The Canadian Hunter’s Song

We present this work in honor of the Canadian holiday, Civic Day.

The Northern Lights are flashing
On the rapids’ restless flow,
But o’er the wild waves dashing
Swift darts the light canoe:
The merry hunters come,—
“What cheer? What cheer?”
We ’ve slain the deer!”
“Hurrah! you ’re welcome home!”

The blithesome horn is sounding,
And the woodman’s loud halloo;
And joyous steps are bounding
To meet the birch canoe.
“Hurrah! the hunters come!”
And the woods ring out
To their noisy shout,
As they drag the dun deer home!

The hearth is brightly burning,
The rustic board is spread;
To greet their sire returning
The children leave their bed.
With laugh and shout they come,
That merry band,
To grasp his hand
And bid him welcome home!

The child who was shot dead by soldiers at Nyanga

The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart

The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride

The child is not dead
not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts
of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world

Without a pass

The Snout

We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Enthronement.

Poetry will be your dress
when you yield your soul
back to its maker
You’ll strike down your enemies
through mortal silence
and the language assassinated
under your fingers
With it you’ll tattoo
the snout of the good-for-nothings
and you’ll bring down the sphinx a peg or two

Translation by Pierre Joris

The Poor Girl

Surely she does not lack beauty
Nor skills in sewing and weaving.
But she grew up in a poor family
So good matchmakers ignore her.

She never looks cold or hungry,
All day long she weaves by her window.
Only her parents feel sorry for her;
Neighbors would never know of it.

A pair of golden scissors in her hand,
Fingers stiffened by the night’s chill.
She cuts a bridal costume for another,
Yet year after year she sleeps alone.

It’s Not Air that I Breathe

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.

It’s not air that I breathe,
that is ice freezing
the blood of my senses.
The ground I tread opens for me.
Wherever I look darkens.
My eyes open, weeping
already when the day dawns.

And before dawn,
they look at the world
and do not want to believe…

Translation by José Angel Araguz

The Letter Kills Me

We present this work in honor of the Egyptian holiday, Revolution Day.

I’m a poet
I’m still painting from bleeding wounds
A new song
I’m still building in the prisons of oppression
Happy times
I’m still writing
Even though the letter kills me
And throws me in front of people
like stray melodies
Or whenever appears before the eyes
A stubborn wish
A stray arrow glides into the night
And brings it down… a martyr

Country Church at Night

Not so much silence
as voices, hushed.
Not so much voices
as emptied sound.
Not so much sound
as pulsing in dark.
Not so much pulsing
as stillness, alive.
Not so much dark
as starlight, waiting.

Double Threads

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 65th birthday.

In the Siwa Oasis, Abeela wants 35 pounds
for the woven straw sack

She knows the value of foreign desire
her bills a tight roll

But her sister Amer is still empty handed
henna scribbled palms

The Dean’s Wife

We present this work in honor of the 20th anniversary of the poet’s death.

When she poured coffee it was
with such purity that we ached
with awe,
which is not to say
we admired
her.

Her frescoed hand supported
a china cup while
cream curled
from a silver spout.

Do you take sugar?
she inquired,
measire it out,
rarified as myrrh.

But we were comforted
because
as we turned away,
she moved her stenciled jaw,
shaping the smallest, faintest smile
in all that world.

In Search of Childhood

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.

I try to hear in the voice of the wind
the lost echo of my childhood.
And in the light-hearted laughter of little children
I glimpse my former cheerfulness.

I seek in the deserted and silent streets,
the joyful song of dance music
and my forays of times past.
Within that paved avenue,

where luxury cars roll by,
I search for my ugly and poor little street.
I try to see in the dolls today,
so beautiful, with silky braids,

the small rag doll I rocked in my arms.
I try to find in the face of first communicants
traces of my innocence
and of that first emotion that remained in time.

Desperate, I try to discover,
in the face of innocent children
my lost purity.

I search in vain, for I will never find
vestiges of my happy childhood,
that the years have concealed in its abyss.

Translation by Rosaliene Bacchus

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