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Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Feu de brousse-Brush Fire by Tchicaya U Tam’si

I would like to share a poem of Tchicaya U Tam’Si from the Mc Graw Hill Book of poetry. I purchased this for one dollar when I was in college at a library sale. I needed something  relaxing. As a biology major, philosophy and poetry were my favorite escapes to scientific stuff. Tchicaya U Tam'si is a Congolese poet. I did like it, so I did google for some more. He is a famous poet but his work seems underground.  According to critics, his style was disturbing the negritude movement. So his work remained underground or unknown. His style is described as anecdotal and dry. It is a style, I like because it is a style I grew up around with my parents.  A certain distance is maintain to be able to have an open heart conversation. It is peculiar and very African to me. However, he is also called the Black Rimbaud. 

Enjoy...

"Brush-fire" by  Tchicaya U Tam'si
The fire the river that's to say
the sea to drink following the sand
the feet the hands
within the heart to love
this river that lives in me repeoples me
only to you I said around the fire
my race
it flows here and there a river
the flames are the looks
of those who brood upon it
I said to you
my race
remembers
the taste of bronze drunk hot


 Feu de Brouse de Tchicaya U Tam’si  
Le long du fleuve Seule une montagne
Après la dernière étoile éteinte   Veille
Peine perdue 
Il y a le saut à la mer
A sac la mer

J’ai fait ce rêve  Avec l’arc-en-ciel
Dans l’autre sens du fleuve Couché
C’était le cercle magique
Des veillées lentes 
Les morts avec nous
Mais non  Avant la mer
Monte l’écume A la gorge
Du fleuve   Ecoutez le tocsin
Congo
Son milieu était une herbe juste
Parmi les ronces
Son ciel était son regard
Pour ceux qui vivaient
Ils vivaient nombreux
Les lianes liant leurs cœurs
Puis une chanson s’est levée
Rehaussons la haine
A sa hauteur de sentiment humain
Brûlez vos réserves de sèves sanguines
La plante mûrit ainsi la fleur
Vivre parmi les ronces c’est mourir
Nulle part la joie
C’est le choc des crépuscules

Ils vivaient nombreux
Son milieu était une herbe juste
Mais où a-t-on égaré mes pagayeurs

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