'South Africa knows' By Umar Abubakar Sidi

South Africa knows. Never let the poetSee the face of love. Never let the poet walkUpon the landscapes of love. Alone.Unguarded. Never let the poet walkBy the side of love in a mall. Do not let the poetWitness the plum fingers of love using chopsticksTo eat Sushi in a Japanese shop.Never let the poet hear the voice of Love.

The poet says: This music speaks to the soul.And Love says: It speaks to the body and not the soul.

South Africa knows. Do not let the poetEngage in soul-searching with Love.The poet says: Let us look into each other’s eyes.Love tells the poet: I see kindness,I see a heart of gold. The poet staresInto the green eyes of Love. And the poet says:I see light. And Love responds:I see tongues of flames burning my eyes.The poet says: I can’t see through your soul.Love says: Why? The poet says: Are you my mystic guide?And Love responds: I don’t know.

And when the poet returns to the cubicle,The tiny cubicle where he is king.He locks the door. He takes the brown metal key,He flings it out through the window, it scares a hawk.He spends 29 days, without a bath, food or drink,Except a sip or two from the alcohol of time.

The poet grows dreadlocks. He stinks.He scatters books and paper, pen and ink.He chews parts of books: Collins’s The Trouble with Poetry.Ginsberg’s Howl and Felinghetti’s little book of poetic wisdom.Martin’s The Republic of Poetry he ate in whole.He re-wrote ‘A Stone Hammered to Gravel’,A poem for Dennis Brutus and swallowed it a thousand times.

South Africa knows. When a poet eats a poem,The time is up, if in doubt ask Dennis Brutus,He was a poet of words. He ate poems while contemplatingThe alchemy of words. If still in doubt ask Madiba,He was a poet of stones. He consumed gravelsWhile contemplating the sanctity of dust.

And before the cries, before the howl.Before the ambulance came, took him awayAnd dumped him in a solitary cell. BeforeA hard faced policeman, with a brutal nose stamped hardAnd scribbled on a brown envelope: The Poet is Mad.Long, long before the poet began to seeThe reflection of love on walls, on trees, in pens,In mugs of coffee, in his transparent veins, inThe yellow brown blood he vomits, in theEar-cracking rustle of leaves…

Long before Love appeared, disheveled,The hair loosened, glowing and flowing down on shouldersLike that of the white mare of paradise.The silver nose as straight as truth, bearing the innocenceOf the stars. The eyes burning with the fire of fire.Love appeared before the Madhouse KeeperDemanding in crystalline silence: Let the poet be. I am the baby cobra hatchlings wriggling in his brain.

Long before he was thrown out of the MadhouseThey, the poet and Love, sat on a cliff overlooking a mountainAnd Love says let us go soul searching.They stare into each other’s eyes.What do you see? The poet says: Light.What do you see? Love says: You.Love hugged the poet and whispered:Are you my spiritual guide? The poet says: Yes.

Then let us go, Love says,Let us go discover the magic of the orient.Let us discover the secret of the pyramids,Let us roam the country side of Shanghai,Let’s go to the Vatican and contemplate the paintingsOn the Sistine Chapel. Let us go to Konya and whirlOver the tomb of Rumi, may be we will have a visionOf Shams of Tabris on the plains orIn an epiphany of light in our dreams.

Let us roam the markets of SamarkandHunting for white eyed virgins covered in Burkha,Maidens of light, bearers of the tales of love.Let us trudge the domes of DamascusAnd peer through the telescopes of Khayyam,Maybe we will see rogue planets wandering in the evening sky,Maybe we will see the silver beard of the Old ManOf the Mountain. Maybe we will see the white frocks ofDervishes whirling freely in unison, entangledIn the remembrance of the Divine.

Let us wander through the desertsOn camel backs, the sun will tell us talesIn the voice of springs and oasis:Once upon a time,The greatest poet of Arabia, happened upon the face Of Layla in a magic mirror, he fell in love and Became Majnoon (the possessed).Let us stroll through the busy streets of DakarSearching for mysterious dwarfs and willing peddlersOf ancient relics; a jar of jade the home of an infant djinn,The Albino hunchback who sells clay ticketsFor a dinner at the square; this, in reality is a meetingOf free loving spirits, where everyone is servedA piece of an elephant’s ear garnished in lemon.The curry of course is made of Leopold Senghor’s book of poems.

And when Love and the poet emerge out of the chasms of dreamLove shakes the poet and tells the poet: Sing.And the poet says: How?Love tells the poet: Sing in lightAnd the poet says: Why?Love tells the poet: Sing for love.And the poet says: Soul, Soul, Soul,Love is the conqueror of Soul.

(For Nana and the angels Mapule Mathebakase and Bertha Ramashija)