke  heaviness,  elusive  of  thin  blades 
Curl  inward  to  the  earth,  breed 
The  grey  hours, 

115 


NIGERIA 


And  days,  and  years,  for  do  not 

The  wise  grey  temples  we  must  build 

To  febrile  years,  here  begin,  not 

In  tears  and  ashes,  but  on  the  sad  mocking 

Threads,  compulsive  of  the  hour? 

In  the  desert  wildness,  when,  lone  cactus. 
Cannibal  was  his  love  -  even  amidst  the 
Crag  and  gorge,  the  leap  and  night-tremors 
Even  as  the  potsherd  stayed  and  the  sandstorm 
Fell  -  intimations  came. 

In  the  whorled  centre  of  the  storm,  a  threnody 
But  not  from  this.  For  that  far  companion. 
Made  sudden  stranger  when  the  wind  slacked 
And  the  centre  fell,  grief.  And  the  stricken 
Potsherd  lay,  disconsolate  -  intimations  then 

But  not  from  these.  He  knew  only 
Sudden  seizure.  And  time  conquest 
Bound  him  helpless  to  each  grey  essence. 
Nothing  remained  if  pains  and  longings 
Once,  once  set  the  walls.  Sadness 
Closed  him,  rootless,  lacking  cause. 


/  Think  it  Rains 

I  think  it  rains 

That  tongues  may  loosen  from  the  parch 
Uncleave  roof-tops  of  the  mouth,  hang 
Heavy  with  knowledge. 

I  saw  it  raise 

The  sudden  cloud,  from  ashes.  Settling 
They  joined  in  a  ring  of  grey;  within 
The  circling  spirit. 

• 

O  it  must  rain 

These  closures  on  the  mind,  binding  us 

Ii6 


WOLE   SOYINKA 

In  strange  despairs^  teaching 
Purity  of  sadness. 

And  how  it  beats 
Skeined  transparencies  on  wings 
Of  our  desires,  searing  dark  longings 
In  cruel  baptisms. 

Rain-reedsa  practised  in 

The  grace  of  yielding,  yet  unbending 

From  afar,  this,  your  conjugation  with  my  earth 

Bares  crouching  rocks. 


Season 

Rust  is  ripeness,  rust 

And  the  wilted  corn-plume; 

Pollen  is  mating-time  when  swallows 

Weave  a  dance 

Of  feathered  arrows 

Thread  corn-stalks  in  winged 

Streaks  of  light.  And,  we  loved  to  hear 

Spliced  phrases  of  the  wind,  to  hear 

Rasps  in  the  field,  where  corn  leaves 

Pierce  like  bamboo  sUvers. 

Now,  garnerers  we. 

Awaiting  rust  on  tassels,  draw 

Long  shadows  from  the  dusk,  wreathe 

Dry  thatch  in  woodsmoke.  Laden  stalks 

Ride  the  germ's  decay  -  we  await 

The  promise  of  the  rust. 


117 


NIGERIA 

Night 

Your  hand  is  heavy.  Night,  upon  my  brow, 

I  bear  no  heart  mercuric  like  the  clouds,  to  dare 

Exacerbation  from  your  subtle  plough. 

Woman  as  a  clam,  on  the  sea's  crescent 
I  saw  your  jealous  eye  quench  the  sea's 
Fluorescence^  dance  on  the  pulse  incessant 

Of  the  waves.  And  I  stood,  drained 
Submitting  like  the  sands,  blood  and  brine 
Coursing  to  the  roots.  Night,  you  rained 

Serrated  shadows  through  dank  leaves 

Till,  bathed  in  warm  suffusion  of  your  dappled  cells 

Sensations  pained  me,  faceless,  silent  as  night  thieves. 

Hide  me  now,  when  night  children  haunt  the  earth 
I  must  hear  none!  These  misted  calls  will  yet 
Undo  me;  naked,  tmbidden,  at  Night's  muted  birth. 


Abiku 

In  vain  your  bangles  cast 
Charmed  circles  at  my  feet 
I  am  Abiku,  calling  for  the  first 
And  the  repeated  time. 

Must  I  weep  for  goats  and  cowries 
For  palm  oil  and  the  sprinkled  ash? 
Yams  do  not  sprout  in  amulets 
To  earth  Abiku's  limbs. 

So  when  the  snail  is  burnt  in  his  shell. 
Whet  the  heated  fragment,  brand  me 
Deeply  on  the  breast.  You  must  know  him 
When  Abiku  calls  again. 

Ii8 


WOLE   SOYINKA 

I  am  the  squirrel  teeth,  cracked 
The  riddle  of  the  palm.  Remember 
This,  and  dig  me  deeper  still  into 
The  god's  swollen  foot. 

Once  and  the  repeated  time,  ageless 
Though  I  puke;  and  when  you  pour 
Libations,  each  finger  points  me  near 
The  way  I  came,  where 

The  ground  is  wet  with  mourning 
White  dew  suckles  flesh-birds 
Evening  befriends  the  spider,  trapping 
Fhes  in  wind-froth; 

Night,  and  Abiku  sucks  the  oil 
From  lamps.  Mothers !  I'll  be  the 
SuppHant  snake  coiled  on  the  doorstep 
Yours  the  killing  cry. 

The  ripest  fruit  was  saddest; 

Where  I  crept,  the  warmth  was  cloying. 

In  the  silence  of  webs,  Abiku  moans,  shaping 

Mounds  from  the  yolk. 


119 


Congo  (Brazzaville) 


Tchicaya  U  Tam'si 


Brush-fire 

The  fire  the  river  that's  to  say 

the  sea  to  drink  following  the  sand 

the  feet  the  hands 

within  the  heart  to  love 

this  river  that  lives  in  me  repeoples  me 

only  to  you  I  said  around  the  fire 

my  race 

it  flows  here  and  there  a  river 

the  flames  are  the  looks 

of  those  who  brood  upon  it 

I  said  to  you 

my  race 

remembers 

the  taste  of  bronze  dnmk  hot. 


Dance  to  the  Amulets 

Come  over  here 
our  grass  is  rich 
come  you  fawns 

gestures  and  stabs  of  sickly  hands 
curving  then  unripping  of  conception 
one  -  who?  -  you  shape  my  fate 
come  you  fawns 

123 


CONGO   (BRAZZAVILLE) 

over  here  the  suppleness  of  mornings 

and  the  blood  masked  here 

and  the  rainbow-coloured  dream  the  rope  at  the  neck 

come  over  here 

our  grass  is  rich  here 

my  first  coming 

was  the  harsh  explosion  of  a  flint 

solitude 

my  mother  promised  me  to  light. 


Still  Life 

I  was  playing 

when  my  dead  sister 

my  knife-grandfather 

my  grandfather  hxmg 

a  great  fish 

on  a  tree  before  our  gate. 

We  adored  aubergines 

I  devoured  the  little  gourds 

but  I  had  to  fast 

also  I  cried  with  hunger, 

if  I  tell  you 

my  father  does  not  know  my  mother's  name 

I  am  the  witness  of  my  age 

I  have  often  seen 

carcases  in  the  air 

where  my  blood  burns. 


A  Mat  to  Weave 

he  came  to  deliver  the  secret  of  the  sun 
and  wanted  to  write  the  poem  of  his  life 

124 


TCHICAYA   U   TAM'SI 

why  crystals  in  his  blood 
why  globules  in  his  laughter 

his  soul  was  ready 
when  someone  called  him 
dirty  wog 

still  he  is  left  with  the  gentle  act  of  his  laughter 
and  the  giant  tree  with  a  living  cleft 
what  was  that  country  where  he  lived  a  beast 
behind  the  beasts  before  behind  the  beasts 

his  stream  was  the  safest  of  cups 
because  it  was  of  bronze 
because  it  was  his  living  flesh 

it  was  then  that  he  said  to  himself 
no  my  life  is  not  a  poem 

here  is  the  tree  here  is  the  water  here  are  the  stones 
and  then  the  priest  of  the  future 

it  is  better  to  love  wine 
and  rise  in  the  morning 
he  was  advised 

but  no  more  birds  in  the  tenderness  of  mothers 

dirty  wog 

he  is  the  younger  brother  of  fire 

the  bush  begins  here 

and  the  sea  is  no  more  than  the  memory  of  gulls 

all  standing  upright  tooth-to-tooth 

against  the  spume  of  a  deadly  dance 

the  tree  was  the  leafiest 

the  bark  of  the  tree  was  the  tenderest 

after  the  forest  was  burnt  what  more  to  say 

why  was  there  absinthe  in  the  wine 
why  restore  in  the  hearts 
the  crocodiles  the  canoers 
and  the  wave  of  the  stream 

125 


CONGO   (BRAZZAVILLE) 

the  grains  of  sand  between  the  teeth 

is  it  thus  that  one  breaks  the  world 

no 

no 

his  stream  was  the  gentlest  of  cups 

the  safest 

it  was  his  most  living  flesh 

here  begins  the  poem  of  his  life 

he  was  trained  in  a  school 

he  was  trained  in  a  studio 

and  he  saw  roads  planted  with  sphinxes 

still  he  is  left  with  the  soft  arch  of  his  laughter 
then  the  tree  then  the  water  then  the  leaves 

that  is  why  you  will  see  him 

the  marching  canoers  have  raised  once  more 

against  the  haulers  of  french  cotton 

their  cries 

this  flight  is  a  flight  of  doves 

the  leeches  did  not  know  the  bitterness 

of  this  blood 

in  the  purest  of  cups 

dirty  gollywog 

behold  my  Congolese  head 

it  is  the  purest  of  cups. 


126 


Congo  (Leopoldville) 


Antoine-Roger  Bolamba 


Portrait 

I  have  my  gri-gri 

gri-gri 

gri-gri 
my  calm  bounding  awake 
clings  to  the  wavy  limbs  of  the  Congo 
never  a  stormy  passage  for  my  heart 
bombarded  with  glowing  oriflammes 
I  think  of  my  silver  necklace 
become  a  himdred  isles  of  silence 
I  admire  the  obstinate  patience  v 

of  the  okapi 

bluebird  battered  in  the  open  sky 
what  shipwreck 

plimges  it  to  the  gulf  of  nothingness 
nothingness  empty  of  nightly  entreaties 

Ah!  the  broken  resolutions 
ah!  the  screaming  follies 
let  my  fate  fall  upon  its  guardians 
they  are  three  villains 

I  say  three  in  counting  123 

who  dim  the  ancestral  mirror 

but  you  fugitive  image 

I  will  see  you  on  the  height  of  dizzy  anger 

E  129 


CONGO   (LEOPOLDVILLE) 

wait  while  I  put  on  my  brow  my  mask  of  blood 

and  soon  you  will  see 

my  tongue  flutter  like  a  banner. 


A  Fistful  of  News 

The  hills  hunch  their  backs 
and  leap  above  the  marshes 
that  wash  about  the  calabash 
of  the  Great  Soul 

Rumours  of  treason  spread 

like  burning  swords 

the  veins  of  the  earth 

swell  with  nourishing  blood 

the  earth  bears 

towns  villages  hamlets 

forests  and  woods 

peopled  with  monsters  horned  and  tentacled 

their  long  manes  are  the  mirror  of  the  Sun 

they  are  those  who  when  night  has  come 
direct  the  regiments  of  bats 
and  who  sharpen  their  arms 
upon  the  stone  of  horror. 

the  souls  of  the  guilty 

float  in  the  currents  of  air 

on  the  galleys  of  disaster 

paying  no  heed  to  the  quarrels  of  the  earthbound 

with  fangs  of  fire 

they  tear  from  the  lightning  its  diamond  heart. 

Surely  the  scorn  is  a  gobbet  of  smoking  flesh 
surely  the  spirits  recite  the  rosary  of  vengeance 
but  like  the  black  ear  of  wickedness 
they  have  never  understood  a  single  word 

130 


ANTOINE-ROGER   BOLAMBA 

of  the  scorpion's  obscure  tongue: 
stubbornness 

nor  the  anger  of  the  snake-wizard 
nor  the  violence  of  the  throwing-knife 
can  do  anything  against  it. 


131 


Cape  Verde  Islands 


Aguinaldo  Fonseca 


Tavern  by  the  Sea 

A  distant  glimmer 

And  a  beacon  spitting  light 

In  the  black  face  of  night. 

Everything  is  brine  and  yearning. 

Winds  with  waves  on  their  back 
Make  tremble  the  tavern 
Which  is  an  anchored  ship. 

Love  passionate  and  brutal 
Amidst  the  open  laiives 
And  the  abandon 
Of  a  prostitute's  embrace. 

Upon  the  air  despairings  rise 
In  heavy  swells  of  smoke. 

BottleSj  glasses,  bottles  . . . 

-  Oh !  the  thirst  of  a  sailor  . . . 

Tattooings  pricked  on  skin 
Proclaim  the  pain  and  the  bravado 
Of  escapades  in  ports. 

Men  of  every  race. 

Men  without  homeland  or  name 

-  Just  men  of  the  sea 
With  voice  of  salt  and  wind 
And  ships  in  unclouded  eyes. 

135 


CAPE   VERDE   ISLANDS 


Boredom  and  longing  appear 
Chewing  on  aged  pipes  . . . 
Appear  and  then  depart 
Staggering  off  with  a  drunk. 

Cards,  tables,  and  chairs. 
Bottles,  glasses,  bottles 
And  the  tavern-keeper's  face 
Stirring  up  ancient  quarrels. 

And  everything  is  full  of  sin 
And  everything  is  full  of  sleep 
And  everything  is  full  of  sea ! 


136 


Sao  Tome 


Aldo  do  Espirito  Santo 


Where  are  the  Men  Seized  in  this  Wind  of  Madness? 
Blood  falling  in  drops  to  the  earth 
men  dying  in  the  forest 
and  blood  falling,  falling  .  .  . 
on  those  cast  into  the  sea.  .  .  . 
Fernao  Dias  for  ever  in  the  story 
of  Ilha  Verde,  red  with  blood, 
of  men  struck  down 
in  the  vast  arena  of  the  quay. 
Alas  the  quay,  the  blood,  the  men, 
the  fetters,  the  lash  of  beatings 
resound,  resoimd,  resound 
dropping  in  the  silence  of  prostrated  lives 
of  cries,  and  howls  of  pain 
from  men  who  are  men  no  more, 
in  the  hands  of  nameless  butchers. 
Ze  Mulato,  in  the  story  of  the  quay 
shooting  men  in  the  silence 
of  bodies  falling. 
Alas  Ze  Mulato,  Ze  Mulato, 
The  victims  cry  for  vengeance 
The  sea,  the  sea  of  Fernao  Dias 
devouring  human  Uves 
is  bloody  red. 
-  We  are  arisen  - 
Our  eyes  are  turned  to  you. 
Our  lives  entombed 

139 


SAO   TOME 


in  fields  of  death, 

men  of  the  Fifth  of  February 

men  fallen  in  the  furnace  of  death 

imploring  pity 

screaming  for  life, 

dead  without  air,  without  water 

they  all  arise 

from  the  common  grave 

and  upright  in  the  chorus  of  justice 

cry  for  vengeance.  .  .  . 

The  fallen  bodies  in  the  forest, 
the  homes,  the  homes  of  men 
destroyed  in  the  gulf 
of  ravening  fire, 
lives  incinerated, 

raise  the  imaccustomed  chorus  of  justice 
crying  for  vengeance. 
And  all  you  hangmen 
all  you  torturers 
sitting  in  the  dock: 

-  What  have  you  done  with  my  people?  . . 

-  What  do  you  answer? 

-  Where  is  my  people?  .  .  . 
And  I  answer  in  the  silence 
of  voices  raised 
demanding  justice.  ... 

One  by  one,  through  all  the  line.  .  .  . 

For  you,  tormentors, 

forgiveness  has  no  name. 

Justice  shall  be  heard. 

And  the  blood  of  lives  fallen 

in  the  forests  of  death, 

innocent  blood 

drenching  the  earth 

in  a  silence  of  terrors 

shall  make  the  earth  fruitful, 

crying  for  justice. 


140 


ALDO   DO   ESPIRITO   SANTO 


It  is  the  flame  of  humanity 

singing  of  hope 

in  a  world  without  bonds 

where  liberty 

is  the  fatherland  of  men.  .  . 


141 


Angola 


Agostinho  Neto 


Farewell  at  the  Moment  of  Parting 

My  mother 

(oh  black  mothers  whose  children  have  departed) 

you  taught  me  to  wait  and  to  hope 

as  you  have  done  through  the  disastrous  hours 

But  in  me 

life  has  killed  that  mysterious  hope 

I  wait  no  more 

it  is  I  who  am  awaited 

Hope  is  ourselves 

your  children 

traveUing  towards  a  faith  that  feeds  life 

We  the  naked  children  of  the  bush  sanzalas 

unschooled  urchins  who  play  with  balls  of  rags 

on  the  noonday  plains 

ourselves 

hired  to  burn  out  our  lives  in  coffee  fields 

ignorant  black  men 

who  must  respect  the  whites 

and  fear  the  rich 

we  are  your  children  of  the  native  quarters 

which  the  electricity  never  reaches 

men  dying  drunk 

abandoned  to  the  rhythm  of  death's  tom-toms 

your  children 

who  hunger 

145 


ANGOLA 


who  thirst 

who  are  ashamed  to  call  you  mother 
who  are  afraid  to  cross  the  streets 
who  are  afraid  of  men 

It  is  ourselves 

the  hope  of  life  recovered. 


146 


Antonio  Jacinto 


Monangamba 

On  that  big  estate  there  is  no  rain 

it's  the  sweat  of  my  brow  that  waters  the  crops : 

On  that  big  estate  there  is  coffee  ripe 

and  that  cherry-redness 

is  drops  of  my  blood  turned  sap. 

The  coffee  will  be  roasted^ 

ground,  and  crushed, 

will  turn  black,  black  with  the  colour  of  the  contratado. 

Black  with  the  colour  of  the  contratado ! 

Ask  the  birds  that  sing, 

the  streams  in  carefree  wandering 

and  the  high  wind  from  inland: 

Who  gets  up  early?  Who  goes  to  toil? 
Who  is  it  carries  on  the  long  road 
the  hammock  or  bunch  of  kernels? 
Who  reaps  and  for  pay  gets  scorn 
rotten  maize,  rotten  fish, 
ragged  clothes,  fifty  angolares 
beating  for  biting  back? 

Who? 

Who  makes  the  millet  grow 
and  the  orange  groves  to  flower? 
-  Who? 

147 


ANGOLA 


Who  gives  the  money  for  the  boss  to  buy 
cars^  machinery,  women 

and  Negro  heads  for  the  motors? 

Who  makes  the  white  man  prosper, 
grow  big-bellied  -  get  much  money? 
-Who? 

And  the  birds  that  sing, 
the  streams  in  carefree  wandering 
and  the  high  wind  from  inland 
will  answer: 

-  Monangambeeee.  .  .  . 

Ah!  Let  me  at  least  climb  the  palm  trees 

Let  me  drink  wine,  palm  wine 

and  fuddled  by  my  drunkness  forget 

-  Monangambeee.  ... 


148 


South  Africa 


Mazisi  Kunene 


To  the  Proud 

In  the  twirling  jnountains  overhung  with  mist 

Foretell  Nodongo  the  proud  name  of  the  subsequent  hours 

Since,  when  you  beat  the  loud  music  of  your  wings^ 

The  secret  night  creeps  imderneath  the  measured  time. 

When  you  behold  the  fixed  bulk  of  the  sun 
Jubilant  in  its  uncertain  festivals 
Know  that  the  symbol  on  which  you  stand  shall  vanish 
Now  that  the  dawning  awaits  us  with  her  illusions. 

Assemble  the  little  hum  of  your  pealing  boast 
For  the  sake  of  the  reward  meted  to  Somndeni 
Who  sat  abundantly  pride-flowing 
Till  the  passer-by  vultiires  of  heaven  overtook  him. 

We  who  stood  by  you  poverty-stricken 
Shall  abandon  you  to  the  insanity  of  licence 
And  follow  the  winding  path 
Where  the  wisdom  granaries  hold  increase. 

Then  shall  your  nakedness  show 

Teasing  you  before  the  unashamed  sun. 

Itching  you  shall  unfurl  the  night 

But  we  the  sons  of  Time  shall  be  our  parents'  race. 


151 


SOUTH   AFRICA 

The  Echoes 

Over  the  vast  summer  hills 

I  shall  commission  the  maternal  sim 

To  fetch  you  with  her  long  tilted  rays. 

The  slow  heave  of  the  valleys 

Will  once  again  roll  the  hymns  of  accompaniment 

Scattering  the  gUtter  of  the  milky  way  over  the  bare  fields. 

You  will  meet  me 

Underneath  the  shadow  of  the  timeless  earth 

Where  I  lie  weaving  the  seasons. 

You  will  indulge  in  the  sway  dances  of  your  kin 
To  the  time  of  symphonic  flutes 
Ravishing  the  identity  of  water  Ulies. 

I  have  opened  the  mountain  gates 

So  that  the  imposing  rim 

Of  the  Ruwenzori  shall  steal  your  image. 

Even  the  bubbUng  hps  of  continents 
(To  the  shy  palms  of  Libya) 
Shall  awake  the  long-forgotten  age. 

The  quivering  waters  of  the  Zambezi  river 
Will  bear  on  a  silvery  blanket  your  name 
Leading  it  to  the  echoing  of  the  sea. 

Let  me  not  love  you  alone 

Lest  the  essence  of  your  being 

Lie  heavy  on  my  tongue 

When  you  count  so  many  to  praise. 


Farewell 

O  beloved  farewell.  .  .  . 

Hold  these  leaping  dreams  of  fire 

With  the  skeletal  hands  of  death 

152 


MAZISI   KUNENE 

So  that  when  hungry  night  encroaches 
You  defy  her  stubborn  intrigues. 

Do  not  look  to  where  we  turn  and  seethe 
We  pale  humanity^  like  worms 
(The  ululations  might  bind  you  to  our  grief) 
Whose  feet  carry  the  duty  of  life. 

Farewell  beloved 

Even  the  hush  that  haunts  the  afternoon 

Will  sing  the  ding-dong  drum  of  your  ultimate  joy 

Where  we  sit  by  the  fireside  tossing  the  memories 

Making  the  parts  fit  into  each  day  complete; 

Yet  knowing  ours  is  a  return  of  emptiness 

Farewell,  yewu  ...  ye. 


As  Long  as  I  Live 

When  I  still  can  remember 

When  I  still  have  eyes  to  see 

When  I  still  have  hands  to  hold 

When  I  still  have  feet  to  drag 

So  long  shall  I  bear  your  name  with  all  the  days 

So  long  shall  I  stare  at  you  with  all  the  stars  of  heaven 

Though  you  lead  me  to  their  sadistic  beasts 

I  shall  find  a  way  to  give  my  burden-love 

Blaming  your  careless  truths  on  yesterdays. 

Because  I  swear  by  life  herself 

When  you  still  live,  so  shall  I  live 

Turning  the  night  into  day,  forcing  her 

To  make  you  lie  pompous  on  its  pathways. 

So  shall  I  wander  around  the  rim  of  the  sun 

Till  her  being  attains  your  fullness 

As  long  as  I  live.  .  .  . 


153 


Bloke  Modisane 


lonely 

it  gets  awfully  lonely^ 

lonely; 

like  screaming^ 

screaming  lonely; 

screaming  down  dream  alley, 

screaming  of  blues,  like  none  can  hear; 

but  you  hear  me  clear  and  loud: 

echoing  loud; 

like  it's  for  you  I  scream. 

I  talk  to  myself  when  I  write, 
shout  and  scream  to  myself, 
then  to  myself 
scream  and  shout: 
shouting  a  prayer, 
screaming  noises, 
knowing  this  way  I  tell 
the  world  about  still  lives; 
even  maybe 
just  to  scream  and  shout. 

is  it  I  lack  the  musician's  contact 

direct? 

or,  is  it  true,  the  writer 

creates 

(except  the  trinity  with  God,  the  machine  and  he) 

154 


BLOKE  MODISANE 


incestuous  silhouettes 

to  each  other  scream  and  shout, 

to  me  shout  and  scream 

pry  and  mate; 

inbred  deformities  of  loneliness. 


155 


Nyasaland 


David  Rubadiri 


An  African  Thunderstorm 

From  the  west 

Clouds  come  hurrying  with  the  wind 

Turning 

Sharply 

Here  and  there 

Like  a  plague  of  locusts 

WhirHng 

Tossing  up  things  on  its  tail 

Like  a  madman  chasing  nothing. 

Pregnant  clouds 

Ride  stately  on  its  back 

Gathering  to  perch  on  hills 

Like  dark  sinister  wings; 

The  Wind  whistles  by 

And  trees  bend  to  let  it  pass. 

In  the  village 

Screams  of  delighted  children 

Toss  and  turn 

In  the  din  of  whirHng  wind. 

Women  - 

Babies  clinging  on  their  backs  - 

Dart  about  - 

In  and  out 

Madly 

The  Wind  whistles  by 

Whilst  trees  bend  to  let  it  pass. 

159 


NYASALAND 


Clothes  wave  like  tattered  flags 

Flying  off 

To  expose  dangling  breasts 

As  jaggered  blinding  flashes 

Rumble^  tremble,  and  crack 

Amidst  the  smell  of  fired  smoke 

And  the  pelting  march  of  the  storm. 


1 60 


Kenya 


John  Mbiti 


New  York  Skyscrapers 

The  weak  scattered  rays  of  yellow  sun 

Peeped  through  the  hazy  tissues 

That  blanketed  them  with  transparent  wax; 

And  as  the  wrinkled  rays  closed  the  dayj 

Smoky  chinmeys  of  New  York  coughed 

Looking  down  in  bended  towers 

And  vomited  sad  tears  of  dark  smoke. 


163 


Joseph  Kariuki 


Come  Away,  my  Love 

Come  away,  my  love,  from  streets 
Where  unkind  eyes  divide. 
And  shop  windows  reflect  ovir  difference. 
In  the  shelter  of  my  faithful  room  rest. 

There,  safe  from  opinions,  being  behind 
Myself,  I  can  see  only  you. 
And  in  my  dark  eyes  your  grey 
Will  dissolve. 

The  candlelight  throws 
Two  dark  shadows  on  the  wall 
Which  merge  into  one  as  I  close  beside  you. 

When  at  last  the  lights  are  out. 
And  I  feel  your  hand  in  mine. 
Two  human  breaths  join  in  one. 
And  the  piano  weaves 
Its  tmchallenged  harmony. 


164 


Mocambique 


Jose  Craveirinha 


The  Seed  is  in  Me 

Dead  or  living 

the  seed  is  in  me 

in  the  universal  whiteness  of  my  bones 

AUfeel 

uneasiness 

at  the  undoubted  whiteness  of  my  bones 

white  as  the  breasts  of  Ingrids  or  Marias 

in  Scandinavian  lands 

or  in  Polana  the  smart  quarter 

of  my  old  native  town. 

All  feel 

uneasiness 

that  the  mingling  in  my  veins  should  be 

blood  from  the  blood  of  every  blood 

and  instead  of  the  peace  ineffable  of  pure  and  simple  birth 

and  a  pure  and  simple  death 

breed  a  rash  of  complexes 

from  the  seed  of  my  bones. 

But  a  night  with  the  massaleiras  heavy  with  green  fruit 
batuques  swirl  above  the  sweating  stones 
and  the  tears  of  rivers 

All  feel 

uneasiness 

at  the  white  seed  in  me 

breeding  a  rash  inflamed  with  malediction. 

167 


MOCAMBIQUE 

And  one  day 

will  come  all  the  Marias  of  the  distant  nations 

penitent  or  no 

weeping 

laughing 

or  loving  to  the  rhythm  of  a  song 

To  say  to  my  bones 
forgive  us,  brother. 


Three  Dimensions 

In  the  cabin  .  .  . 

the  god  of  the  machine 

in  cap  and  overalls 

holds  in  his  hand  the  secret  of  the  pistons. 

In  the  carriage  .  .  . 

the  first-class  god 

elaborates  his  schemes  in  regulated  air. 

And  on  the  branch-line  .  .  . 

-  feet  flat  against  the  steel  of  the  coaches  - 

bursting  his  Ixmgs 

the  god  of  the  trolley. 


i68 


Noemia  de  Sousa 


Appeal 

Who  has  strangled  the  tired  voice 

of  my  forest  sister? 

On  a  sudden^  her  call  to  action 

was  lost  in  the  endless  flow  of  night  and  day. 

No  more  it  reaches  me  every  morning, 

wearied  with  long  journeying, 

mile  after  mile  drowned 

in  the  everlasting  cry:  Macala! 

No,  it  comes  no  more,  still  damp  with  dew, 
leashed  with  children  and  submission.  .  .  . 
One  child  on  her  back,  another  in  her  womb 

-  always,  always,  always ! 

And  a  face  all  compassed  in  a  gentle  look, 
whenever  I  recall  that  look  I  feel 
my  flesh  and  blood  swell  tremulous, 
throbbing  to  revelations  and  affinities.  .  .  . 

-  But  who  has  stopped  her  immeasurable  look 
from  feeding  my  deep  hunger  after  comradeship 
that  my  poor  table  never  will  serve  to  satisfy? 

lo  mamane,  who  can  have  shot  the  noble  voice 

of  my  forest  sister? 

What  mean  and  brutal  rhino-whip 

has  lashed  until  it  killed  her? 

-  In  my  garden  the  seringa  blooms. 

But  with  an  evil  omen  in  its  purple  flower. 


169 


MOCAMBIQUE 

in  its  intense  inhuman  scent; 

and  the  wrap  of  tenderness  spread  by  the  sun 

over  the  light  mat  of  petals 

has  waited  since  summer  for  my  sister's  child 

to  rest  himself  upon  it.  ... 

In  vain,  in  vain, 

a  chirico  sings  and  sings  perched  among  the  garden  reeds, 

for  the  Httle  boy  of  my  missing  sister^, 

the  victim  of  the  forest's  vaporous  dawns. 

Ah,  I  know,  I  know:  at  the  last  there  was  a  glitter 

of  farewell  in  those  gentle  eyes, 

and  her  voice  came  like  a  murmur  hoarse, 

tragic  and  despairing.  .  .  . 

O  Africa,  my  motherland,  answer  me: 

What  was  done  to  my  forest  sister, 

that  she  comes  no  more  to  the  city  with  her  eternal  Httle 

ones 
(one  on  her  back,  one  in  her  womb), 
with  her  eternal  charcoal- vendor's  cry? 
O  Africa,  my  motherland, 
you  at  least  will  not  forsake  my  heroic  sister, 
she  shall  Uve  in  the  proud  memorial  of  your  arms ! 


170 


Valente  Malangatana 


To  the  Anxious  Mother 

Into  your  arms  I  came 

when  you  bore  me,  very  anxious 

yoUa  who  were  so  alarmed 

at  that  monstrous  moment 

fearing  that  God  might  take  me. 

Everyone  watched  in  silence 

to  see  if  the  birth  was  going  well 

everyone  washed  their  hands 

to  be  able  to  receive  the  one  who  came  from  Heaven 

and  all  the  women  were  still  and  afraid. 

But  when  I  emerged 

from  the  place  where  you  sheltered  me  so  long 

at  once  I  drew  my  first  breath 

at  once  you  cried  out  with  joy 

the  first  kiss  was  my  grandmother's. 

And  she  took  me  at  once  to  the  place 

where  they  kept  me,  hidden  away 

everyone  was  forbidden  to  enter  my  room 

because  everyone  smelt  bad 

and  I  all  fresh,  fresh 

breathed  gently,  wrapped  in  my  napkins. 

But  grandmother,  who  seemed  like  a  madwoman^ 

always  looking  and  looking  again 

because  the  flies  came  at  me 

and  the  mosquitoes  harried  me 

God  who  also  watched  over  me 

was  my  old  granny's  friend. 

171 


MOgAMBIQUE 

Woman 

In  the  cool  waters  of  the  river 

we  shall  have  fish  that  are  huge 

which  shall  give  the  sign  of 

the  end  of  the  world  perhaps 

because  they  will  make  an  end  of  woman 

woman  who  adorns  the  fields 

woman  who  is  the  fruit  of  man. 

The  flying  fish  makes  an  end  of  searching 

because  woman  is  the  gold  of  man 

when  she  sings  she  ever  seems 

like  the  fado-singer's  well-timed  guitar 

when  she  diesj  I  shall  cut  off 

her  hair  to  deUver  me  from  sin. 

Woman's  hair  shall  be  the  blanket 

over  my  coffin  when  another  Artist 

calls  me  to  Heaven  to  paint  me 

woman's  breasts  shall  be  my  pillow 

woman's  eye  shall  open  up  for  me  the  way  to  heaven 

woman's  belly  shall  give  birth  to  me  up  there 

and  woman's  glance  shall  watch  me 

as  I  go  up  to  Heaven. 


172 


Sources  of  the  Poems 


Sources  of  the  Poems 


Aig-Imoukhuede:  poem  from  MS, 

AwooNOR- Williams:  all  poems  from  Okyeame,  i  (1961). 

BolAiMba:  aU  poems  from  Esanzo. 

Brew:  both  poems  from  Okyeame,  i  (196 1). 

Clark:  all  poems  from  MSS. 

Craveirinha:  both  poems  from  Andrade's  anthology. 

De  Sous  a:  poem  from  Andrade's  anthology. 

Diop  (BiRAGO):  all  poems  from  Leurres  et  lueurs. 

Diop  (David):  all  poems  from  Coups  de  pilon. 

EcHERUo:  poem  from  MS. 

Pons  EGA:  poem  from  Andrade's  anthology. 

Jacinto:  poem  from  Andrade's  anthology. 

Kariuki:  poem  from  MS. 

Komey:  poem  from  Black  Orpheus.  ■^ 

Kunene:  all  poems  from  MSS. 

Malangatana:  both  poems  from  MSS. 

Mbiti:  poem  from  MS. 

Modisane:  poem  from  MS. 

Neto:  poem  from  Andrade's  anthology. 

Okara:   The  Snowflakes  Sail  Gently  Down,  Adhiambo,  The 

Mystic  Druniy  and  One  Night  at  Victoria  Beach  from  MSS; 

Were  I  to  Choose^  Piano  and  Drums,  and  Spirit  of  the  Wind 

from  Black  Orpheus. 
Okigbo:  all  poems  from  MSS. 
Peters:  all  poems  from  MSS. 

Rabearivelo:  all  poems  from  Senghor's  anthology. 
Ranaivo:  both  poems  from  Senghor's  anthology. 
Rubadiri:  poem  from  MS. 
Santo:  poem  from  Andrade's  anthology. 
Senghor:  In  Memoriam,  Night  of  Sine,  Luxembourg  19 39s 

Totem,  Paris  in  the  Snow,  Blues,  The  Dead,  Prayer  to  Masks, 

175 


SOURCES   OF  THE   POEMS 

Visity  and  AH  Day  Long  from  Chants  d'omhres  and  Hosties 
noiresi  In  what  Tempestuous  Night  and  New  York  from 
^thiopiques;  You  Held  the  Black  Face,  I  will  Pronounce  your 
Name,  and  Be  not  Amazed  from  Chants  pour  Naett. 

Soyinka:  Season  from  Black  Orpheus;  all  other  poems  from 
MSS. 

U  Tam'si:  all  poems  from  Feu  de  Brousse. 

The  following  key  works  are  referred  to  above  and  in  the 

following  Notes: 

Senghor's  anthology:  Nouvelle  Anthologie  de  la  poesie  negre  et 
malgache,  edited  by  L.  S.  Senghor,  with  an  introduction 
UOrphee  noir  by  Jean-Paul  Sartre  (Paris,  Presses  Universi- 
taires  de  France,  1948). 

Andrade's  Caderno:  Caderno  dapoesia  negra  de  expressdo  portu- 
guesa  edited  by  Mario  de  Andrade  (Lisbon,  1953). 

Andrade's  anthology:  Antologia  da  poesia  negra  de  expressao 
portuguesa  edited  by  Mario  de  Andrade  and  preceded  by 
Cultura  negro-africana  e  assimilacdo  (Paris,  Oswald,  1958). 

Black  Orpheus :  Journal  of  African  and  Afro-American  Litera- 
ture, published  twice  or  thrice  yearly  since  1957,  from  the 
Ministry  of  Education,  Ibadan,  Nigeria. 

Presence  Africaine:  Cultural  Review  of  the  Negro  World,  pub- 
lished regularly  since  1947,  of  recent  years  bi-monthly  and 
in  both  French  and  English  editions,  by  Presence  Africaine, 
Paris. 


176 


Notes  on  the  Authors 


/ 
/ 


Notes  on  the  Authors 


Aig-ImoukhuedEj  Frank:  b.  1935  at  Ediinabon  near  Ife 
in  the  Yoruba  country  of  Western  Nigeria^  though  his  home 
is  in  Benin  Province.  Attended  at  least  fifteen  primary  schools, 
then  Igbobi  College  and  University  College^  Ibadan,  where 
he  contributed  poetry  to  J.P.  Clark's  The  Horn.  Recently 
worked  for  a  national  daily  in  Lagos  and  is  now  back  in 
Ibadan  as  an  Information  Officer.  Has  written  a  number  of 
plays  for  broadcasting.  The  first  of  the  young  Nigerian  poets 
to  attempt  writing  in  pidgin  English.  Two  of  his  poems  have 
appeared  in  Black  Orpheus. 

AwooNOR-WiLLiAMSj  George:  b.  1935  at  Wheta,  near 
Keta  in  the  Togo  Region  of  Ghana,  of  a  Sierra  Leonian  father 
and  a  Togolese  mother.  Educated  at  Achimota  and  the 
University  of  Ghana,  where  he  now  works  in  the  Institute  of 
African  Studies,  speciaHzing  in  vernacular  poetry.  Edits  the 
Ghanaian  literary  review  Okyeame,  in  which  some  of  his 
poems  have  appeared. 

BoLAMBA,  Antoine-Roger:  born  in  the  former  Belgian 
Congo.  Has  pubUshed  numerous  articles  and  poems  in  the 
review  La  Voix  du  Congolais,  of  which  he  was  Editor.  Influ- 
enced by  Cesaire.  Has  published  Esanzo,  poems  (Presence 
Africaine,  1956). 

Brew,  Kwesi:  b.  1928  at  Cape  Coast  in  Ghana.  Graduated 
at  the  University  of  Ghana.  Published  poetry  in  the  first 
number  of  the  Ghanaian  literary  review  Okyeame.  Now 
working  at  the  Foreign  Office  at  Accra. 

Clark,  John  Pepper:  b.  1935  in  the  Ijaw  country  of  the 
Niger  Delta,  Nigeria.  Educated  at  Government  College, 
Warri,  and  the  University  College,  Ibadan.  While  at  Ibadan 
founded  an  influential  poetry  magazine,  The  Horn.  Since  i960 
has  worked  as  a  journalist  in  Ibadan  and  Lagos  and  is  now  at 

179 


NOTES   ON  THE  AUTHORS 

Princeton  on  a  fellowship.  He  has  published  several  poems  in 
Black  Orpheus  and  his  first  play.  Song  of  a  Goat,  was  produced 
at  Ibadan  and  Enugu  in  1962.  A  free  spirit  and  an  abundant 
talent.  Has  published  Song  of  a  Goat,  play  (Ibadan,  Mbari, 
1962)  and  Poems  (Mbari,  1962). 

Craveirinha,  Jose:  b.  1922  at  Lourengo  Marques,  where  he 
works  as  a  journaUst.  His  poems  have  appeared  in  various 
periodicals  and  in  Andrade's  anthology. 

De  Sousa,  Noemia:  b.  1927  at  Louren9o  Marques.  The  first 
African  woman  to  achieve  a  genuine  reputation  as  a  modern 
poet,  she  has  published  poetry  in  a  number  of  BraziUan, 
Angolan,  and  Mozambique  journals  and  in  Andrade's 
Caderno  and  anthology. 

Diop,  BiRAGo;  b.  1906  at  Dakar,  Senegal.  Studied  at  Lycee 
Faidherbe  in  St  Louis  and  later  quaUfied  as  a  veterinary 
surgeon.  Has  spent  much  of  his  Hfe  in  Upper  Volta  as  a 
government  veterinary  officer.  His  output  is  small,  but  care- 
fully and  exquisitely  composed.  Had  several  poems  in 
Senghor's  anthology.  Has  published  Leurres  et  lueurs,  poems 
(Presence  Africaine,  i960),  Les  Contes  d' Amadou  Koumba 
(Paris,  Fasquelle,  1947),  Les  Nouveaux  Contes  d* Amadou 
Koumba  (Presence  Africaine,  1958). 

Diop,  David:  b.  1927  at  Bordeaux  of  a  Senegalese  father  and 
a  Cameroonian  mother.  Killed  in  an  air-crash  off  Dakar  in 
i960.  Throughout  his  short  life  Diop  was  in  poor  health  and 
was  often  in  hospital.  Moved  frequently  from  his  childhood 
onwards  between  France  and  West  Africa.  Was  a  regular 
contributor  to  Presence  Africaine  and  had  several  early  poems 
in  Senghor's  anthology.  Has  published  Coups  depilon,poQxns 
(Presence  Africaine,  1956). 

EcHERUO,  Michael:  b.  1937  in  Owerri  Province  in  the  Ibo 
country  of  Eastern  Nigeria.  Educated  at  Stella  Maris  College^ 
Port  Harcourt,  and  University  College,  Ibadan,  where  he 
read  English.  Now  lecturing  in  English  at  the  University  of 
Nigeria,  Nsukka,  but  is  at  present  at  Cornell  on  a  fellowship. 
He  produced  J.  P.  Clark's  Song  of  a  Goat  at  Enugu  in  1962. 

Fonseca,  Aguinaldo:  b.  1922  in  the  Cape  Verde  Islands. 
Has  worked  on  nimierous  literary  reviews,  including  Seara 
Nova,  AtlanticOi  and  Nundo  Literario  and  has  contributed  to 
Andrade's  anthology.  Has  published  Linha  do  horizonte, 

180 


NOTES   ON   THE   AUTHORS 

poems  (Edi^ao  da  Seccao  de  Cabo  Verde  da  Casa  dos 
Estudantes  do  Imperioj  Lisbon,  195 1). 

JacintOj  Antonio:  bom  in  Luanda,  Angola.  His  poems 
have  appeared  in  Andrade's  Caderno  and  anthology. 

KariukIj  Joseph:  b.  1929  in  the  Kikuyu  country  of  Kenya. 
Educated  at  Makerere  College  in  Uganda  and  taught  for 
several  years  in  Kenya  before  coming  to  England  to  read 
English  at  ICing's  College,  Cambridge.  An  occasional  broad- 
caster while  in  England,  he  has  recently  returned  to  Kenya  to 
teach  at  Kangaru  School. 

KoMEY,  Ellis  Ayitey:  b.  1927  at  Accra.  Educated  at 
Accra  Academy.  Has  published  poetry  in  Black  Orpheus  and 
West  African  Review.  Now  African  Editor  of  Flamingo. 

Kunene,Mazisi:  b.  1930  in  Durban,  where  he  took  his  M. A. 
at  Natal  University.  Came  to  London  in  1959  to  work  on  a 
thesis  on  Zulu  poetry.  Now  engaged  on  pohtical  work  and 
writing  an  epic  concerning  the  origin  and  purpose  of  life  as 
understood  in  Zulu  tradition.  Has  written  a  number  of 
vernacular  poems  and  plays,  some  of  which  have  been  pub- 
lished in  South  Africa.  Won  the  Bantu  Literary  Competition 
in  1956. 

Malangatana,  Valente:  b.  1936  at  Marra9uene  in 
Mozambique.  Began  drawing  as  a  boy.  At  this  time  his  mother 
suddenly  went  mad,  while  his  father  was  frequently  away  at 
the  mines  in  South  Africa.  While  working  as  a  servant  at  the 
Lourengo  Marques  Club  he  attended  night  school  and  began 
painting  'furiously'.  He  was  d^covered  painting  one  night 
by  the  brilliant  architect  Amangio  Guedes,  who  took  him 
into  his  studio.  Since  then  he  has  worked  both  as  a  decorative 
artist  on  architectural  schemes  and  as  a  painter  of  great 
force  and  originality.  In  addition  to  a  number  of  poems, 
he  has  completed  an  autobiography.  Some  of  his  poetry  has 
appeared  in  Black  Orpheus  together  with  an  account  of  his 
painting. 

Mbiti,  John:  b.  1931  at  Kitui  in  the  Kamba  coimtry  of 
Kenya.  Educated  at  Alliance  High  School,  Makerere  College, 
and  Barrington  College  USA,  where  he  was  ordained.  Is  now 
at  Cambridge,  working  on  a  thesis.  Has  published  several 
books  in  Kikamba,  his  mother  tongue,  and  has  contributed 
poems  and  stories  to  various  periodicals  in  Europe. 

181 


NOTES   ON   THE  AUTHORS 

MoDiSANEj  Bloke:  b.  1923  at  Johannesburg,  where  he  was 
educated.  Worked  for  some  years  on  Drum  magazine  but  fled 
from  South  Africa  a  few  years  ago  and  now  lives  and  works  in 
London  as  a  writer,  actor,  and  broadcaster.  Has  published 
short  stories  and  articles  in  many  periodicals  and  is  now 
working  on  three  books :  a  collection  of  South  African  stories, 
another  of  his  own  stories,  and  an  autobiography.  He  played 
a  leading  role  in  the  London  production  of  Genet's  The 
Blacks. 

Neto,  Agostinho:  b.  1922  at  Icola  e  Bengo  in  Angola. 
Studied  medicine  in  Lisbon  and  returned  to  practise  in 
Angola.  Associated  with  the  movement  led  by  Viriato  da 
Cruz  for  the  'rediscovery'  of  Angola's  indigenous  culture. 
In  i960  Neto  was  elected  President  of  the  Angolan  Liberation 
Movement  MPLA.  In  i960  he  was  arrested  and  taken  to 
Portugal  for  imprisonment.  But  in  1962  it  was  annoimced 
that  he  had  escaped  from  Portugal  with  the  aid  of  the  demo- 
cratic resistance  movement.  Has  published  poetry  in  Portu- 
guese and  Angolan  reviews  and  in  Andrade's  Caderno  and 
anthology. 

Okara,  Gabriel:  b.  1921  in  the  Ijaw  country  of  the  Niger 
Delta,  Nigeria.  Educated  at  Government  College,  Umuahia, 
he  then  became  a  book-binder.  At  that  time  he  began  to  write 
plays  and  features  for  broadcasting.  He  is  now  Information 
Officer  with  the  Eastern  Regional  Government  at  Enugu. 
Several  of  his  poems  have  appeared  in  Black  Orpheus,  starting 
with  the  first  number  in  1957.  He  has  just  completed  a  novel. 
A  self-sufficient,  deeply  read,  and  thoughtful  poet. 

Okigbo,  Christopher:  b.  1932  at  Ojoto  near  Onitsha  in  the 
Ibo  country  of  Eastern  Nigeria,  The  imagery  of  his  poetry  is 
often  rooted  in  the  groves,  shrines,  and  sacred  streams  of  his 
birthplace.  Educated  at  Government  College,  Umuahia,  and 
University  College,  Ibadan,  where  he  read  Classics.  From 
1956  to  1958  he  was  Private  Secretary  to  the  Federal  Minister 
of  Research  and  Information,  then  taught  for  two  years  at 
Fiditi  near  Ibadan  before  joining  the  Library  staff  at  the 
University  of  Nigeria.  He  is  now  West  African  representative 
of  the  Cambridge  University  Press.  A  voracious  reader,  whose 
passion  for  classical  poetry  seems  to  be  reflected  in  his  own 
fastidious   craftsmanship.   He  has  published  Heavensgate, 

182 


NOTES    ON  THE  AUTHORS 

poems  (Ibadan,  Mbari,  1962),  Limits  and  Other  Poems  (Mbari, 
1962). 

Peters,  Lenrie:  b.  1932  at  Bathurst.  Educated  at  Bathurst, 
Freetown,  and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  took  a 
medical  degree  in  1959.  Now  studying  surgery  at  Guildford. 
He  is  an  amateur  singer  and  broadcaster  and  has  completed  a 
novel  which  is  now  under  consideration. 

Rabearivelo,  Jean- Joseph:  b.  1901  at  Antananarivo, 
Madagascar,  of  a  noble  but  poor  family.  Left  school  at 
thirteen  and  began  writing  poetry  at  an  early  age.  His  early 
work  is  imitative,  for  he  had  to  teach  himself  a  mastery  of 
French  Hterary  form  before  he  could  develop  his  own  ardent 
style.  He  founded  a  literary  review  and  led  the  way  in  the 
creation  of  a  new  Madagascan  literature  written  in  French. 
Passionate  and  restless  in  temperament,  he  married  young 
and  drifted  from  one  job  to  another.  He  became  a  drug- 
addict  and  killed  himself  in  1937  in  a  mood  of  despair  brought 
on  partly  by  the  persistent  refusal  of  the  local  officials  to  let 
him  visit  France,  the  ambition  of  his  life.  Several  of  his 
poems  appeared  in  Senghor's  anthology.  Has  published  La 
Coupe  de  cendres  (1924),  Sylves  (1927),  Volumes  (1928), 
Vientes  de  la  Manana  (Rio  de  Janeiro),  Presque-songes 
(Tananarive,  presented  by  Robert  Boudry,  chez  Henri 
Vidalie,  1934). 

Ranaivo,  Flavien:  b.  1914  in  the  Imerina  country  near 
Antananarivo,  his  father  being  Governor  of  Arivonimamo. 
He  did  not  go  to  school  imtil  he  was  eight  and  learnt  music 
long  before  he  learnt  the  alphabet.  Since  early  childhood  he 
has  spent  much  time  wandering  through  the  countryside 
aroimd  the  capital,  and  his  poetic  style  is  much  influenced  by 
vernacular  song  and  ballad  forms,  especially  that  called 
*hain-teny\  Hence  his  crisp  use  of  language,  more  authentic- 
ally Madagascan  than  Rabearivelo's.  Several  of  his  poems 
appeared  in  Senghor's  anthology.  Has  published  L^ Ombre  et 
le  vent  (Preface  by  O.  Monnoni  and  Illustrations  by  Andri- 
amampianina,  Tananarive,  1947)  and  Mes  chansons  de  toujours 
(Paris,  1955). 

RuBADiRi,  David:  b.  1930  in  Nyasaland.  Educated  at 
Makerere  College  in  Uganda  and  at  King's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  took  the  English  Tripos.  During  the 

183 


NOTES   ON   THE  AUTHORS 

Nyasaland  crisis  in  1959  he  was  arrested  but  went  to  Cam- 
bridge after  his  release  from  detention.  An  active  broadcaster 
while  in  England,  he  has  recently  returned  to  Nyasaland  to 
teach. 

Santo,  Aldo  do  Espirito:  b.  1926  in  Sao  Tome,  where  he 
works  as  a  teacher.  Has  published  poetry  in  several  reviews 
of  Sao  Tome  and  Portugal  and  in  Andrade's  Caderno  and 
anthology. 

Senghor,  Leopold  Sedar:  b.  1906  at  Joal,  an  old  Portu- 
guese coastal  settlement  in  Senegal.  He  is  of  the  Serere  tribe. 
His  father  was  a  groundnut  merchant  and  a  Catholic  in  a  land 
predominantly  Moslem.  Senghor  passed  brilliantly  from  the 
local  lycee  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  went  on  to  the  Lycee 
Louis  le  Grand  in  Paris.  Later  he  completed  his  agregation  at 
the  Sorbonne,  the  first  West  African  to  do  so.  In  Paris  he  met 
Cesaire,  Damas,  and  other  black  poets  and  intellectuals  from 
the  Caribbean  area.  Prominent  as  an  intellectual  and  pohtical 
leader  of  West  Africa  for  many  years,  he  has  been  at  various 
times  a  teacher  at  the  Ecole  Nationale  de  la  France  d'Outre- 
mer,  a  member  of  the  Council  of  Europe,  a  Deputy  for 
Senegal  in  the  French  National  Assembly,  and  a  minister  in 
the  French  Government.  In  i960  installed  as  first  President 
of  the  Independent  Republic  of  Senegal.  Senghor  is  the 
principle  African  advocate  of  Negritude  and  the  only  African 
poet  who  has  yet  produced  a  substantial  body  of  work.  His 
style  emerged  fully  formed  in  his  first  book,  which  contains 
some  of  his  best  poems.  These  display  already  his  character- 
istic music  and  imagery,  an  imagery  of  the  night  and  the 
moon,  of  tenderness  and  protective  presences.  Has  published 
Chants  d^ ombres,  poems  (Paris,  lEditions  du  Seuil,  1945), 
Hosties  noires,  poems  (■Editions  du  Seuil,  1948 :  reissued  with 
Chants  d* ombre,  1956),  Chants  pour  Naett,  poems  (Paris, 
Seghers,  1949),  ^thiopiques,  poems  (Seuil,  1956),  Nocturnes, 
poems  (Seuil,  1961),  Langage  et  poesie  negro-africaine{  pub- 
lished in  Poesie  et  langage,  Maison  du  Poete,  Brussels,  1954), 
UApport  de  la  poesie  negre  (in  Temoignages  sur  la  poesie  du 
demi-siecle,  Maison  du  Poete,  Brussels,  1953),  Esthetique 
negro-africaine  (Diogene,  October  1956). 

SoYiNKA,  Wole:  b.  1935  at  Abeokuta  in  the  Yoruba  country 
of  Western  Nigeria.  Educated  in  Ibadan  at  Government 

184 


NOTES   ON   THE  AUTHORS 

College  and  University  College,  then  at  Leeds  University, 
where  he  took  English  Honours.  Taught  for  a  while  in  Lon- 
don and  worked  at  the  Royal  Court  Theatre,  where  one  of  his 
short  plays  was  produced.  In  i960  he  returned  to  Nigeria, 
where  his  verse  play  A  Dance  of  the  Forests  won  the  Observer 
Competition  and  was  produced  for  Nigerian  Independence 
in  October  1960.  Soyinka  is  actor,  musician,  and  producer  as 
well  as  poets  and  his  return  to  Nigeria  has  greatly  stimulated 
theatrical  hfe  there.  Has  published  poetry  in  Black  Orpheus 
(of  which  he  is  an  editor).  Encounter ^  and  elsewhere.  He  is  the 
first  African  poet  to  develop  an  elegant  and  good-humoured 
satirical  style,  though  his  recent  poetry  is  darker  in  tone.  Is 
publishing  A  Dance  of  the  Forests  (forthcoming  from  Oxford 
University  Press). 
U  Tam'si*  Tchicaya:  b.  1931  at  MpiU  in  the  Middle 
Congo.  In  1946  accompanied  his  father  (then  Deputy  for 
Moyen  Congo)  to  France  and  studied  at  Orleans  and  Paris. 
Hais  contributed  to  various  French  reviews  and  written 
many  radio  features.  His  poetry  exhibits  some  influence 
from  Cesaire,  but  seems  to  have  a  distinctively  Congolese 
passion  and  intensity.  Has  published  Le  Mauvais  Sang, 
poems  (Paris,  Caracteres,  1955),  Feu  de  brousse,  poems 
(Caracteres,  1957),  A  Triche-Couer,  poems  (Paris,  Oswald. 
i960),  and  J^pitome,  poems  (Oswald,  1962). 


185 


Index  of  First  Lines 


Index  of  First  Lines 


A  distant  glimmer  135 
A  naked  sun  -  a  yellow  sun  63 

A  scroll  of  blue,  an  exquisite  thought  64 

Africa  my  Africa  58 

All  day  long,  over  the  long  straight  rails  50 

An  echo  of  childhood  stalks  before  me  90 

An  image  insists  1 10 

And  the  flower  weeps  106 
At  home  the  sea  is  in  the  town  81 

Banks  of  reed  108 
Be  not  amazed  beloved,  if  sometimes  my  song  grows  dark    55 

Before  you,  mother  Idoto        _  103 

Blood  falling  in  drops  to  the  earth  139 

Bright  with  the  armpit  dazzle  of  a  lioness  104 

Clawed  green-eyed  70 

Come  away,  my  love,  from  streets  164 

Come  over  here  123 
Coming  and  going  these  several  seasons  91 

Contrition  twines  me  like  a  snake  89 

Dead  or  living  167 

DonH  love  me,  my  sweet  38 

Drop  of  dew  on  green  bowl  fostered  105 

Dzogbese  Lisa  has  treated  me  thus  78 

Eyes  open  on  the  beach  104 

For  he  was  a  shrub  among  the  poplars  108 

From  the  west  159 

189 


INDEX 

Grey 3  to  the  low  grass  cropping  u^ 

he  came  to  deliver  the  secret  of  the  sun  124 

/  am  standing  above  you  and  tide  107 

/  done  try  go  churchy  I  done  go  for  court  100 
/  dream  in  the  intimate  semi-darkness  of  an  afternoon      50 

/  have  my  gri-gri  129 

/  hear  many  voices  96 

/  love  to  pass  my  fingers  85 

/  must  hide  him  in  my  innermost  veins  46 

/  shall  sleep  in  white  calico  80 

/  think  it  rains  116 

/  was  playing  124 
/  will  pronounce  your  name  Naett^  I  will  declaim  you^ 

Naettl  54 

Ibadan,  running  splash  of  rust  89 

If  we  tell)  gently i  gently  63 

In  one  of  the  three  pots  64 

In  the  cabin  ...  168 

In  the  cool  waters  of  the  river  172 

In  the  twirling  mountains  overhung  with  mist  151 

In  those  days  59 

In  vain  your  bangles  cast  118 

In  your  presence  I  rediscovered  my  name  57 

Into  your  arms  I  came  171 

it  gets  awfully  lonely  154 

It  is  Sunday  43 

Left  hand  is  God's  hand  102 

Listen  comrades  of  the  struggling  centuries  -           56 

Lord:,  you  visited  Paris  on  the  day  of  your  birth  46 

Masks!  Oh  Masks!  49 
My  brother  you  flash  your  teeth  in  response  to  every 

hypocrisy  57 

My  mother  145 

190 


INDEX 

Negress  my  warm  rumour  of  Africa  59 

New  York!  At  first  I  was  confused  by  your  beauty  51 

O  beloved  farewell.  ....  152 

Oaf  the  young  man  who  lives  down  there  37 

On  that  big  estate  there  is  no  rain  I47 

Over  the  vast  summer  hills  152 

Rust  is  ripeness i  rust  ii 7 

She  whose  eyes  are  prisms  of  sleep  34 

So  death  88 

So  would  I  to  the  hills  again  106 

Suddenly  becoming  talkative  107 

Tell  mCi  before  the  ferrymarCs  return  88 

That  multitude  of  moulded  hands  36 

The  black  glassmaker  35 

The  fire  the  river  thafs  to  say  123 

The  hide  of  the  black  cow  is  stretched  33 

The  hills  hunch  their  backs  130 

The  moon  has  ascended  between  us  103 

The  mystic  drum  beat  in  my  inside  95 

The  past                              -  76 

The  present  reigned  supreme  69 

The  price  seemed  reasonable^  location  1 1 1 

The  snowfiakes  sail  gently  92 
The  spring  has  swept  the  ice  from  all  my  frozen  rivers      47 

The  storks  are  coming  now  97 

The  Sun  hung  by  a  thread  62 

The  weak  scattered  rays  of  yellow  sun  163 

The  wind  comes  rushing  from  the  sea  98 

They  are  lying  out  there  beside  the  captured  roads  48 
This  morning  at  the  Luxembourg,  this  autumn  at  the 

Luxembourg  45 

Those  stick-insect  figures  !  they  rock  the  dance  87 

Thundering  drums  and  cannons  105 

191 


INDEX 

Traveller i  you  must  set  out  112 

We  have  come  home  70 

We  have  come  to  your  shrine  to  worship  75 
What  dark  tempestuous  night  has  been  hiding  your 

face?  51 

What  invisible  rat                                  .  33 

What  time  of  night  it  is  86 

When  Adam  broke  the  stone  94 

When  at  break  of  day  at  a  riverside  93 

When  I  still  can  remember  153 

Who  has  strangled  the  tired  voice  169 
Woman^  rest  on  my  brow  your  balsam  hands^  your 

hands  gentler  than  fur  44 

You  held  the  black  face  of  the  warrior  between  your 

hands  54 

You  leave  your  faint  depressions  113 

You  who  move  like  a  battered  old  dream  60 

Your  hand  is  heavy ^  Nighty  upon  my  brow  118 

Your  infancy  now  a  wall  of  memory  77 


192 


3    1262   04092   4630 


Date  Due 

Due 

Returned 

Due 

Returned 

MC  1  3 

1955 

-    - 

- 

y.  7r^^^>^msir:mc^[mj^m^mm 


This  modern  poetical  geography  of  Africa  is  unique. 
It  draws  on  sixteen  countries  to  present  the  work  of 
black  poets  yyriting  in  English,  French,  and 
Portuguese,  although  all  the  poems,  many  of  which 
appear  for  the  first  time  here,  are  presented  in 
English.  As  a  sample  of  contemporary  African 
writing  they  reveal  an  interesting  blend  of  public  and 
personal  statements 

Poetry  composed  in  African  languages  has  been 
left  out,  because  no  two  editors  could  possibly  have 
covered  the  enormous  field.  This  omission,  however, 
does  not  impair  the  clear  picture  of  emotional, 
social   and  political  pressures  (fashionably  termed 
'Negritude')  as  they  are  reflected  by  Africa's 
imaginative  or  committed  poets  today. 


Published  by  Penguin  Boolcs