Anxiety in Mosaic

THIS NAME

35 THIS NAME With what disinfectant Mixed with the waters of the Nile Shall I cleanse this name; this name Contaminated by the halitosis Of mouths that utter it in disdain; this name Trampled upon in the stampede of defamations, lying In centuries long, of coma? In what poetic forge Shall I straighten this name, fashioned After a question mark; this name Mangled out of shape in its head-on collision with A trailerful of frozen epithets? In what blast furnace – fired By a thousand and one degree Celsius of verse power – Shall I remake this name; I – This smith with a pen? In which detergent-silted ocean Shall I – washer man-poet, immerse this silken name; This silken name, stained By soiling fingers; the soiling fingers Of opinions, sired By prejudice; this name inscribed in the Sahara, Half-defaced by sieving western winds that go by Whispering of globalisation? And I – washer man-poet, shall sit On a kitchen stool by the Niger’s meanders To wash clean this name; this name Dirtied 36 With the smear of propagandist grease; this name Spotted here and there with the rusty marks Of libellous stains POBRE MADRE* Pobre madre, mi pobre madre Intrepid tigress moves Toward death from which The world runs away helter-skelter Still, no perturbations rock The emotions of your being You whom indigence has raped and battered These several tenebrous decades gone by Pobre madre, mi pobre madre Lone, dry-eyed amazon, tranquil Amid these many crying faces I see Your pretty face Is one on which smiles Usurp the place of tears Even as spiky years Flagellate to the soul Pobre madre, mi pobre madre Stillness… Unmoved In this very vortex of transcience Elephantine anvil Standing in the whirlwind ...