Scribd Logo
Upload

Welcome to Scribd!

  • The Very First Poem I Ever Read On Stage: Africa (By David Diop)

    Uploaded by

    Aries Roy Saplagio Aungon
    5 views2 pages

    Original Title

    african.docx

    Copyright

    © © All Rights Reserved

    Available Formats

    DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Did you find this document useful?

    Is this content inappropriate?

    Report this Document

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    5 views2 pages

    The Very First Poem I Ever Read On Stage: Africa (By David Diop)

    Uploaded by

    Aries Roy Saplagio Aungon

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    of 2

    Africa (by David Diop) Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should

    see
    The very first poem I ever read on stage The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my
    Africa, my Africa feet
    Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
    Africa of whom my grandmother sings Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
    On the banks of the distant river My bottom raven black--One moment,
    I have never known you madam!"--sensing
    But your blood flows in my veins Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
    Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't
    fields you rather
    The blood of your sweat See for yourself?"
    The sweat of your work Africa (by David Diop)
    The work of your slavery
    Africa, tell me Africa The very first poem I ever read on stage
    Is this you, this back that is bent Africa, my Africa
    This back that breaks Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs
    Under the weight of humiliation Africa of whom my grandmother sings
    This back trembling with red scars On the banks of the distant river
    And saying yes to the whip under the midday I have never known you
    sun But your blood flows in my veins
    But a grave voice answers me Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the
    Impetuous child that tree, young and strong fields
    That tree over there The blood of your sweat
    Splendidly alone amidst white and faded The sweat of your work
    flowers The work of your slavery
    That is your Africa springing up anew Africa, tell me Africa
    Springing up patiently, obstinately Is this you, this back that is bent
    Whose fruit bit by bit acquires This back that breaks
    The bitter taste of liberty. 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
    Telephone Conversation (by Wole Impetuous child that tree, young and strong
    Soyinka) That tree over there
    The price seemed reasonable, location Splendidly alone amidst white and faded
    Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived flowers
    Off premises. Nothing remained That is your Africa springing up anew
    But self-confession. "Madam," I warned, Springing up patiently, obstinately
    "I hate a wasted journey--I am African." Whose fruit bit by bit acquires
    Silence. Silenced transmission of The bitter taste of liberty.
    Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it
    came,
    Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
    Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
    "HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE Telephone Conversation (by Wole
    YOU LIGHT Soyinka)
    OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A.* Stench The price seemed reasonable, location
    Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak. Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
    Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered Off premises. Nothing remained
    Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed But self-confession. "Madam," I warned,
    By ill-mannered silence, surrender "I hate a wasted journey--I am African."
    Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification. Silence. Silenced transmission of
    Considerate she was, varying the emphasis-- Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it
    "ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation came,
    came. Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
    "You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?" Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
    Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light "HOW DARK?" . . . I had not misheard . . . "ARE
    Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted, YOU LIGHT
    I chose. "West African sepia"--and as OR VERY DARK?" Button B, Button A.* Stench
    afterthought, Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
    "Down in my passport." Silence for Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
    spectroscopic Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
    Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her By ill-mannered silence, surrender
    accent Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
    Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
    conceding "ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?" Revelation
    "DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette." came.
    "THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether. "You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?"
    Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should
    Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted, see
    I chose. "West African sepia"--and as The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my
    afterthought, feet
    "Down in my passport." Silence for Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
    spectroscopic Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
    Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her My bottom raven black--One moment,
    accent madam!"--sensing
    Hard on the mouthpiece. "WHAT'S THAT?" Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
    conceding About my ears--"Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't
    "DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette." you rather
    "THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?" "Not altogether. See for yourself?"

    You might also like