he came to deliver the secret of the sun
and wanted to write the poem of his life
why crystals in his blood
why globules in his laughter
his soul was ready
when someone called him
dirty wog
still he is left with the gentle arch of his laughter
and the giant tree with a living cleft
what was that country where he lived a beast
behind the beasts before behind the beasts
his stream was the safest of cups
because it was of bronze
because it was his living flesh
it was then that he said to himself
no my life is not a poem
here is the tree here is the water here are the stones
and then the priest of the future
it is better to love wine
and rise in the morning
he was advised
but no more birds within the tenderness of mothers
dirty wog
he is the younger brother to fire
the bush begins here
and the sea is no more than the memory of gulls
all standing upright tooth-to-tooth
against the spume of a deadly dance
the tree was the leafiest
the bark of the tree was the tenderest
after the forest was burnt what more to say
why was there absinthe in the wine
why restore in the hearts
the crocodiles the canoers
and the wave of the stream
the grains of sand between the teeth
is it thus that one breaks the world
no
no
his stream was the gentlest of cups
the safest
it was his most living flesh
here begins the poem of his life
he was trained in a school
he was trained in a studio
and he saw roads planted with sphinxes
still he is left with the soft arch of his laughter
then the tree then the water then the leaves
that is why you will see him
the marching canoers have raised once more
against the haulers of french cotton
their cries
this flight is a flight of doves
the leeches did not know the bitterness
of this blood
in the purest of cups
dirty gollywog
behold my congolese head
it is the purest of cups.
A poem from Feu de brousse (1957)
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