Afro-Asian Poetry

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  • Topic: Tears, Crying, Grateful Dead
  • Pages : 5 (1595 words )
  • Download(s) : 4260
  • Published : February 8, 2012
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AFRICA’S PLEA
Roland Tombekai Dempster

I am not you –
But you will not
Give me a chance,
Will not let me be me.
 
“If I were you”
but you know
I am not you,
Yet you will not
Let me be me.
 
You meddle, interfere
In my affairs
As if they were yours
And you were me.
 
You are unfair, unwise,
Foolish to think
That I can be you,
Talk, act
And think like you.
 
God made me me.
He made you you.
For God’s sake
Let me be me.

Breaths
Birago Diop

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire's voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees,
It is our forefathers breathing.

The dead are not gone forever.
They are in the paling shadows,
And in the darkening shadows.
The dead are not beneath the ground,
They are in the rustling tree,
In the murmuring wood,
In the flowing water,
In the still water,
In the lonely place, in the crowd:
The dead are not dead.

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire's voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers,
Who are not gone, not beneath the ground,
Not dead.

The dead are not gone for ever.
They are in a woman's breast,
A child's crying, a glowing ember.
The dead are not beneath the earth,
They are in the flickering fire,
In the weeping plant, the groaning rock,
The wooded place, the home.
The dead are not dead.

Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire's voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers.

Clearing at Dawn-Li Po
The fields are chill, the sparse rain has stopped;
The colours of Spring teem on every side.
With leaping fish the blue pond is full;
With singing thrushes the green boughs droop.
The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks; The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist.
By the bamboo stream the last fragment of cloud
Blown by the wind slowly scatters away.

Dawn in the heart of Africa
Patrice Emery Lumumba

For a thousand years, you, African, suffered like a beast,  Your ashes strewn to the wind that roams the desert. 
Your tyrants built the lustrous, magic temples 
To preserve your soul, preserve your suffering. 
Barbaric right of fist and the white right to a whimp, 
You had the right to die, you also could weep. 
On your totem they carved endless hunger, endless bonds, 
And even in the cover of the woods a ghastly cruel death 
Was watching, snaky, crawling to you 
Like branches from the holes and heads of trees 
Embraced your body and your ailing soul. 
They put a treacherous big viper on your chest: 
On your neck they laid the yoke of fire-water 
They took your sweet wife for glitter and cheap pearls, 
Your incredible riches that nobody could measure. 
From your hut, the tom-toms sounded into dark of night 
Carrying cruel laments up mighty black rivers 
About abused girls, streams of tears and blood 
About ships that sailed to countries where the little man 
Wallows in an anthill and where the dollar is king, 
To that damned land which they call the motherland. 
There your child, your wife were ground, day and night 
In a frightful, merciless mill, crushing them in dreadful pain.  You are a man like others. They preach you to believe 
That good white God will reconcile all men at last. 
By fire you grieved and sang morning songs 
Of a homeless beggar that sinks at strangers’ doors. 
And when a craze possessed you 
And your blood boiled through the night 
You danced, you moaned, obsessed by father’s passion. 
Like fury of a storm of lyric of manly tune 
From a thousand years of misery a strength burst out of you  In metallic voice of jazz, in uncovered outcry 
That thunders through the continent like gigantic surf 
The whole world surprised, wakes up in panic 
To the violent rhythm of blood, to the violent rhythm of...
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