These relics are odes to creation:
From planets to fragments of atoms.
Certain turning of the sun; crooked fork
Of the trees and their sprawling branches;
Flowering knot, water curve, living roots;
The stern murmur of ancestral spirits;
Divine drumming that once boldly declared;
The radiant, resplendent rose pink dawn;
That once proclaimed the tribe's soul blood,
But now sealed up in solemn glass cases,
A vibrant universe lies paralysed.
Cold, colonial eyes framed and reined in
This continent's abundant mysteries;
Where black was once the scorned colour of sin.
Unruly, ferocious flames of conquest,
Created a spurious enigma.
Now we continually interrogate
The tainted beauty of the wreckage.
These relics are not merely icons to
Be righteously revered and worshipped,
But precious prayers to the elements.
Although they have been brought closer to us
They remain as remote as evening stars,
We might want their mute eyes and mouths to glow;
Speak directly to us like oracles.
Yet they will never submit their secrets
To our crude, secular consciousness.
I sense the vital dance of life traduced
To grey, utilitarian matters
In the guise of curious inspection
I sense obscure mysteries
Trapped in an expedient age
Where we freeze their grace and power.
I sense the murmur of ancestral spirits:
" Yamaya - mother of tender blessings
Yamaya - boundless womb of creation
Your poetry is lost in translation."
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: historical