Verbs
I tried to write vivid stories as a child.
I wrote one about being lost in Khartoum,
Then converted to poetry in my twenties.
I flicked past a multitude of words in the
Dictionary, searching for that elusive verb
Depicting actions of regurgitated memories,
Condensed and blurred by time.
“Nearly there, but you must remember verbs!”
Said Carol Ann Duffy as six students sat around
The rectangular table under fluorescent lights,
Listening to my voice for the very first time.
I am a verb of the past. Of a forgotten history.
A verb of contradiction – my ancestors, snatched
In a haze of beastly capitalism – now in England,
I hone an oppressive tongue difficult to grasp!
The least I can say is:
“Xamnaa ni Yalla dina ma dimbali.”
My narrative is choppy and clunky, and
This tense shifts from present to past,
Dishing up trappings of abstract thought.
When Peggy Poole suggested
“I can’t see a Bloody Horse?” – I realized
My quest for mastering the crucial verb is like
Kunta Kinte reluctantly reciting Toby.
I’m a verb of contradiction. There’s no reparation
For my ghostly yearning of relaxing in a green
And yellow pirogue by the Atlantic Coast’s edge,
With a ballpoint pen and a blank notebook –
Far, far away beneath the beaming sun.
