Collected Poems Read online

  Poems About War

  The First Shot

  That lone rifle-shot anonymous

  in the dark striding chest-high

  through a nervous suburb at the break

  of our season of thunders will yet

  steep its flight and lodge

  more firmly than the greater noises

  ahead in the forehead of memory.

  A Mother in a Refugee Camp

  No Madonna and Child could touch

  Her tenderness for a son

  She soon would have to forget….

  The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea,

  Of unwashed children with washed-out ribs

  And dried-up bottoms waddling in labored steps

  Behind blown-empty bellies. Other mothers there

  Had long ceased to care, but not this one:

  She held a ghost-smile between her teeth,

  And in her eyes the memory

  Of a mother's pride…. She had bathed him

  And rubbed him down with bare palms.

  She took from their bundle of possessions

  A broken comb and combed

  The rust-colored hair left on his skull

  And then—humming in her eyes—began carefully to part it.

  In their former life this was perhaps

  A little daily act of no consequence

  Before his breakfast and school; now she did it

  Like putting flowers on a tiny grave.

  Christmas in Biafra (1969)

  This sunken-eyed moment wobbling

  down the rocky steepness on broken

  bones slowly fearfully to hideous

  concourse of gathering sorrows in the valley

  will yet become in another year a lost

  Christmas irretrievable in the heights

  its exploding inferno transmuted

  by cosmic distances to the peacefulness

  of a cool twinkling star…. To death-cells

  of that moment came faraway sounds of other

  men's carols floating on crackling waves

  mocking us. With regret? Hope? Longing? None of

  these, strangely not even despair rather

  distilling pure transcendental hate …

  Beyond the hospital gate

  the good nuns had set up a manger

  of palms to house a fine plastercast

  scene at Bethlehem. The Holy

  Family was central, serene, the Child

  Jesus plump wise-looking and rose-cheeked; one

  of the magi in keeping with legend

  a black Othello in sumptuous robes. Other

  figures of men and angels stood

  at well-appointed distances from

  the heart of the divine miracle

  and the usual cattle gazed on

  in holy wonder….

  Poorer than the poor worshippers

  before her who had paid their homage

  with pitiful offering of new aluminium

  coins that few traders would take and

  a frayed five-shilling note she only

  crossed herself and prayed open-eyed. Her

  infant son flat like a dead lizard

  on her shoulder his arms and legs

  cauterized by famine was a miracle

  of its kind. Large sunken eyes

  stricken past boredom to a flat

  unrecognizing glueyness moped faraway

  motionless across her shoulder….

  Now her adoration over

  she turned him around and pointed

  at those pretty figures of God

  and angels and men and beasts—

  a spectacle to stir the heart

  of a child. But all he vouchsafed

  was one slow deadpan look of total

  unrecognition and he began again

  to swivel his enormous head away

  to mope as before at his empty distance….

  She shrugged her shoulders, crossed

  herself again, and took him away.

  Air Raid

  It comes so quickly

  the bird of death

  from evil forests of Soviet technology

  A man crossing the road

  to greet a friend

  is much too slow.

  His friend cut in halves

  has other worries now

  than a friendly handshake

  at noon.

  Biafra, 1969

  First time Biafra

  Was here, we're told, it was a fine

  Figure massively hewn in hardwood.

  Voracious white ants

  Set upon it and ate

  Through its huge emplaced feet

  To the great heart abandoning

  A furrowed, emptied scarecrow.

  And sun-stricken waves came and beat crazily

  About its feet eaten hollow

  Till crashing facedown in a million fragments

  It was floated gleefully away

  To cold shores—cartographers alone

  Marking the coastline

  Of that forgotten massive stance.

  In our time it came again

  In pain and acrid smell

  Of powder. And furious wreckers

  Emboldened by half a millennium

  Of conquest, battening

  On new oil dividends, are now

  At its black throat squeezing

  Blood and lymph down to

  Its hands and feet

  Bloated by quashiokor.

  Must Africa have

  To come a third time?

  An “If” of History

  Just think, had Hitler won

  his war the mess our history

  books would be today. The Americans

  flushed by verdict of victory

  hanged a Japanese commander for

  war crimes. A generation later

  an itching finger pokes their ribs:

  We've got to hang

  our Westmoreland

  for bloodier crimes

  in Viet Nam!

  But everyone by now must

  know that hanging takes much more

  than a victim no matter his

  load of manifest guilt. For even

  in lynching a judge of sorts is needed—

  a winner. Just think if Hitler

  had gambled and won what chaos

  the world would have known. His

  implacable foe across the Channel

  would surely have died for

  war crimes. And as for H. Truman,

  the Hiroshima villain, well!

  Had Hitler won his war

  de Gaulle would have needed no

  further trial for was he not

  condemned already by Paris

  to die for his treason to France?… Had Hitler won,

  Vidkun Quisling would have kept

  his job as Prime Minister

  of Norway simply by

  Hitler winning.

  Remembrance Day

  Your proclaimed mourning

  your flag at half-mast your

  solemn face yoursmart backward

  step and salute at the flowered

  foot of empty graves your

  glorious words—none, nothing

  will their spirit appease. Had they

  the choice they would gladly

  have worn for you the same

  stricken face gladly flown

  your droopéd flag spoken

  your tremulous eulogy—and

  been alive…. Admittedly you

  suffered too. You lived wretchedly

  on all manner of gross fare;

  you were tethered to the nervous

  precipice day and night; your

  groomed hair lost gloss, your

  smooth body roundedness. Truly

  you suffered much. But now

  you have the choice of a dozen

  ways to rehabilitate yourself.

  Pick any
one of them and soon

  you will forget the fear

  and hardship, the peril

  on the edge of the chasm…. The

  shops stock again a variety

  of hair dyes, the lace and

  the gold are coming back; so

  you will regain lost mirth

  and girth and forget. But when,

  how soon, will they their death? Long,

  long after you forget they turned

  newcomers again before the hazards

  and rigors of reincarnation, rude

  clods once more who once had borne

  the finest scarifications of the potter's

  delicate hand now squashed back

  into primeval mud, they will

  remember. Therefore fear them! Fear

  their malice your fallen kindred

  wronged in death. Fear their blood feud;

  tremble for the day of their

  visit! Flee! Flee! Flee your

  guilt palaces and cities! Flee

  lest they come to ransack

  your place and find you still

  at home at the crossroad hour. Pray

  that they return empty-handed

  that day to nurse their red-hot

  hatred for another long year….

  Your glorious words are not

  for them nor your proliferation

  in a dozen cities of the bronze

  heroes of Idumota…. Flee! Seek

  asylum in distant places till

  a new generation of heroes rise

  in phalanges behind their purified

  child-priest to inaugurate

  a season of atonement and rescue

  from fingers calloused by heavy deeds

  the tender rites of reconciliation

  A Wake for Okigbo

  For whom are we searching?

  For whom are we searching?

  For Okigbo we are searching!

  Nzomalizo!

  Has he gone for firewood, let him return.

  Has he gone to fetch water, let him return.

  Has he gone to the marketplace, let him return.

  For Okigbo we are searching.

  Nzomalizo!

  For whom are we searching?

  For whom are we searching?

  For Okigbo we are searching!

  Nzomalizo!

  Has he gone for firewood, may Ugboko not take him.

  Has he gone to the stream, may Iyi not swallow him!

  Has he gone to the market, then keep from him you

  Tumult of the marketplace!

  Has he gone to battle,

  please Ogbonuke step aside for him!

  For Okigbo we are searching!

  Nzomalizo!

  They bring home a dance, who is to dance it for us?

  They bring home a war, who will fight it for us?

  The one we call repeatedly,

  there's something he alone can do

  It is Okigbo we are calling!

  Nzomalizo!

  Witness the dance, how it arrives

  The war, how it has broken out

  But the caller of the dance is nowhere to be found

  The brave one in battle is nowhere in sight!

  Do you not see now that whom we call again

  And again, there is something he alone can do?

  It is Okigbo we are calling!

  Nzomalizo!

  The dance ends abruptly

  The spirit dancers fold their dance and depart in midday

  Rain soaks the stalwart, soaks the two-sided drum!

  The flute is broken that elevates the spirit

  The music pot shattered that accompanies the leg in

  its measure

  Brave one of my blood!

  Brave one of Igbo land!

  Brave one in the middle of so much blood!

  Owner of riches in the dwelling place of spirit

  Okigbo is the one I am calling!

  Nzomalizo!

  In memory of the poet Christopher Okigbo (1932–1967)

  Translated from the Igbo by Ifeanyi Menkiti

  After a War

  After a war life catches

  desperately at passing

  hints of normalcy like

  vines entwining a hollow

  twig; its famished roots

  close on rubble and every

  piece of broken glass.

  Irritations we used

  to curse return to joyous

  tables like prodigals home

  from the city … The meter man

  serving my maiden bill brought

  a friendly face to my circle

  of sullen strangers and me

  smiling gratefully

  to the door.

  After a war

  we clutch at watery

  scum pulsating on listless

  eddies of our spent

  deluge…. Convalescent

  dancers rising too soon

  to rejoin their circle dance

  our powerless feet intent

  as before but no longer

  adept contrive only

  half-remembered

  eccentric steps.

  After years

  of pressing death

  and dizzy last-hour reprieves

  we're glad to dump our fears

  and our perilous gains together

  in one shallow grave and flee

  the same rueful way we came

  straight home to haunted revelry.

  Christmas 1971

  Poems Not About War

  Love Song (for Anna)

  Bear with me my love

  in the hour of my silence;

  the air is crisscrossed

  by loud omens and songbirds

  fearing reprisals of middle day

  have hidden away their notes

  wrapped up in leaves

  of cocoyam…. What song shall I

  sing to you my love when

  a choir of squatting toads

  turns the stomach of day with

  goitrous adoration of an infested

  swamp and purple-headed

  vultures at home stand

  sentry on the rooftop?

  I will sing only in waiting

  silence your power to bear

  my dream for me in your quiet

  eyes and wrap the dust of our blistered

  feet in golden anklets ready

  for the return someday of our

  banished dance.

  Love Cycle

  At dawn slowly

  the Sun withdraws his

  long misty arms of

  embrace. Happy lovers

  whose exertions leave

  no aftertaste nor slush

  of love's combustion; Earth

  perfumed in dewdrop

  fragrance wakes

  to whispers of

  soft-eyed light….

  Later he

  will wear out his temper

  plowing the vast acres

  of heaven and take it

  out on her in burning

  darts of anger. Long

  accustomed to such caprice

  she waits patiently

  for evening when thoughts

  of another night will

  restore his mellowness

  and her power

  over him.

  Question

  Angled sunbeam lowered

  like Jacob's ladder through

  sky's peephole pierced in the roof

  to my silent floor and bared feet.

  Are these your creatures

  these crowding specks

  stomping your lighted corridor

  to a remote sun, like doped

  acrobatic angels gyrating

  at needlepoint to divert a high

  unamused god? Or am I

  sole stranger in a twilight room

  I called my own overrun

  and possessed long ago by
myriads more

  as yet invisible in all

  this surrounding penumbra?

  Answer

  I broke at last

  the terror-fringed fascination

  that bound my ancient gaze

  to those crowding faces

  of plunder and seized my

  remnant life in a miracle

  of decision between white-

  collar hands and shook it

  like a cheap watch

  in my ear and threw it down

  beside me on the earth floor

  and rose to my feet. I

  made of their shoulders

  and heads bobbing up and down

  a new ladder and leaned

  it on their sweating flanks

  and ascended till midair

  my hands so new to harshness

  could grapple the roughness of a prickly

  day and quench the source

  that fed turbulence to their

  feet. I made a dramatic

  descent that day landing

  backways into crouching shadows into potsherds of broken trance. I

  flung open long-disused windows

  and doors and saw my hut

  new-swept by rainbow brooms

  of sunlight become my home again

  on whose trysting floor waited

  my proud vibrant life.

  Beware, Soul Brother

  We are the men of soul

  men of song we measure out

  our joys and agonies

  too, our long, long passion week

  in paces of the dance. We have

  come to know from surfeit of suffering

  that even the Cross need not be

  a dead end nor total loss

  if we should go to it striding

  the dirge of the soulful abia drums….

  But beware soul brother

  of the lures of ascension day

  the day of soporific levitation

  on high winds of skysong; beware

  for others there will be that day

  lying in wait leaden-footed, tone-deaf

  passionate only for the deep entrails

  of our soil; beware of the day

  we head truly skyward leaving

  that spoil to the long ravenous tooth

  and talon of their hunger.

  Our ancestors, soul brother, were wiser

  than is often made out. Remember

  they gave Ala, great goddess

  of their earth, sovereignty too over

  their arts for they understood