26.
Last Tuesday you were standing right there
without your feet touching the ground
There you were, your hair whipping about your face
& your hands clasped & bound in the farthest corner of the ceiling were three right angles meet
your arms outstretched, handless
Last Tuesday, you said you were thirsty
Shall we go for a drink? you asked
I thought it was weird that you should be ready to go for a drink
just because you had your jacket and shoes on
How about your hands? I asked.
I only take them out on Wednesdays and Fridays when I need to use them
& I only let my feet touch the ground on Monday, Thursdays and Saturdays
You’re not Jesus on the cross. I don’t like it, I said
Well, you’re no devil on the mountain top and I still need a drink, you said
Are you coming?
27.
Last Word
If that was the last word you’d ever utter
If that was the one
That turned earth’s belly outwards
With red fiery wordless screams
Beyond glowing
It would twist your tongue
Swelling that the back of your throat
Like God’s muttering of that first word
If that was the word that blinked out existence
Drawing itself out
Groaning like a birthing, like coming into being
Shredding that tongue
Melting, moulting
Beyond babies, beyond love, that last word
Would wrench the bejeezus out
Spaghetti like
White strips of fat, skin, pasta sauce blood, gore
That single word
That might have precipitated the beginning of the world
Tell me you won’t say it
Tell me you won’t say it
Tell me you won’t send the stars into the skies
Beaches outlined with white sands, black sand, red sand, mud, blood, baobab trees straining for light
By their roots
Keep it, don’t utter it
Don’t utter it it
Swallow it back
Let it germinate into something beautiful,
Something soft, something rhythmic
Like your heart and mine
Interlocked
Beat
Interlocked
Beat
Interlocked
This is your death
I don’t care to hear it
This is your death
Swallow it.
Let it grow into something beautiful
Something soft, something rhythmic
Something that will remain contained underneath your skin, now grey
Beyond your smile, now dry
Your eyes, now pale
This is your death
I’ll hold on to you until you implode inside me
The idea of you
Still brilliant with unstated grief
28.
Last Request
Salome
Just before you lose your veil and offer everything to him
(You know this. And I know that you already know this. But know this from me. You’re such a tease)
One tousle, one shake of that fine head of hair
One last caress, Salome
Your fingertips against my scalp
Once more my face between your breasts
Once more, for the last time, before you offer everything else to him
A kiss on my nose, one on my lips, one on each cheek
A last lingering one on my forehead, Salome
Even as your eyes are locked in by his eyes
Just before you give in, Salome, one look back
A last glance so I can see the length of your neck
A single wish, Salome
Your voice after the dance, lingering in my ear
Give me this one last thing
That I can take with me, Salome
Your voice bearing my name – a testament of me in your voice
This is the right thing
This is the right thing to do
My face between your breasts, a caress on my scalp, kisses
Whisper my name against my ear, Salome
Before you offer my head to the king.
29.
Stuff to do When Your Hometown is Burning
- Finish up your cup of tea before it gets cold, because you know you hate it cold.
- Think about calling your mother.
- Don’t call your mother. She’ll freak out. Asking questions like hail pelting down, like pepper sneezed into your face, like unrelenting projectile vomit on your recently cleaned carpet. Don’t call you mother. She’ll freak out as if you knew much more than the headlines proclaim: Gulu is in Flames.
- Change the channel. Change. Change. Change. Nothing. None of the news media will carry it, and why should they? Gulu is burning, but does not even warrant a lined script flowing at the bottom of your TV screen.
- Return to the internet site. Read the article again. Gulu is Burning. Still burning. Same title renders the burning a continuous and never ending act – Gulu is hell.
- Email a friend. Enclose the link.
- Read your friend’s response – oh dear.
- Oh dear you, oh dear me, oh dear everything around you –scattered books on the table, papers, receipts from a cup of coffee and muffin that you hated, the latest O Magazine proclaiming secrets to an long and joyful life complete with beautiful skin – your hometown is burning.
- The dishes are stacked up in the sink. They always are. Grape stalks on the kitchen counter, coffee grinds on the floor by the trash can. A damp kitchen cloth. Your hometown is burning.
- The face of a woman you know appears on the computer devoid of any apparent emotion. What does it feel like when your hometown is burning? How can you show it? Where are the T-shirts, the arm bands, the youtube clips, the tweets, the letter writers, the dissenters, the peace lovers, the protesters, the batons, the loudspeakers, the police, the guns, the teargas, the burning tires in the middle of the road, the pickup trucks, goons throwing politicians to the back of the track and speeding away? Where are the signs that your hometown is burning?
- Pink and yellow tulips in a vase. Not any less gorgeous, even as dead stalks that cling to any semblance of life –opening up to the light through the blinds and closing up in the evening, sucking at what juices might be mixed in the water.
- Wash some dishes.
- Shower.
- Fix your hair.
- Wear lipstick.
- Remember to take your shades – it’s sunny outside.
- Call your mother.
- Listen to your mother freak out just like you thought she would . Why should this be happening to us again, why? When did it start? Who is doing this? Not again, she wails, not again.
- Gulu is in flames as the fourth division pours out into the streets showing firepower, manly power, deadly, manly firepower.
- Your hometown is burning. So you take the bus, go to work, mark papers, submit a short story and think about dinner.
30.
A Moment for Ali Farzat
This is not a love song
This is no revolution song
Cue redemption
Cue freedom
Cue democracy
And all those crazy ideas
That mean nothing when you can’t be yourself
This is not a poem
Not even a love poem
This is no poem for lost souls
The dead can go to hell
Where else are they going to go?
Abandoning us to this
Leaving us without love
Without song, without redemption
Freedom, democracy
This is nothing but a moment
Held among the stars
Stop, they said, stop
You can’t do that any more
So the stars shifted
Held the explosions like a breath sucked in
You can’t do that anymore
Do it and prepare to lose it all
Ali held his pencil in the air
Do it, they repeated, and prepare to lose it all
What good is a pencil in mid air
What good is a song unsung
A poem unrecited
A blank canvass, a baby unbirthed
What good is anything when you don’t have
Love, freedom, democracy and all those crazy ideas?
Ali had his pencils
Ali had pens, chalk, markers
Ali had pictures in his head that infuriated them
Enough to say stop that!
Do it again and prepare to lose it all
So Ali held his pencil in midair
Ali held his pencil inside that moment that the stars stood still
Warding off explosions in the sky
Waiting, waiting
Ali held his pencil mid air
While love, freedom and democracy
Danced about his eyes and ears
Like crazy ideas waiting to coalesce on paper
This is not a love song
This is no revolution
This is no redemption song
Thundering through the ground
This isn’t even a poem
Just a moment like the one when Ali held his pencil in midair
Imagining crazy ideas
Wanting for the encounter between paper and pencil
A marker, two, an image, two
Is all Ali wanted
To meet pencil to paper
Instead, Ali’s hand met the power of another man’s muscle
An arm free from those crazy ideas
Armed with the certainty of action and action just now
Do it and prepare to lose everything, they said
So Ali’s pencil never met the paper
What’s there to gain when your wrists are broken
When your body is so badly beaten
When stars fall from the sky
And no one sees them land among us?
What’s there to be free from, to love, to democratize when you can’t draw?
What’s there but nerve endings on fire, exploding stars contained in your palms
The world’s pain, now reflected in your body
The world`s pain, the one you can’t draw, Ali
What else is there, Ali?
This wasn’t a poem either
Just a moment
Just a moment between you and I
Between you and I, Ali
I write, because you can’t draw right now
I write, because you can’t draw.
Thank you Julie!
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