Poetas, Ustedes no se meuren.

This tumid stench

of self

 

blanket

 

or lens,

 

blessing

 

or curse

 

less?

 

Forest of

absence

 

bead of

drought

 

fruitless

action

 

 

 

yes,

this unwanting belonging

 

this hair left in the sink

 

 

what of it

 

It’s there

Isn’t it

 

In the city

the only contact

is with pigeons, squirrels, foxes

and dogs

 

AUM x7

 

silence Snow

 

I can connect nothing with nothing

with all

I am dorado, yellow

green gold – leaping

blue freedom I,

I am

language of sun

 

color of turquoise

 

I am marlin, billless

and bowing, muscling

out of ocean, dorsal

fin hovering – joyous

over horizon

 

 

Return to water

 

I could simply be

relieving fear

 

and the parasitic itch

 

 

Long before the waning dusk of dawn

and the first rattles of morning

 

Hear Ngapile return the sky

Ngai, Ngai, Ngai     

Oh nkakúyiaâ baobab, kokoô mangrove –      

arms of ɛn-dámà – arms of ɛnkárɛ́ –

 

let us tell one, let us tell all

the gourd

has split open

 

 

and it is of no importance

 

 

everything you may ever know

is as delicate as the way the light waters

 

 

 

nkakúyiaâ- grandfather/ son

kokoô- grandmother/ daughter

ɛn-dámà- sun /light

ɛnkárɛ́ – water

 

 

I collect the words from the bottomless well

head a pail, neck of sisal,

the act is essential.

 

The water is my former and further self

it was never born, it only grows

and it is yours

 

listen to the soft swash and swirl

come into contact –

absorb

 

glow in the eternal warmth of a second

you are mother to all