one of the poems of Maxamed Xaashi Dhamac Gaarriye translated by David Harsent the name of the poem is MANDELA The poem is under my hand. The images crowd my head. Poetry is the way To get this story told. Poetry has the strength To tell the story well, As long as the images hold, As long as the poem writes. The Oppressor comes into court. He is the Prosecutor, He is the Judge and Jury; There is no ‘win or lose - The case is cut and dried. The Defendant stands alone. The Prosecutor calls Himself as Witness - yes, The Judge upholds the law That he himself created: It changes as he chooses. The Jury only knows One word - the word is ‘Guilty. This poem is a gun. This poems an assassin. Images mob my mind... This pens a spear, a knife, A branding-iron, an arrow Tipped with righteous anger. It writes with blood and bile. I take this bitter ink, Blood-red, to make my mark; Corruption from the wound, Sap from the poison-tree, Aloe and gall and myrrh. This poems a loaded gun, This verse a Kalashnikov. I aim it at the snake That slithers to our children And strikes! See where the tell-tale Blood-beads pearl on the skin. The snake, the Prosecutor, The Oppressor, the Judge, the Jury - You must always aim for the head. This poem is a gun And words are ammunition. This poem tells a story That cant be cut or censored. This poems not up for sale, It cant be bought as men And cattle can be bought, So dont make me an offer, Put your money back In your purse... But you can listen, Everyone can listen, Not just the great and good, Not just Nelson Mandela. Judge and Jury, listen! Prosecutor, listen! Policeman, come and listen! Turnkey, come and listen! You who perjure, listen! You who torture, listen! I want you to hear this poem; I want you to hear me speak As if I were Mandela. I speak for him - Mandela. I speak for an angry man, A man whose voice was stopped, A man whose mouth was gagged Because he once said, ‘No! ‘No! to the Prosecutor, ‘No! to the Judge and Jury, ‘No! to injustice, ‘No! To indignity and oppression. He says, ‘Dont think Im beaten; Dont think of me as weak Or wretched. Im no slave. Im not destitute Although they stole from me. Im not without a home Although my lands been taken. Dont pity me; dont tell me Ill have my chance at glory. Didnt Jesus ask us To turn the other cheek And give the Fool who slaps us Another chance to show us Just how much he hates us? And if that Fool should kill me: Tell me, whos the victor? He thinks of me, that man, As someone who has no one: No friends, no family, No allies, no supporters. He cannot see the circle - Right round the globe - of people, All races, colours, creeds, Calling out for justice. If I say Im hungry I mean hungry for justice. If I say Im hog-tied I mean hog-tied by lies. If I say Im blind, Im blind to compromise. If I say an angel Stands at my right shoulder I mean ‘Angel of Death, I mean ‘Death in Disguise. Everything Ive suffered, Everything Ive dreamed of, Are mine and mine alone. The Judge and Jury know me. They know what I have suffered. They think that what Im thinking Is what they think Im thinking. Its not. If I say ‘Angel I mean Angel of Death. I mean the Angels shadow That darkens all my thinking. The brush they use to sweep My thoughts out of the door Is worn down to the shaft. Only the thoughts are left. The snake-bite and the blood-beads, The blood-beads and the poison, Are my immunity. Once my sleep was dreamless, Once my mind was blank; Now my dreams are rich, My every thought is clear. Now I see a way - A way others have taken; Its called the Road to Freedom. I want you to hear him speak: Hear Mandelas wisdom. Listen, all who hear me, All who think as I do. Abu Hadra - hear me! Poet and friend, now listen! I know youll understand. This poems a ransom-note, Blood-money to the many Who cry aloud for justice. Its payback to Mandela And everything he stands for And everyone he speaks for. This poem has a blade Hidden at its heart. That steel will last forever! So listen, Abu Hadra! If you will listen, others Will listen too, will hear The words as if Mandela Was calling them to arms. Theyll grasp the blade thats hidden Deep inside this poem; Theyll show the Jude and Jury The cutting-edge of freedom; Theyll show the Prosecutor The blade that lasts forever; Theyll never bow their heads Or walk in chains and fetters. This poem is a mirror Ive made for us, Hadraawi, A mirror we can hold up To show the ignoramus The depth of self-deception That lies in his reflection; To show the Judge and Jury How the wide world sees them; To show the man who takes Pleasure in pain the guern Of glee that warps his smile. Hadraawi, read this poem To anyone wholl listen. Help them to find the voice Ive given to Mandela. And tell them this: our purpose Is peace; our password ‘Freedom; Our aim, equality; Our way the way of light. The literal translation of this poem was made by Martin Orwin and Maxamed Xasan Alto The final translated version of the poem is by David Harsent
Posted on: Wed, 26 Mar 2014 07:56:13 +0000
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