Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

 

Singers And Dancers

They say we who sing
Don’t know how to dance —
To twist our waists
To the rhythms
Of our own songs.

They say we who sing
In deafening silence
Of truth are like a shout
Of a madman trying to be normal.
I also agree.
We must have eaten our corns
Before the planting season.

I myself observe
Myself in them
Who say we who sing
Don’t know how to dance:
It is not only true,
It is more than telling the truth;
Which now is an all -rounded lie:
Those who sing well dance badly,
Good singers, bad dancers.
But suppose we don’t sing,
Won’t they be witches dancing,
And romancing their own shadows?

 

The Dancers

The dance is so crowded
That the white hyenas
Go about, salivating;
Dark clouds of dust
Rising,
Spinning like whirlwinds;
The dance is so heated
That the dancers want to die
Of salty sweats
Colonizing their eyes;

Their head feathers
And armlets trembling
With ceaseless passion
And Ecstasy
In their rising falling voices . ..
The roaring lions
Under their heavyweight feet
Like gunshots on naked streets,
Rattling like rattlesnakes…

The drummer drumming the drum
Drums till the mother drum breaks…
The drummer drums
The dancers dance blindly…

The tired breasts
Of the dancing mother gnats
Commanded to sway silently
Whirling,
Twisting,
Spinning Hornet-waists,
Burying,
In the funeral dances…

Beads pour in the air
Like waves of winds;
Rattles around legs
Rattle like the clamoring
Rattles of God in the dark clouds,
Singing,
Dancing,
Whirling madly,
Only dust rises,
Sweats like pouring rains,
Dropping,
Splashing,
Scattering,
Wetting the spectators’ faces
With wet redness.

 

The Air Smells

The slim,
The threats,
The beacon of long dark lights;

The skunk,
The fired smoke,
The cockroach hands that squeeze testes;

The jackboot,
The spilt blood,
The crunch of civilized bones;

The sun,
The gumboots,
The high-heeled buttock-kicks;

The snow,
The snowflakes,
The overloaded canoes aboading;

The shots,
The streets,
The falling leaves of shot flies;

The promises,
The campaigns,
The shattering hopes of despairs;

The flood,
The blood,
The head that wears the crown spills;

The goons,
The chunks
The economy steal so sinks;

The glue
Glued the buttocks
Of the sitting statue on the stool;

The moon,
The future;
The bright future behind us.

 

I Shall Return

I have come away
Home far away home
To this paradise far
Like any great traveler
Worth knowing the bush
Paths of civilized life,
But O will I return home?
I never feel at home home here.

What restless feet
Of mine carried me,
The Prodigal Father!
What little gains or no;
I fathered myself on
The eyebrows of contagious nights;
A child to no father,
A father to no child.

No!
I must not sleep here,
Not tonight! It squeezes me!
Much as I extract
Their seductive paths,
I must not lose my own,
I must return home
When I am sane or partly.

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