Ode To The Drum by Yusuf Komunyakaa

Gazelle, I killed you

for your skin's exquisite

touch, for how easy it is

to be nailed to a board

weathered raw as white

butcher paper. Last night

I heard my daughter praying

for the meat here at my feet.

You know it wasn't anger

that made me stop my heart

till the hammer fell. Weeks

ago, I broke you as a woman

once shattered me into a song

beneath her weight, before

you slouched into that

grassy hush. But now

I'm tightening lashes,

shaping hide as if around

a ribcage, stretched

like five bowstrings.

Ghosts cannot slip

back inside the body's drum.

You've been seasoned

by wind, dusk & sunlight.

Pressure can make everything

whole again, brass nails

tacked into the ebony wood

your face has been carved

five times. I have to drive

trouble from the valley.

Trouble in the hills.

Trouble on the river

too. There's no kola nut,

palm wine, fish, salt,

or calabash. Kadoom.

Kadoom. Kadoom. Ka-

doooom. Kadoom. Now

I have beaten a song back into you,

rise & walk away like a panther.

This is one of those poems I wish I and not the original poet had written. Sounds selfish, I know. And if I could steal it, I probably would, he-he.

Am I Not a Child?

Something I penned a few weeks ago in response to this picture, whose image has remained with me ever since I saw it about a couple years ago:

Am I not a child
Whose limbs are sticks,
Whose face is a mask
Of bones?
Why are my eyes like dice
That roll in my head,
Opening and closing,
A physical plea,
A pitiful cry for mercy,
And I pray they fall on any number
That will be the vision of my salvation,
And I close them, and when they open,
Still I remain as dead?
Am I not a child?
Then why must I worry about death
And food and vultures?
Do children not have fat cheeks
And laughing eyes
Or greasy lips and chins
That form mischievous grins?
Are children not restless
And naughty and bright
And sprightly?
Why does my open mouth
Do nothing but plead
For simple nourishment
If I am a child?
If I am a child,
Why am I alone?
Am I not a child?

IRONMAN

Living in an exotic part of the world such as Hawaii affords you the luxury of being close to big things, things people would probably only talk about where you come from, and that is if they even heard of it. This weekend, I got to witness one of such things: the IRONMAN Triathlon, here in Kailua-Kona on the Big Island.

What happened was that nearly 2000 people in a number of categories competed in an endurance test of swimming, cycling, and running. They started off early in the morning with a 2.4 mile swim across Kailua-Kona bay, immediately followed by a 112 mile (180 km) bike ride through the lava desert and back. To finish off, the triathletes had to run a 26 mile (42 km marathon. And all of this they had to do in 17 hours.

What was most amazing about this was going down to the finish line and seeing the runners come in one at a time, like bone-weary soldiers on a glorious homecoming. It was wonderful. Many of them practically dragged themselves in, but you should have seen them and heard the things said about them. Wheelchair-bound people, people with prosthetics, people with only one arm...and their ages were spread across 18 (the youngest guy in the race) to 73 (actually the highest I had heard the commentator say about someone, so there may have been older folk). Men and women, different sizes, postures, and shapes. Businessmen, scientists, professors, lawyers, doctors - the race had them all, and it was such an inspiration to see them come in the way they did, hear the cheering from the cloud, and hear the commentator welcome them and say, 'You are an IRONMAN!' Their determination and courage took on a solid form as they approached that finish line - you could see it, feel it, almost touch it.

This got me thinking about where I come from, and a certain culture that we have, or do not have (depending on how you look at it) with regards to exercising and keeping fit. As I heard the ages of the arriving triathletes being yelled out, I searched my mind for any person in my parents' generation (and they aren't that old) that would be able to participate in something like this. Of course, that's a lot to ask of someone who hasn't trained deliberately in preparation for this. But these triathletes have run many countless races before now in preparation. They already had a lifestyle of keeping fit even before the IRONMAN came along; this was just an extra, more grueling stretch. Yet I can't really think of any of the people I grew up admiring and respecting even being in a position to consider beginning to train for such a thing as a triathlon. Most of the 73-year olds I know either carry a walking stick (and I am not being facetious) or like to rub in the fact that they are old (and they respected for that, rightly so). And I kept thinking, Wouldn't it be great to be able to do something like this at 70? 

I am not saying that the older people back home should start participating in events like the IRONMAN. I'm just wondering how only a handful of them would be able to even come to close to it. Physical fitness and exercise really aren't much of a value where I come from. Generally speaking, we lack the discipline and perseverance. And needless to say, I think we are worse off for it. I am implicating myself as I write this, aren't I? Don't worry, I have it in mind to buy a new pair of running shoes and begin training for IRONMAN 2015.

Father and Mother

He walked to school along the path

That his father had taught him,

Where just beyond the rocky outcrop

Was the land he had inherited.

One day, just one day,

When he became big and strong,

He would farm it

And feed from it

And live long

For those he loved.

Something had come into their home

And had taken their father away.

No one saw it.

But it came, sure as night,

And they only saw what it did.

Father’s face, Father’s chest,

Father’s legs, Father’s stomach

Father had failed, and the light

In his eyes had died,

And Father too had died.

He counted the years,

Ten of them to go,

Then he would be a man

And wipe away Mother’s tears.

If Mother lived that long.

Because something had come into their home

And was taking their mother away.

No one saw it.

But it was there, sure as night.

And they now saw what it did.

Mother’s face, Mother’s chest,

Mother’s legs, Mother’s stomach.

Mother was failing, and the light

In her eyes was dying.

And Mother too was dying.