Poemunity — your poem community

They are human after all, you think, as the waiter steps up to a table out of sight of you, reserved, corner table— they too are thin-skinned and pleasure-seeking, with their own feelings and their own sufferings. You’re not so all alone in your mess, your restlessness, your shakes, they too will be full of doubt, dither, shilly-shallying, even if it’s all about making deals, the universal-human albeit in its commercial manifestations, but present there too. Truly, the grief of hearts is ubiquitous and unending, but whether they were ever in love (outwith the awful wedded bed) burning, athirst, desert-parched for the nectar of a faraway mouth, sinking, drowning in the impossibility of a union of souls— you won’t know, nor can you ask the waiter, who’s just ringing up another bock, always avid for coupons to quench a thirst of another nature, though also deep.

They call the mountain Carlos because it is brown, though its purple slopes at dusk suggest other names. Those who name it have to brand the earth with something they know— a name, a face, even the heat that says "I know Carlos and he is the mountain. I am going to cover his eyes in light." They call its peak Carlos because it is the sharpest feature on the face that stares south, watching people cross the border, pausing to catch their breath and meet the cliffs of Carlos because he is there. When they ascend the canyons inside the face, Carlos shifts and the climbers discover what he has done. The moving earth changes everything and they are forced to stop playing the game of naming a mountain that keeps touching the sun.

they clapped when we landed thinking africa was just an extension of the black world they smiled as we taxied home to be met black to black face not understanding africans lack color prejudice they rushed to declare cigarettes, money, allegiance to the mother land not knowing despite having read fanon and davenport hearing all of j.h. clarke’s lectures, supporting nkrumah in ghana and nigeria in the war that there was once a tribe called afro-americans that populated the whole of africa they stopped running when they learned the packages on the women’s heads were heavy and that babies didn’t cry and disease is uncomfortable and that villages are fun only because you knew the feel of good leather on good pavement they cried when they saw mercedes benz were as common in lagos as volkswagens are in berlin they shook their heads when they understood there was no difference between the french and the english and the americans and the afro-americans or the tribe next door or the country across the border they were exasperated when they heard sly and the family stone in francophone africa and they finally smiled when little boys who spoke no western tongue said “james brown” with reverence they brought out their cameras and bought out africa’s drums when they finally realized that they are strangers all over and love is only and always about the lover not the beloved they marveled at the beauty of the people and the richness of the land knowing they could never possess either they clapped when they took off for home despite the dead dream they saw a free future

Stamp the earth rind down, shuck our boots &  nap on rubber cockscomb pad. Rise up &  ride in, poles poked through with hide of   kid flap from blither wind. Ride into a town of  tires stacked, a tarred prehistoric castle. A town of shacks painted kiwi green latches guano rimmed. Road’s a batter of   blood &  dust. One serf scurries off cowed &  cloaked. Linseed-eyed &  broad of  face. Hold, I say. She says oh gods once nested on our tire hills but now that tire factory flakes to tinder too. Are you here from the world above? Now come. Heal my kin. Are you here from the world above? We douse ourselves with flame retardant &  douse the town to flame. Are you here from the world above? We hear her death in flames We hear other deaths in flames Along each town we pass We rave &  rove &  gore the last oil rig hidalgo in his tin gilt throne, His ale we drink, his heart we  jar. We are from the world above, We sing &  jig but like Sisyphus, as we eye from afar, as each child crawls out their gutted hole, &  rebuild each dead town — We can never rest.

Sometimes when you’re walking in the street, returning home or leaving to see a friend, they come. They emerge from behind pillars and trees approaching you like a pack hounding a sheep. You know it’s no use to hide or flee, so you stop and light a cigarette, waiting for them. Sometimes when you’re eating in a restaurant, your soup served and your dish not ready yet, they come. A steady hand falls upon your shoulder. You are familiar with such a hand and don’t need to turn around to meet the face. The scared diners are sneaking out, the waitress’s chin is trembling when she speaks, but you are sitting there waiting for the bill. After settling it you’ll walk out with them. Sometimes when you open your office, planning to finish an article in three hours, or read a review, but first make some tea, they come. They spring out from behind the door like ghosts welcoming a child to their lair. You don’t want to enter, seeing cups and paper on the floor. You are figuring how to send a message home. Sometimes when you have worked day and night, dog tired, and want to have a good sleep after a shower and an extra nightcap, they come. They change the color of your dream: you moan for the wounds on your body, you weep for the fates of others. Only now you dare to fight back with your hands, but a “bang” or an “ouch” brings you back to silence and sleeplessness again. See, they come.

He finds her near the stack of green plastic baskets waiting to be filled and circles her waist with his left arm, entwines her fingers in his, pulls her toward him, Muzak from the ceiling shedding a flashy Salsa, and as they begin to move, she lets her head fall back, fine hair swinging a beat behind as they follow their own music—a waltz—past the peaches bursting with ripeness in their wicker baskets, the prawns curled into each other behind cold glass, a woman in a turquoise sari, her dark eyes averted. They twirl twice before the imported cheeses, fresh mozzarella in its milky liquid, goat cheese sent down from some green mountain, then glide past ranks of breads, seeds spread across brown crusts, bottles of red wine nested together on their sides. He reaches behind her, slides a bouquet of cut flowers from a galvanized bucket, tosses a twenty to the teenaged boy leaning on the wooden counter, and they whirl out the door, the blue sky a sudden surprise.

In restaurants we argue over which of us will pay for your funeral though the real question is whether or not I will make you immortal. At the moment only I can do it and so I raise the magic fork over the plate of beef fried rice and plunge it into your heart. There is a faint pop, a sizzle and through your own split head you rise up glowing; the ceiling opens a voice sings Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing you hang suspended above the city in blue tights and a red cape, your eyes flashing in unison. The other diners regard you some with awe, some only with bordom: they cannot decide if you are a new weapon or only a new advertisement. As for me, I continue eating; I liked you better the way you were, but you were always ambitious.

They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themself in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; Therewithall sweetly did me kiss And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?” It was no dream: I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved.

They inherit a packet of earth hear its coins clank in a tin box push them aside reap thick strands of night from thinning black hair. They climb the staircase clenching branches of pens filled with ducks’ blood and follow the butcher’s bed into this room— goose feathers thorning out of their eyes. They promise to never look down again down is just a speck of globe dust just coins clanking in the tin box.

They shut me up in Prose – As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet – Because they liked me “still”   – Still! Could themself have peeped – And seen my Brain – go round – They might as wise have lodged a Bird For Treason – in the Pound – Himself has but to will And easy as a Star Look down opon Captivity – And laugh – No more have I –