Antistrophe

1.

on the verandah who sat watching the filament, harbouring a fear of storms and strong wind

watching the clouds full of thunder and rain in the, electric sky the ubiquitous humbling sky that saw

all and might not forgive even the venial sins of children committed in the juvenile cruelty

of rough play the clouds they would break suddenly soon; bonewhite the boughs of stark-naked trees

swooned to the terminal breeze that whipped about the skeletal branches and childish limbs and saw

the plastic bags bob like violent kites into the saturated sky who witnessed from

the bottom of the world the first arrows of rain pierce the coal hearted hills

who witnessed and warned or warned not

2.

Every household has its own god; This is

an axiom. I know an idol or a shrine when I

see one: Go to Ojuelegba, when

your eyes are turned inside-out, pray they don’t

hustle you, see where the name comes from.

Don’t miss the colourful imp described flat

On cement walls in the market’s centre,

Eshu, arbiter of chaos and crossroads,

The protector and patron of travellers.

In Naples I was also brow-beaten

in hot streets; Labyrinth avenues of

colour and commerce, Where on every

doorpost cornicelli are hung, Slender,

chilli-red coral charms against evil,

Not unlike how tatashe keeps us from

Nightmares brought on by bland food. I sought

respite for a time between the Crates of

a bookshop,one run by a steadfast and loyal man,

who thus engaged me in conversation;

A humoured debate concerning poor Keats

and Red Shelley. There was another man,

a regular customer, who listened

with care and interjected with apt

and pithy remarks, and when he sensed

the conversation drawing to close,

he turned on his heel and quit imperiously.

That loyal friend, the storekeeper whispered:

“But do you know who that was?” I shrugged; and

he said, “that was Lello Esposito,

One of the grandest sculptors in Naples”.

Impressed, but demurring to admit it:

I replied: “And what is your own name, sir?”

He said humbly: “oh, don’t ask after me,

io sono solo un piccolo

lettore”. I’m just a little reader.

That man Esposito, nominated

In terms reserved for a paraclete, takes

For his muse, Napoli herself, and her

Concomitant symbols and superstitions,

Takes cognisance of her people and things.

In this city, with catholic icons

On every street corner, there is one

bronze sculpture, a pagan head on stone base,

Wearing a black beaked half mask, a portrait

Of that playful blackguard, Pulcinella,

Whom I consider a small god of tricks.

In the alleyway where Pulcinella’s

Bust stands, the work of that same grand sculptor,

Lello Esposito, travellers form queues

To rub the beak of Pulcinella’s mask

For luck. I know an idol or shrine when

I see one. To each household their own small god.

3.

Symbolism is the way by which

we reconcile with those whom

We don’t know from Adam.

Remoteness distils individuals and objects

Into mere symbolism—this, afterall,

Is the device of all art.

See the goatherd pulling three or four

By yellow plastic rope, leaning

Patewards (his head scraped

Smooth by tiger blade), to the

Quicksilver sunlight through dour

clouds—

See the young mother of twins

Waiting for transport, in a soul-pink

Shawl, used now to sufferance

who has been standing for hours--

See the marabout, arms akimbo

Transfixed temporarily by a passing

Vehicle, his slender taloned hand,

Encloaked in blue linen, garnished

By his tablet of a silver ring--

See the old good-natured man,

with calque on his teeth, swigging kunu,

Leaning on his Volkswagen Beetle,

In the shade of a flamboyant tree,

On the crescent that houses

The bureau de change.

Each and their household god.

And all symbolism is like apotheosis.

4.

Incense and tang of dark berry juice

At the Eucharist; candlewax scalding,

and crucifer and acolytes, in white robes.

Who has not woken to the muezzin call

And marvelled at the dark mark

of piety on foreheads or shared salah meat

or sang hymns, or expressed hopes?

But I have also seen the mob

swarm the streets, against the flow

of traffic, willing to murder to make

a point. Ask the ones who marched for

Father Mbaka. And just last month,

my sister, Deborah Samuel, was put to death,

With boulders and fire. For blasphemy.

May our children not be symbols or martyrs.

Knowing nothing of her character,

Or scruples, I still plead her innocence.

I do not despise you priests.

But I’ll never forget, no way,

That there are those who beckon at

The tempest. I have heard

demons cast out and loosed

upon the land--for a fee.

I have heard oblique prophecies

That serve only to incite and

deceive. I have seen the slaughter

of animals because of superstitions.

And all the rest, all the accustomed,

justified evil, in which there is no beauty.

And yet I despise no priests;

There are still those wise men

who stoop to scrutinise

the morning glory flower

not only for the magenta

or careful paper folds of

Its petals, but for that inner

light, that centrifugal anima.

It is some consolation, at least.