Poem of Alienation by Antonio Jacinto

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This is not yet my poem

the poem of my soul and of my blood

no

I still lack knowledge and power to write my poem

the great poem I feel already turning in me

My poem wanders aimlessly

in the bush or in the city

in the voice of the wind

in the surge of the sea

in the Aspect and the Being

My poem steps outside

wrapped in showy cloths

selling itself

selling

‘lemons, buy me le-e-e-emons’

My poem runs through the streets

with a putrid cloth pad on its head

offering itself

offering

‘mackerel, sardine, sprats

fine fish, fine fi-i-i-sh…’

My poem trudges the streets

‘here J’urnal’ ‘Dai-i-i-ly’

and no newspaper yet carries my poem

My poem goes into the cafés

‘lott’ry draw-a tomorra lott’ry draw-a tomorra’

and the draw of my poem

wheel as it wheels

whirl as it whirls

never changes

‘lott’ry draw-a tomorra

lott’ry draw-a tomorra’

My poem comes from the township

on Saturdays bring the washing

on Mondays take the washing

on Saturdays surrender the washing and surrender self

on Mondays surrender self and take the washing

My poem is in the suffering

of the laundress’s daughter

shyly

in the closed room

of a worthless boss idling

to build up an appetite for the violation

My poem is the prostitute

in the township at the broken door of her hut

‘hurry hurry

pay your money

come and sleep with me’

My poem lightheartedly plays at ball

in a crowd where everyone is a servant

and shouts

‘offside goal goal’

My poem is a contract worker

goes to the coffee fields to work

the contract is a burden

that is hard to load

‘contract wor-r-r-ker’

My poem walks barefoot in the street

My poem loads sacks in the port

fills holds

empties holds

and finds strength in singing

tué tué tué trr

arrimbuim puim puim’

My poem goes tied in ropes

met a policeman

paid a fine, the boss

forgot to sign the pass

goes on the roadwork

with hair shorn

‘head shaved

chicken braised

o Zé’

a goad that weighs

a whip that plays

My poem goes to market works in the kitchen

goes to the workbench

fills the tavern and the gaol

is poor ragged and dirty

lives in benighted ignorance

my poem knows nothing of itself

nor how to plead

My poem was made to give itself

to surrender itself

without asking for anything

But my poem is not fatalist

my poem is a poem that already wants

and already knows

my poem is I-white

mounted on me-black

riding through life.