i passed the devil on the street today

11/11/2002:
i saw the devil walking down the street today. staggering a bit. visibly drunk.

he saw me, too. and for a brief moment, when our eyes met, i think both of us thought of saying something. but then quickly thought better of it.

there was really nothing to say, both of us knowing ourselves and the other person all too well. but we almost spoke.

in fact, he was so close to speaking that he caught himself only just in time to raise his hand, turn his face and say "oh no, i shouldn't talk to you."

somehow, i wasn't surprised. i suppose i agreed with his conclusion. and so went on my way.

now, i think of the encounter and chuckle. amusing. funny little encounter there in the middle of town, in broad daylight.

i passed the devil on the street today. he was so drunk he thought better of saying anything.

the road less traveled?

also 7/22/2002:
bought an MTN mobile SIM card. great reception throughout the house. spoke to Rama. waiting on mama to call. she sent me this Robert Frost poem, along with the big package i got in Babadjou.

Rama says mama's been on this spiritual/poetic/oratory kick. i don't mind. the poem was nice. i like it. always have. seems all the more relevant now. the road less traveled...

the goddess

6/13/2002:

"worship the goddess in rose petal garden. drunk when, bitter after."

after the last sky...

 

6/12/2002:
The Earth is closing on us
pushing us through the last passage
and we tear off our limbs to pass through.
The Earth is squeezing us.
I wish we were its wheat
so we could die and live again.
I wish the Earth was our mother
so she'd be kind to us.

I wish we were pictures on the rocks
for our dreams to carry as mirrors.
We saw the faces of those who will throw
our children out of the window of this last space.
Our star will hang up mirrors.
Where should we go after the last frontiers?
Where should the birds fly after the last sky?
Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air?
We will write our names with scarlet steam.
We will cut off the hand of the song to be finished by our flesh.
We will die here, here in the last passage.
Here and here our blood will plant its olive tree.

Mahmoud Darwish, The Earth Is Closing on Us, translated by Abdullah al-Udhari, in Victims of a Map (London: al-Saqi Books, 1984), p. 13.


[note: i'm pretty sure i read and transcribed this poem from Salman Rushdie's Step Across This Line, as i was reading it in Kayes, but i could be wrong. in any event, the poem and citation above are from Mehbooba Poems & Poetry.]

'my graduation speech'

6/10/2002:
i think in spanish
i write in english

i want to go back to puerto rico,
but i wonder if my kink could live
in ponce, maygüez and carolina

tengo las venas aculturdas
escribo en spanglish
abraham in español
abraham in english
tato in spanish
"taro" in english
tonto in both languages

how are you?
¿cómo estás?
i don't know if i'm coming
or si me fui ya

si me dicen barronquitas, yo reply,
"¿con qué se come eso?"
si me dicen caviar, i digo,
"a new pair of converse sneakers."

ahí supe que estory jodío
ahí supe que estamos jodíos

english or spanish
spanish or english
spanenglish
now, dig this:

hablo lo inglés matao
hablo lo español matao
no sé leer ninguno bien

so it is, spanglish to matao
what i digo

¡ay, virgen, yo no sé hablar!

Tato Laviera, Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poet's Cafe.

what moves you?

what do you do when it moves through you? what do you do when creativity, passion and the need for self expression – is it really about the self? – all mix together and well up inside of you?

do you reach for a pen? to write or draw. do you clear your throat? to sing or speak. or do you dance? moving with those upwelling waves of whatever it is that moves you... what moves you?

is it the same thing(s) that move me? do you know its name? does it have a name? have you spoken with it? does it speak? or is that what we’re here for? to speak. or dance. or draw. or sing.

i’m a writer. i write.

when it moves me... i write.

mangoes in the moonlight

one last thought, 5/3/2002:
walking back home last night, i looked up and saw mangoes in the moonlight. can't help but think of jewels when i see that sight. pendant pearls in that soft, cool glow is what they look like.

i think how beautiful, how enchanting, how magical... and on a night when the moon is full, its glow bright and places surreal... like walking through one of Picasso's blues... seeing mangoes in the moonlight i think of paradise.

...and that keeps me here.

the prophet

and his soul cried out to them, and he said:
sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides,
how often have you sailed in my dreams.

and now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.
ready am i to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.

only another breath will i breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,
and then i shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.

and you, vast sea, sleepless mother,
who alone are PEACE & FREEDOM to the river and the stream,
only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,
and then shall i come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

-Khalil Gibran, The Prophet (1923)

aho!
Mohamad
10/5/2002
Wum

i, too, sing america

i, too, sing america.

i am the darker brother.
they send me to eat in the kitchen
when company comes,
but i laugh,
and eat well,
and grow strong.

tomorrow,
i'll be at the table
when company comes.
nobody'll dare
say to me,
"eat in the kitchen,"
then.

besides,
they'll see how beautiful i am
and be ashamed--

i, too, am america.

-langston hughes, 1932

aho!
Mohamad
9/11/2002
Wum

i used to be a teacher...

mohamad here. 2008. washington, DC. the previous post on teaching-learning got me thinking... i've been blessed to continue learning & teaching (and i've gotten better at both!) at several schools since i've left cameroon.

one of them in particular – Al-Fatih Academy in Northern Virginia – and the students there truly helped me understand just what this teaching-learning two-way street means. here are some thoughts on that:

i used to be a teacher
now i only want to learn

who was teaching anyway?
and who was truly learning?

my elders,
they sit in small chairs
my teachers,
are learning how to read
my guides,
do not know where they live

listen to what they taught me:
"close the door on teaching,
open the door to learning."

i used to be a teacher
now i only want to learn

special place in my heart

11/28/2001:
she says “i shouldn’t have to tell you that you have a very special place in my heart.” and that should be enough for me... for so many reasons and in so many ways.

funny how the heart and mind can seldom be coordinated. not necessarily in conflict but running on 2 different wavelengths and often interfering. or at least all too often not coinciding.

you can tell yourself you will just stop thinking. and maybe you will. but the heart beats to a different tune and it’s one that drowns out thoughts.

so i think of her. with my heart. not incessantly. but enough. enough to make me wonder what it is i want? and why it seemed so clear then and so clouded now?

i know the answers. in my mind i know the answers. but my heart is ignorant of or ignoring all those thoughts. b/c no matter what my mind is saying, i know she has a very special place in my heart.

keep me here

11/26/2001: later that evening...

there are things that keep me here

like dusty roads in the cool moonlight
closing my eyes and filling my heart with happiness
and my lungs with queen of the night

late afternoon breezes through rustling grass
a setting sun silhouetting a stately tree
before dipping away behind western hills

children struggling with buckets of water ½ as big as them
and bearing beaming smiles even bigger

and letters from home that make me wonder why
it takes distance to bring people closer together

and short little memories i didn’t know i had
to make me appreciate what i had and hadn’t

those things keep me here
so may God keep them coming

stand for teacher

10/17/2001: forgot to post this a little while ago!...

mom sent me another poem. 2 actually. this time about teaching. the highs and lows of this calling. the 1st is a poem on how exalted the status of a teacher is, by Ahmad Shawqi, the Prince of Poets. the 2nd is a response to Shawqi’s poem, by a teacher... it’s about how lowly the status of a teacher can be:

Stand for the teacher and honor his rank...
...for a teacher is almost as a prophet
Do you know of someone nobler than...
...he who nurtures minds and hearts
You encompass all, the Best Teacher...
...You taught with the pen the earliest people
You brought this mind forth from darkness...
...and guided it to an enlightened, radiant path
For if the teacher is not just, then lost...
...is the spirit of justice in youth for certain
If the teacher’s insight lapses for a moment...
...then those under his tutelage will lack vision
If guidance and counsel are based on whim...
...and on arrogance, then call that misguidance.

a response by Ibrahim Tuqan:

Shawqi says, knowing nothing of my plight...
...“Stand for the teacher and honor his rank”
Sit, I implore you! Is someone honored...
...who for growing children is a close friend?
Anxiety grips me when the Prince says:
...“for a teacher is almost as a prophet”
If Shawqi tried teaching for but an hour...
...his would be a life of hardship and stress
A teacher’s lot is frustration and depression...
...visions of notebooks day in and day out
Hundreds upon hundreds when they are graded...
...a path leading to nothing short of blindness
Don’t be surprised if I cry out one day...
...and fall down murdered between those desks
For anyone seeking suicide I have found it...
...for a teacher does not live a long life.

achebe poems

9/11/2001:
“...Charles’ attitude was undoubtedly the healthiest in these circumstances. If one didn’t laugh, one would have to cry. It seemed that was the way Nigeria was built.”
-Chinua Achebe, No Longer at Ease... indeed, sharru al-baliyyatu ma yudhik! : ( :

...since i’m quoting from Achebe, here are a couple of poems from No Longer at Ease and Anthills of the Savannah, respectively:

We retunred to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
-T.S. Elliot, The Journey of the Magi

Africa tell me Africa
Is this you this back that is bent
This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous son, that tree young and strong
That tree there
In splendid loneliness amidst white faded flowers
That is Africa your Africa
That grows again patiently obstinately
And its fruit gradually acquire
The bitter taste of liberty
-David Diop, Africa

peace within

8/22/2001:
May today there be peace within.
May you trust your highest power that you are exactly where you are meant to be...
May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith...
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you...
May you be content knowing that you are a Child of God...
Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love...
It is true for each and every one of you.
-St. Theresa

...a prayer i copied down for Kristen during one of our last days in Babadjou.

"homesick"

8/10/2001:
an excerpt from mama’s response to my letter about needing someone here who grew up/thought like me...

I understand your feelings about needing people around you who understand you and you understand them. Perhaps this is what they call “homesick,” being far from your home and longing for it. It is as the old Arab poets described weeping over the ruins of the departed and being separated from loved ones. However, travel is something desirable and though there is difficulty in being distant, there is also knowledge and awareness in it. As Imam Shafi’i said:

Neither the wise nor the cultured will at home
find comfort, so leave your lands and emigrate

Travel, you will find recompense for what you’ve left behind
Struggle, for the sweetness of life is in struggle

I have seen that stagnant water becomes impure
If it flows it is fresh, but if it doesn’t it is unhealthy

How could lions become fierce if they did not leave their territory?
Would an arrow hit its mark if it did not leave the bow?

If the sun stood still in the sky indefinitely
then Arabs and others alike would grow tired of it

Gold would be like dirt, strewn in its place
Incense lying on the ground just another kind of wood

Only when the former is scarce does it become dear to us
If the latter is scarce then it’s worth its weight in gold

...it's not easy to translate Arabic poetry! :)