Chinua Achebe: “Pine Tree in Spring” and “Their Idiot Song”

Norway Spruce_and Maple  tree on the right_Toronto_Canada.

Chinua Achebe

Pine Tree in Spring

(for Léon Damas *)

.

Pine tree

flag bearer

of green memory

across the breach of a desolate hour

*

Loyal tree

that stood guard

alone in austere emeraldry

over Nature’s recumbent standard

*

Pine tree

lost now in the shade

of traitors decked out flamboyantly

marching back unabashed to the colours they betrayed

*

Fine tree

erect and trustworthy

What school can teach me

your silent, stubborn fidelity?

 

.

*Léon Damas, 1912-1978, French poet, born in French Guiana (“Guyane”);  one of the founders,

along with Léopold Senghor and Aimé Césaire, of the “Négritude” literary and ideological movement

 

.     .     .

 

Their Idiot Song

.

These fellows, the old pagan said, surely are out of their mind – that old proudly impervious derelict skirted long ago by floodwaters of salvation:  Behold the great and gory handiwork of Death displayed for all on dazzling sheets this hour of day its twin nostrils plugged firmly with stoppers of wool and they ask of him:  Where is thy sting?

Sing on, good fellows, sing on!

Someday when it is you he decks out on his great iron bed with cotton wool for your breath, his massing odours mocking your pitiful makeshift defences of face powder and township ladies’ lascivious scent, these others roaming yet his roomy chicken coop will be singing and asking still but

YOU by then no longer will be in doubt!

 

.     .     .

Chinua Achebe was born in Nigeria in 1930,

of the Igbo People.  He is a world-famous poet and writer,

and his first novel, “Things Fall Apart”, is among the most

widely-read books in African literature.

 

.     .     .     .     .


መልካም ፋሲካ / Melkam Fasika !


*     *     *     *     *

Elyas Mulu Kiros

“Missing Mom’s Cooking”

Here I crave

my mom’s cooking

on Easter eve

I die longing for

mom’s Doro Wot

mouth burning

spicy hot

And that Injera

flat bread

of primavera

that I enjoy

eating by hand

day after day.

I ask my mom

to send her son

the tasty spell

via cell phone

or aéropostale.

_____

Today, April 15th, is Ethiopian Easter Sunday.

We thank Elyas Mulu Kiros for this special 2012 Fasika poem !


कबीर Kabir: “Of the Musk Deer”: 15th-century Hindi poems

 

Kabir (144o-1518)

Of the Musk Deer

 

Musk lies in the musk deer’s own nave,

But roam in the forest he does – it to seek;

Alike, God pervades heart to heart,

But men of the world this don’t conceive.

*

In man himself the Master dwells,

But man, deluded, knows not this,

So similar to the musk deer who

Again and again the grass sniffs.

*

The seeker of Ram*, says Kabir,

To the Singhal Island** did march;

When in himself he was convinced,

He found that Ram pervaded his heart.

*

God exists, profuse, in each place,

So don’t think He’s less here and more there,

Those who say He’s far – He is far,

Those who know Him near – He’s near.

*

I knew God to be far away,

But He is ubiquitous – here and there;

Thou didst know Him to be far off,

He’s far off though very near.

_

* Ram, one of the incarnations of Vishnu, and

the central character of the Ramayana epic

** Today known as Sri Lanka

_

 

 

Of the Virtueless

 

It drizzled in graceful drizzles,

On the stone fell showers of rain,

Soil melted when it got watered,

But the stone showed no mark of change.

 

Of Thinking

 

Who utters as wells forth the tongue

Without thinking what he doth say,

Holding the sword of his tongue in hand

The souls of others he doth slay.

 

 

Of Contentment

 

Cow-rich, elephant-rich, horse-rich,

And rich treasures of precious stones,

All those riches are like the dust

Until to man contentment comes.

 

 

Of the Middle

 

If I say I’m Hindu, I’m not,

Nor as well a Muslim I’m,

An effigy of five elements

– in me plays the spark divine.

*

It’s not good in excess to speak,

Nor good in excess to keep mum,

To rain in excess is not good,

Nor good an excess of sun.

 

 

Of Pardon

 

Pardon suits the magnanimous,

One who is low mischiefs befit;

Speak!  In what way did Vishnu lose

When Bhrigu a kick did Him hit?

*

Where there’s mercy there’s religion;

Where there’s avarice there’s sin;

Where there is anger there is Death,

Where there’s pardon there God dwells in.

 

 

Kabir was born in 1440 in Lahartara (modern-day Varanasi), on the sacred Ganges River of India.

His mother, a Brahmin widow, had given birth to him long past the death of her husband – hence she

was socially disgraced.  She left her new-born in some shrubs where he was discovered and adopted by

Neema and Neeru, a Muslim couple who were weavers.

Kabir became a disciple of Ramananda, who revered Vishnu as one of the Forms of God.

But as his devotion to poetry grew hand in hand with the breadth of his religious education,

Kabir worked out his own distinctive spirituality, drawing upon both Hinduism and Islam,

and bringing together what is essential in each faith.

Biographer Evelyn Underhill wrote that upon Kabir’s death in 1518 ” his Muslim and Hindu disciples disputed the possession of his body;  which the Muslims wished to bury, the Hindus to burn.  As they argued together, Kabir appeared before them, and told them to lift the shroud and look at that which lay beneath.  They did so, and found in the place of the corpse a heap of flowers, half of which were buried by the Muslims at Maghar, and half carried by the Hindus to the holy city of Benares to be burned – fitting conclusion to a life which had made fragrant the most beautiful doctrines of two great creeds. ”

Poems translated from Hindi into English by Mohan Singh Karki


Niyi Osundare: “Àlùpàyídà” / “Metamorphosis”

 

Niyi Osundare 

Àlùpàyídà / Metamorphosis

 


I stay very long in the river

And I become a fish

With a head made of coral

And fins which tame the distance

Of billowing depths

*

I stay very long in the fish

And I become a mountain

With a mist-cradled crest

And feet carpeted by grass

Which sweetens dawnbreath with jasmine magic

*

I stay very long on the mountain

And I become a bird

With a net of polyglot straw

And songs which stir the ears

Of slumbering forests

*

I stay very long with the bird

And I become a road

With long dusty eyes

And limbs twining through the bramble

Like precocious pythons

*

I stay very long on the road

And I become a cigarette

Lighted both ends by powerful geysers,

Ash-winged firefly on nights

Of muffled darkness

*

I stay very long with the cigarette

And I become a clown

With a wide, painted face

And a belly stuffed to the brim

With rippling laughters

*

I stay very long with the clown

And I become a sage

With a twinkling beard

And fables which ply the yarn

Of grizzled memories

*

I stay very long in s-i-l-e-n-c-e

I become a Word.

 

 

 

Àlùpàyídà = the Yoruba word for Metamorphosis

_____

 

Niyi Osundare was born in Ikere-Ekiti, Nigeria, in 1947.

He is a poet, dramatist, and university professor,

now teaching in the USA.

Writing under successive dictatorial governments in Nigeria,

Osundare has always been passionate about free speech and

is political as a poet, knowing how very necessary that is in the

contemporary African context.  “To utter is to alter” is his belief;

we must use the power of words.


Niyi Osundare: “La palabra es un huevo” y “Comida de oído” / “The word is an egg” and “Ear food”

_____

Niyi Osundare  (nace 1947, Nigeria)

“La palabra es un huevo” *

 

 

Mi lengua es un fuego rosado

No le permitas que prenda fuego a tus orejas

Cuando los proverbios chocan

En La calle de risas esperandos

Y momentos murmurandos sacan

Un canto fúnebre de los labios del sol atardeciente

 

Contaremos los dientes

De la luna

Y cantaremos coronitas

Para las estrellas desaparecidas…

 

La Palabra, es un huevo la Palabra:

Si se cae en el saliente

De una lengua tropezando

 

Se quiebra sin reunirse.

 

 

 

* un proverbio del idioma yoruba

_____

 

Niyi Osundare  (born 1947, Nigeria)

“The word is an egg” *

 


My tongue is a pink fire

Don’t let it set your ears on fire

When proverbs clash

In the street of waiting laughters

And murmuring moments eke out

A dirge from the lips of the setting sun

 

We shall count the teeth

Of the moon

And sing little wreaths

For missing stars…

 

The Word, the Word

Is an egg:

If it falls on the outcrop

Of a stumbling tongue

 

It breaks

Ungatherably.

 

 

 

* a proverb from the Yoruba language

_____

 

“Comida de oído”

 

 

¿Lo has visto

a quién que puede alimentar a una multitud de orejas

Con siete pescados de imaginación

y tres panes de silencio?

 

¿Has visto a la Palabra

que brotó una serpiente

a la sorpresa frenética de Faraón?

 

Caminan estas Palabras sobre el mar

Y nunca se hunden.

 

_____

 

“Ear food”

 

 

Have you seen him

who can feed a multitude of ears

With seven fishes of fancy

And three loaves of silence?

 

Have you seen the Word

which  sprang a serpent

to Pharaoh’s frenetic surprise?

 

These Words walk on the sea

and they never sink.

 

_____

Traducción del inglés al español / Translation from English into Spanish:

Alexander Best


Hope springs eternal…


Claude McKay: “And some called it the Resurrection flower…”

 

Claude McKay (Jamaican-American poet, 1889-1948)

“The Easter Flower”

 

 

Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly

My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground,

Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily

Soft-scented in the air for yards around;

*

Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf!

Just like a fragile bell of silver rime,

It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief

In the young pregnant year at Eastertime;

*

And many thought it was a sacred sign,

And some called it the Resurrection flower;

And I – a pagan – worshipped at its shrine,

Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power.


Poema para el Domingo de Pascua: “Cristo de Corcovado” por Jair Córtes / Poem for Easter Sunday: “The Corcovado Christ” by Jair Córtes

 

Jair Córtes

(Poet and translator, born 1977, Calpulalpan, Tlaxcala, México)

“The Corcovado Christ”

 

 

There was no beginning to this path:

that slope is the continuation of the water that washed your face,

of the light you lit in that dark hour when you awoke.

Rise.  And elevate yourself from among the living.

Languages.  New tongues have met,  all suddenly

” in the same boat”,  joined together in the air.

And at the summit

His arms open above the clouds to receive you:

to receive you

to receive you,

and you arrive.

Every rock,  petrified words,  frozen eyes that shine.

His arms are open to receive you

you whose lips are glued to a passport,

and you don’t know how someone so huge, at such a meridian,

someone like Him, can have arms open wide, saying:

LOOK, see what I see,

this marvel is also for you.

_____

 

Jair Córtes

(Poeta y traductor, nace 1977, Calpulalpan, Tlaxcala, México)

“Cristo de Corcovado”

 

 

En este camino no hubo comienzo:

esa pendiente es la prolongación del agua con la que lavaste tu cara,

de la luz que encendiste en la hora oscura cuando despertaste.

Asciendes. Te elevas entre los vivos.

Lenguas. Idiomas encontrados de repente,

puestos en el mismo vagón para mezclarse con el aire.

Ya en la cumbre,

Sus brazos se abren encima de las nubes para recibirte:

para recibirte

para recibirte

y llegas.

Cada piedra, vocablos pétreos, ojos incrustados que relumbran.

Sus brazos están abiertos para recibirte,

a ti, que llegas con los labios cosidos al pasaporte

y no sabes cómo, qué tan grande, cuál meridiano,

quién como Él, que tiene los brazos abiertos y dice:

MIRA, mira lo que yo miro,

esta maravilla

también es para ti.

_____

Traducción del español al inglés / Translation from Spanish into English:  Lidia García Garay



Two Nigerian Painters: Ehikhamenor and Ofili