By

Alexander K Opicho

 

(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

 

When I grow up I will seek permission

From my parents, my mother before my father

To travel to Russia the European land of dystopia

That has never known democracy in any tincture

I will beckon the tsar of Russia to open for me

Their classical cipher that Bogy visoky tsa dalyko

I will ask the daughters of Russia to oblivionize my dark skin

Negro skin and make love to me the real pre-democratic love

Love that calls for ambers that will claw the fire of revolution,

I will ask my love from the land of Siberia to show me cradle of Rand

The European manger on which Ayn Rand was born during the Leninist census

I will exhume her umbilical cord plus the placenta to link me up

To her dystopian mind that germinated the vice

For shrugging the atlas for we the living ones,

In a full dint of my Negro libido I will ask her

With my African temerarious manner I will bother her

To show me the bronze statues of Alexander Pushkin

I hear it is at clitoris of the city of Moscow; Petersburg

I will talk to my brother Pushkin, my fellow African born in Ethiopia

In the family of Godunov only taken to Europe in a slave raid

Ask the Frenchman Henri Troyat who stood with his penis erected

As he watched an Ethiopian father fertilizing an Ethiopian mother

And child who was born was Dystopian Alexander Pushkin,

I will carry his remains; the bones, the skull and the skeleton in oily

Sisal threads made bag on my broad African shoulders back to Africa

I will re-bury him in the city of Omurate in southern Ethiopia at the buttocks

Of the fish venting beautiful summer waters of Lake Turkana,

I will ask Alexander Pushkin when in a sag on my back to sing for me

His famous poems in praise of thighs of women;

(I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul

The former love has never gone away,

But let it not recall to you my dole;

I wish not sadden you in any way.

 

I loved you silently, without hope, fully,

In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;

I loved you so tenderly and truly,

As let you else be loved by any man.

 I loved you because of your smooth thighs

They my heart on fire like ambers in gasoline)

 

I will leave the bronze statue of Alexander Pushkin in Moscow

For Lenin to look at, he will assign Mayakovski to guard it

Day and night as he sings for it the cacotopian

Poems of a slap in the face of public taste

Mayakovski’s poem is below;

 

(I know the power of words, I know words' tocsin.
They're not the kind applauded by the boxes.
From words like these coffins burst from the earth
and on their own four oaken legs stride forth.
It happens they reject you, unpublished, unprinted.
But saddle-girths tightening words gallop ahead.
See how the centuries ring and trains crawl
to lick poetry's calloused hands.
I know the power of words. Seeming trifles that fall
like petals beneath the heel-taps of dance.
But man with his soul, his lips, his bones.)

I will come along to African city of Omurate

With the pedagogue of the thespic poet

The teacher of the poets, the teacher who taught

Alexander Sergeyvich Pushkin; I know his name

The name is Nikolai Vasileyvitch Gogol

I will caution him to carry only two books

From which he will teach the re-Africanized Pushkin

The first book is the Cloak and second book will be

The voluminous dead souls that have two sharp children of Russian dystopia;

The cactopia of Nosdrezv in his sadistic cult of betrayal

And utopia of Chichikov in his paranoid ownership of dead souls

Of the Russian peasants, muzhiks and serfs,

I will caution him not to carry the government inspector incognito

We don’t want the inspector general in the African city of Omurate

He will leave it behind for Lenin to read because he needs to know

What is to be done.

I don’t like the extreme badness of owning the dead souls

Let me run away to the city of Paris, where romance and poetry

Are utopian commanders of the dystopian orchestra

In which Victor Marie Hugo is haunted by

The ghost of Jean Val Jean; Le Miserable,

I will implore Hugo to take me to the Corsican Island

And chant for me one sexy song of the French revolution

The poem he sang for is below ;

 

 

      (   take heed of this small child of earth;

He is great; he hath in him God most high.

Children before their fleshly birth

Are lights alive in the blue sky.

 

In our light bitter world of wrong

They come; God gives us them awhile.

His speech is in their stammering tongue,

And his forgiveness in their smile.

 

Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.

Alas! their right to joy is plain.

If they are hungry Paradise

Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.

 

The want that saps their sinless flower

Speaks judgment on sin's ministers.

Man holds an angel in his power.

Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs,

 

When God seeks out these tender things

Whom in the shadow where we sleep

He sends us clothed about with wings,

And finds them ragged babes that weep)

 

                                            From the Corsican I won’t go back to Paris

Because Napoleon Bonaparte and the proletariat

Has already taken over the municipal of Paris

I will dodge this city and maneuver my ways

Through Alsace and Lorraine

The Miginko islands of Europe

And cross the boundaries in to bundeslander

Into Germany, I will go to Berlin and beg the Gestapo

The State police not to shoot me as I climb the Berlin wall

I will balance dramatically on the top of Berlin wall

Like Eshu the Nigerian god of fate

With East Germany on my right; Die ossie

And West Germany on my left; Die wessie

Then like Jesus balancing and walking

On the waters of Lake Galilee

I will balance on Berlin wall

And call one of my faithful followers from Germany

The strong hearted Friedrich von Schiller

To climb the Berlin wall with me

So that we can sing his dystopic Cassandra as a duet

We shall sing and balance on the wall of Berlin

Schiller’s beauteous song of Cassandra is below ;

(Mirth the halls of Troy was filling,
Ere its lofty ramparts fell;
From the golden lute so thrilling
Hymns of joy were heard to swell.
From the sad and tearful slaughter
All had laid their arms aside,
For Pelides Priam's daughter
Claimed then as his own fair bride.

Laurel branches with them bearing,
Troop on troop in bright array
To the temples were repairing,
Owning Thymbrius' sovereign sway.
Through the streets, with frantic measure,
Danced the bacchanal mad round,
And, amid the radiant pleasure,
Only one sad breast was found.

Joyless in the midst of gladness,
None to heed her, none to love,
Roamed Cassandra, plunged in sadness,
To Apollo's laurel grove.
To its dark and deep recesses
Swift the sorrowing priestess hied,
And from off her flowing tresses
Tore the sacred band, and cried:

"All around with joy is beaming,
Ev'ry heart is happy now,
And my sire is fondly dreaming,
Wreathed with flowers my sister's brow
I alone am doomed to wailing,
That sweet vision flies from me;
In my mind, these walls assailing,
Fierce destruction I can see."

"Though a torch I see all-glowing,
Yet 'tis not in Hymen's hand;
Smoke across the skies is blowing,
Yet 'tis from no votive brand.
Yonder see I feasts entrancing,
But in my prophetic soul,
Hear I now the God advancing,
Who will steep in tears the bowl!"

"And they blame my lamentation,
And they laugh my grief to scorn;
To the haunts of desolation
I must bear my woes forlorn.
All who happy are, now shun me,
And my tears with laughter see;
Heavy lies thy hand upon me,
Cruel Pythian deity!"

"Thy divine decrees foretelling,
Wherefore hast thou thrown me here,
Where the ever-blind are dwelling,
With a mind, alas, too clear?
Wherefore hast thou power thus given,
What must needs occur to know?
Wrought must be the will of Heaven--
Onward come the hour of woe!"

"When impending fate strikes terror,
Why remove the covering?
Life we have alone in error,
Knowledge with it death must bring.
Take away this prescience tearful,
Take this sight of woe from me;
Of thy truths, alas! how fearful
'Tis the mouthpiece frail to be!"

"Veil my mind once more in slumbers
Let me heedlessly rejoice;
Never have I sung glad numbers
Since I've been thy chosen voice.
Knowledge of the future giving,
Thou hast stolen the present day,
Stolen the moment's joyous living,--
Take thy false gift, then, away!"

"Ne'er with bridal train around me,
Have I wreathed my radiant brow,
Since to serve thy fane I bound me--
Bound me with a solemn vow.
Evermore in grief I languish--
All my youth in tears was spent;
And with thoughts of bitter anguish
My too-feeling heart is rent."

"Joyously my friends are playing,
All around are blest and glad,
In the paths of pleasure straying,--
My poor heart alone is sad.
Spring in vain unfolds each treasure,
Filling all the earth with bliss;
Who in life can e'er take pleasure,
When is seen its dark abyss?"

"With her heart in vision burning,
Truly blest is Polyxene,
As a bride to clasp him yearning.
Him, the noblest, best Hellene!
And her breast with rapture swelling,
All its bliss can scarcely know;
E'en the Gods in heavenly dwelling
Envying not, when dreaming so."

"He to whom my heart is plighted
Stood before my ravished eye,
And his look, by passion lighted,
Toward me turned imploringly.
With the loved one, oh, how gladly
Homeward would I take my flight
But a Stygian shadow sadly
Steps between us every night."

"Cruel Proserpine is sending
All her spectres pale to me;
Ever on my steps attending
Those dread shadowy forms I see.
Though I seek, in mirth and laughter
Refuge from that ghastly train,
Still I see them hastening after,--
Ne'er shall I know joy again."

"And I see the death-steel glancing,
And the eye of murder glare;
On, with hasty strides advancing,
Terror haunts me everywhere.
Vain I seek alleviation;--
Knowing, seeing, suffering all,
I must wait the consummation,
In a foreign land must fall."

While her solemn words are ringing,
Hark! a dull and wailing tone
From the temple's gate upspringing,--
Dead lies Thetis' mighty son!
Eris shakes her snake-locks hated,
Swiftly flies each deity,
And o'er Ilion's walls ill-fated
Thunder-clouds loom heavily!)

 

When the Gestapoes get impatient

We shall not climb down to walk on earth

Because by this time  of utopia

 Thespis and Muse the gods of poetry

Would have given us the wings to fly

To fly high over England, I and schiller

We shall not land any where in London

Nor perch to any of the English tree

Wales, Scotland, Ireland and Thales

We shall not land there in these lands

The waters of river Thames we shall not drink

We shall fly higher over England

The queen of England we shall not commune

For she is my lender; has lend me the language

English language in which I am chanting

My dystopic songs, poor me! What a cacotopia!

If she takes her language away from

I will remain poetically dead

In the Universe of art and culture

I will form a huge palimpsest of African poetry

Friedrich son of schiller please understand me

Let us not land in England lest I loose

My borrowed tools of worker back to the owner,

But instead let us fly higher in to the azure

The zenith of the sky where the eagles never dare

And call the English bard

through  our high shrilled eagle’s contralto

William Shakespeare to come up

In the English sky; to our treat of poetic blitzkrieg

Please dear schiller we shall tell the bard of London

To come up with his three Luftwaffe

These will be; the deer he stole from the rich farmer

Once when he was a lad in the rural house of john the father,

Second in order is the Hamlet the price of Denmark

Thirdly is  his beautiful song of the rape of lucrece,

We shall ask the bard to return back the deer to the owner

Three of ourselves shall enjoy together dystopia IN Hamlet

And ask Shakespeare to sing for us his song

In which he saw a man rape Lucrece; the rape of Lucrece

The song of raping lucrece that the bard sang is below ;

                                                                                                                                                       ( From the besieged Ardea all in post,

Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,

Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,

And to Collatium bears the lightless fire

Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire

  And girdle with embracing flames the waist

  Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of chaste unhapp'ly set

This bateless edge on his keen appetite;

When Collatine unwisely did not let

To praise the clear unmatched red and white

Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,

  Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,

  With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,

Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;

What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent

In the possession of his beauteous mate;

Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,

  That kings might be espoused to more fame,

  But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!

And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done

As is the morning's silver-melting dew

Against the golden splendour of the sun!

An expir'd date, cancell'd ere well begun:

  Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,

  Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade

The eyes of men without an orator;

What needeth then apologies be made,

To set forth that which is so singular?

Or why is Collatine the publisher

  Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown

  From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty

Suggested this proud issue of a king;

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:

Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,

Braving compare, disdainfully did sting

  His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt

  That golden hap which their superiors want.)

 

 

I and schiller we shall be the audience

When Shakespeare will echo

The enemies of beauty as

It is weakly protected in the arms of Othello.

 

I and schiller we don’t know places in Greece

But Shakespeare’s mother comes from Greece

And Shakespeare’s wife comes from Athens

Shakespeare thus knows Greece like Pericles,

We shall not land anywhere on the way

But straight we shall be let

By Shakespeare to Greece

Into the inner chamber of calypso

Lest the Cyclopes eat us whole meal

We want to redeem Homer from the

Love detention camp of calypso

Where he has dallied nine years in the wilderness

Wilderness of love without reaching home

I will ask Homer to introduce me

To Muse, Clio and Thespis

The three spiritualities of poetry

That gave Homer powers to graft the epics

Of Iliad and Odyssey centerpieces of Greece dystopia

I will ask Homer to chant and sing for us the epical

Songs of love, Grecian cradle of utopia

Where Cyclopes thrive on heavyweight cacotopia

Please dear Homer kindly sing for us

The song of Homer is below ;

(Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we
feasted our fill on meat and drink, but when the sun went down and
it came on dark, we camped upon the beach. When the child of
morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I bade my men on board and
loose the hawsers. Then they took their places and smote the grey
sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but
glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades.)

                                  

From Greece to Africa the short route  is via India

The sub continent of India where humanity

Flocks like the oceans of women and men

The land in which Romesh Tulsi

Grafted Ramayana and Mahabharata

The handbook of slavery and caste prejudice

The land in which Gujarat Indian tongue

In the cheeks of Rabidranathe Tagore

Was awarded a Poetical honour

By Alfred Nobel minus any Nemesis

From the land of Scandinavia,

I will implore Tagore to sing for me

The poem which made Nobel to give him a prize

I will ask Tagore to sing in English

The cacotopia and utopia that made India

An oversized dystopia that man has ever seen,

Tagore sing please Tagore sing for me your beggarly heat

The of Tagore is below ;

(When the heart is hard and parched up,
come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life,
come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,
break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder)
 

 

 

The heart of beggar must be

A hard heart for it to glorify in the art of begging,

 

I don’t like begging

This is knot my heart suffered

From my childhood experience

I saw my mother begging food for us

We were nine voracious children

Our appetite

 Had rural peasant orientation

Often when she brought home the begged food

She mostly never ate herself

She was denying her self in self-immolation

For the food to be enough for us,

I used to think she has eaten a lot in her life

That pains and pangs of hunger

Could not come her away;

Like humpty dumpty I was goofing

Tagore you are right the heart of a beggar

Must be very hard like the rocks of Africa.

The fear of begging has made me to vamoose

One on one up to the land of plenty

Southern America

 for I fear northern America

Where riches flow into peoples homes

Like waters of river Nile from Uganda to Egypt

I will not be easy in such land where there is no culture

Other than business of making money while speaking broken English

Those of you who go there, in the Northern America

 Pass my regards and warm greetings

To the daughter of Richard Wright

Tell her that my heart loves her

 The way I loved intellect of her father

Her that had to transfigure

 Himself as Bigger Thomas

The native son

In the land where Africans agonize under slavery

Where cacotopia of slavery dances

With utopia of corporatism into a commercial  blend

To sire dystopia of capitalism

Which Eric Blair aka George Orwell

Foresaw it to be watched by the big brother in 1984,

But me I am going to chile instead

 To sing an ode to clothings

With my fellow communist Pablo Neruda

We shall sing in turns the odes of Neruda

But I will beg him to sing for me the song of burying a dog

So that I get goodness in the ode of clothings

And angst in the song of the dog burial

To achieve my poetic dystopia

Of Nerudian poemocracy,

Dear comrade Neruda let us join hands

As comrades in arms to sing the ode to clothings

The poem of Neruda is below ;

 

(Every morning you wait,
clothes, over a chair,
to fill yourself with
my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Barely
risen from sleep,
I relinquish the water,
enter your sleeves,
my legs look for
the hollows of your legs,
and so embraced
by your indefatigable faithfulness
I rise, to tread the grass,
enter poetry,
consider through the windows,
the things,
the men, the women,
the deeds and the fights
go on forming me,
go on making me face things
working my hands,
opening my eyes,
using my mouth,
and so,
clothes,
I too go forming you,
extending your elbows,
snapping your threads,
and so your life expands
in the image of my life.
In the wind
you billow and snap
as if you were my soul,
at bad times
you cling
to my bones,
vacant, for the night,
darkness, sleep
populate with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
if one day
a bullet
from the enemy
will leave you stained with my blood
and then
you will die with me
or one day
not quite
so dramatic
but simple,
you will fall ill,
clothes,
with me,
grow old
with me, with my body
and joined
we will enter
the earth.
Because of this
each day
I greet you
with reverence and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one
and we will go on
facing the wind, in the night,
the streets or the fight,
a single body,
one day, one day, some day still )

 

From America I have gone home to Africa

I jumped the Atlantic Ocean in one single African hope and skip

Then I landed to Senegal at a point of no return

Where the slaves could not return home once stepped there

Me I have stepped there from a long journey traversing the

World in search of dystopia that mirror man and his folly

Wondrous dystopia that mirror woman and her vices

I passed the point  of no return into Senegal, Nocturnes

Which we call in English crepuscular voyages

I met Leopold Sedar Senghor singing nocturnes

He warned me from temerarious reading of Marxism

I said thank you to him for his concern

I asked him of where I could get Marriama Ba

And her pipe sucking Brother Sembene Ousmane

He declined to answer me; he said he is not a brother’s keeper

I got flummoxed so much as in my heart

I terribly wanted to meet Marriama Ba

For she had promised to chant a scarlet song for me

A song which I would cherish its attack

On the cacotopia of an African women in Islam,

And also Sembene Ousmane

I wanted also to smoke his pipe

As we could heartily talk the extreme happiness

Of unionized railway workers in bits of wood

That makes the torso of gods in Xala, Cedo

As the African hunter from the Babukusu Clan of bawambwa

In the land of Senegal could struggle to kill a mangy dog for us.

 

Any way; gods forgive the poet Sedar Senghor

I crossed in to Nigeria to the city of Lagos

I saw a tall man with white hair and white beards,

I was told Alfred Nobel Gave him an award

For keeping his beards and hairs white,

I was told he was a Nigerian god of Yoruba poetry

He kept on singing from street to street that;

A good name is better tyranny of snobbish taste

The man died, season of anomie, you must be forth by dawn !

I feared to talk to him for he violently looked,

But instead I confined myself to my thespic girlfriend

From Anambra state in northwestern Nigeria

She was a graduate student of University of Nsukka

Her name is Oge Ogoye, she is beautiful and sexy

Charming and warm; beauteous individuality

Her beauty campaigns successfully to the palace of men

Without an orator in the bandwagon; O! Sweet Ogoye!

She took me to Port Harcourt the capital city of Biafra

When it was a country; a communist state,

I met Christopher Ogkibo and Chinua Achebe

Both carrying the machines guns

Fighting a secessionist war of Biafra

That wanted to give the socialist tribe of Igbos

A full independent state alongside federal republic of Nigeria

Christopher Ogkibo gave me the gun

 That I help him to  fight the tribal war

I told him no, I am a poet first then an African

 And my tribe comes last

I can not take the gun

To fight a tribal war; tribal cleansing? No way!

Achebe got annoyed with me

In a feat of jealousy ire

 He pulled out two books of poetry from his hat;

Be aware soul brother and Girls at a war

He recited to us the poems from each book

The poems that echoed Igbo messages of dystopia

I and Oge Ogoye in an askance

We looked and mused.

 

I kissed Ogoye and told her bye bye!

I began running to Kenya for the evening had fallen

And from the hills of Biafra I could see my mother’s kitchen

My mother coming in and going out of it

The smoke coming out through the ruffian thatches

Sign of my mother cooking the seasoned hoof of a cow

And sorghum ugali cured by cassava,

I ran faster and faster passing by Uganda

Lest my elder brother may finish Ugali for me

I suddenly pumped in to two men

Running opposite my direction

They were also running to their homes in Uganda

Taban Lo Liyong and Okot p’Bitek

Taban wielding his book of poetry;

Another Nigger Dead

While Okot was running with Song of Lawino

In his left hand

They were running away from the University

The University of Nairobi; Chris Wanjala was chasing them

He was wielding a Maasai truncheon in his hand

With an aim of hitting Taban Reneket Lo Liyong

Because him Taban and Okot p’ Bitek

Had refused to stand on the points of literature

But instead they were eating a lot of Ugali

At university of Nairobi, denying Wanjala

An opportunity to get satisfied, he was starving

Wanjala was swearing to himself as he chased them

That he must chase them up to Uganda

In the land where they were born

So that he can get intellectual leeway

To breed his poetic utopia as he nurses tribal cacotopia

To achieve east African thespic utopia

In the literary desert.

 

Thank you for your audience!