Category: Poetry

Call Me by My True Names

Thich Nhat Hanh

Do not say that I’ll depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive.

Look deeply: I arrive in every second
to be a bud on a spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with wings still fragile,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
in order to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and
death of all that are alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river,
and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time
to eat the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond,
and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence,
feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks,
and I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate,
and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my hands,
and I am the man who has to pay his “debt of blood” to, my people,
dying slowly in a forced labor camp.

My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all walks of life.
My pain if like a river of tears, so full it fills the four oceans.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.

1989

***

The Average

W.H. Auden

His peasant parents killed themselves with toil
To let their darling leave a stingy soil
For any of those smart professions which
Encourage shallow breathing, and grow rich.

The pressure of their fond ambition made
Their shy and country-loving child afraid
No sensible career was good enough,
Only a hero could deserve such love.

So here he was without maps or supplies,
A hundred miles from any decent town;
The desert glared into his blood-shot eyes;

The silence roared displeasure: looking down,
He saw the shadow of an Average Man
Attempting the exceptional, and ran.

-image: Chaya Go

You are a million miles away brother.
Why should I bother?
We do not share blood brother.
Why do I care?
I arrive, uncertain.
You offer me your bowl of colour,
that I’ve never tasted before…
sounds of drums that reminisce with me,
from the very first beat.
At first sight we may be perfect strangers.
So why?
Because your tears are clear like mine…
your fears are real and make-believe like mine.
Our mothers gave us the same side-ways glare
when we got too close to the rebel’s edge.
And so I will step over the ocean,
we’ll sit around our steaming cups and conspire to inspire…
chat for hours, speechlessly.
Brother, Sister,
I thought you needed a helping hand,
but you led ME to safety and sanity…
and away from the aimless thoughtless version of myself.
Gracias hermano.

By Ricardo Segovia

Seeing is receiving.
So take your gentle eyes and open them up to our upside-down world.
The pain pierces; your eyes shut then open again, tugged by Love.
How easy it would be to look away, and walk away,
but stubbornness and passion are long lost brothers
who reunite in the breath, voice, and angry trembling hands
of those who dare to see.
Maintain your puzzled gaze,
because eventually one sees
that the insanity machine has been tampered with
by millions of weathered fingers…
and its pieces will soon be scattered and rusting
under tears of joy.

by Ricardo Segovia

According to the nightly news, there is only death in Africa,
Death by starvation, death by genocide, death by indifference…
After four months on the continent of death,
I am immersed in life:
Life in the smiles of the mothers of Lesotho,
And the children that cling to their backs.
My Mozambican brother who finds laughter and kinship,
through a common colonial past.
And the unmistakable energy of a crowed Rwandan bus
breaking out in song.
From Jo’ burg  to Nairobi, death does not slow the rhythm of life.
It is a piece of life the way the stones are part of the river,
It can’t stop the flow, the sounds, or the beauty.
Viva Africa.

by Eduardo Galeano

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream
of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will
suddenly rain down on them- will rain down in buckets. But
good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter
how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is
tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or
start the new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The
nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits,
dying through life, screwed every which way.
Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.
Who don’t create art, but handicrafts.
Who don’t have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the
police blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.

The South Also Exists

by Mario Benedetti

With its ritual of steel
its great chimneys
its secret scholars
its siren song
its neon skies
its Christmas sales
its cult of God the Father
and of epaulets
with its keys
to the kingdom
the North is the one
who orders

but down here, down
hunger at hand
resorts to the bitter fruit
of what others decide
while time passes
and pass the parades
and other things
that the North doesn’t forbid.
With its hard hope
the South also exists.

With its preachers
its poison gases
its Chicago school
its owners of the Earth
with its luxurious costume
and its meager frame
its spent defenses
its expenses of defense
with its epic of invasion
the North is the one
who orders.

But down here, down
each in their hideaway
are men and women
who know what to grasp
making the most of the sun
and eclipses
putting useless things aside
and using what is useful.
With its veteran faith
the South also exists.

With its French horn
and its Swedish academy
its American sauce
and its English wrenches
with all its missiles
and its encyclopedias
its war of galaxies
and its rich cruelty
with all its laurels
the North is the one
who orders.

But down here, down
near the roots
is where memory
omits no memory
and there are those
who defy death for
and die for
and thus together achieve
what was impossible
that the whole world
would know
that the South,
that the South also exists

The Development Set

by Ross Coggins

Excuse me, friends, I must catch my jet
I’m off to join the Development Set;
My bags are packed, and I’ve had all my shots
I have traveller’s checks and pills for the trots!

The Development Set is bright and noble
Our thoughts are deep and our vision global;
Although we move with the better classes
Our thoughts are always with the masses.

In Sheraton Hotels in scattered nations
We damn multi-national corporations;
injustice seems easy to protest
In such seething hotbeds of social rest.

We discuss malnutrition over steaks
And plan hunger talks during coffee breaks.
Whether Asian floods or African drought,
We face each issue with open mouth.

We bring in consultants whose circumlocution
Raises difficulties for every solution —
Thus guaranteeing continued good eating
By showing the need for another meeting.

The language of the Development Set
Stretches the English alphabet;
We use swell words like “epigenetic”
“Micro”, “macro”, and “logarithmetic”

It pleasures us to be esoteric —
It’s so intellectually atmospheric!
And although establishments may be unmoved,
Our vocabularies are much improved.

When the talk gets deep and you’re feeling numb,
You can keep your shame to a minimum:
To show that you, too, are intelligent
Smugly ask, “Is it really development?”

Or say, “That’s fine in practice, but don’t you see:
It doesn’t work out in theory!”
A few may find this incomprehensible,
But most will admire you as deep and sensible.

Development set homes are extremely chic,
Full of carvings, curios, and draped with batik.
Eye-level photographs subtly assure
That your host is at home with the great and the poor.

Enough of these verses – on with the mission!
Our task is as broad as the human condition!
Just pray god the biblical promise is true:
The poor ye shall always have with you.