In A Den of Robbers - Poems by Mdika Nick Tembo
- By Mdika Nick Tembo
- Published June 18, 2009
- Poetry
-
Rating:
Mdika Nick Tembo
Mdika Nick Tembo was born on 11th July 1975. He holds a BEd in Literature and History from the University of Malawi, Chancellor College. His poems and short stories have appeared in Malawi's popular Weekend papers, The Weekend Nation and Malawi News. He is currently a Staff Associate in the Department of Linguistics and Literature at the Catholic University of Malawi. He is also pursuing his MA (Literature) studies at Chancellor College.
View all Entries by Mdika Nick Tembo
HOMAGE TO POWER
These rolling cadences
To our God-given magicians
On a sacred hill-top
Affable, understanding, crying
With those who have wept,
Fat hawks that never killed
Even the smallest of the chicks
Or robbed the hen of its eggs;
Aren’t they
The same refrains of yesterday
That made our clowns heroes
And crucified our hero’s clowns?
Gestures of powers unlimited
We want to confer on these
Rotund shadows-for-life,
Aren’t they, after all,
The same Idi-otic nuances
That groomed us into a society
Struggling to keep
Our saviours’ arses unsoiled?
Aren’t we …?
IN A DEN OF ROBBERS
And the old hyena entered the den of robbers
and started snoring, his oil-like phlegm
coursing down his wrinkled chin. While the
butchers glistened with sweat over who should
have the lion’s share. And they began
taunting him for not sloughing the national bull.
And he said to them, “It is written, ‘when
you are a dunderhead, you have to be a
watcher;’ but you remind me of my yesteryears.”
And the termites showed him their scarlet teeth
And he, in return, showed them his toothless gums.
EPITAPH TO MADMEN AND SPECIALISTS
Here lies a bunch of thieves
Who became pregnant, on our sweat
After selling their bodies and souls
to the Devil
They drowned nightly in fat lies –
poor thieves!
NO SWEETNESS HERE
(For Jack and Frank)
Anger prowls in the charged atmosphere
Settles on the dreamy brow,
Hopes and cherished tomorrows
Crumble and dissolve into restless sighs.
The young no longer nurse democracy
And the old ones who have seen this before
Have retreated into their shells:
Foul air colonizes their nostrils.
There is no sweetness here
Nightmares take shape
In painful yodels
Of ruling for life;
Fears of yesteryears return
Recollect themselves in these hollow breasts.
No sweetness here
Corruption, hunger, and poverty
Have become the day’s menus;
While rich blasts
Continue to baptize helpless masses.
No sweetness with these hordes of earthworms
Exploiting, manipulating;
Emerge, outgrown mouth, for another skinning
Of the excised.
CRY OF THE INNOCENTS
Uncertainty lurks in the tranquil village
Where feeble innocent undergrowth
Trampled in the bud, squirm,
Wriggle helplessly in the abandoned hut.
When will they live in the sunshine?
Breasts ripped by profiteering gods
Torn viciously between fat claws
And teeth of hounds
That prey the weak and the deceived.
When shall this pain finally go?
Gored breasts in the throes of pain
Thrown roughly from side to side
As the abandoned hut careens, stalls,
Hurtles down the downward slope.
When shall we stop crying?
Pot-bellied children, stand naked
Bewildered mothers cry, wanting;
In the village, grown up men bend their knees
Bow down in prayer.
When shall they hear our call?
These rolling cadences
To our God-given magicians
On a sacred hill-top
Affable, understanding, crying
With those who have wept,
Fat hawks that never killed
Even the smallest of the chicks
Or robbed the hen of its eggs;
Aren’t they
The same refrains of yesterday
That made our clowns heroes
And crucified our hero’s clowns?
Gestures of powers unlimited
We want to confer on these
Rotund shadows-for-life,
Aren’t they, after all,
The same Idi-otic nuances
That groomed us into a society
Struggling to keep
Our saviours’ arses unsoiled?
Aren’t we …?
IN A DEN OF ROBBERS
And the old hyena entered the den of robbers
and started snoring, his oil-like phlegm
coursing down his wrinkled chin. While the
butchers glistened with sweat over who should
have the lion’s share. And they began
taunting him for not sloughing the national bull.
And he said to them, “It is written, ‘when
you are a dunderhead, you have to be a
watcher;’ but you remind me of my yesteryears.”
And the termites showed him their scarlet teeth
And he, in return, showed them his toothless gums.
EPITAPH TO MADMEN AND SPECIALISTS
Here lies a bunch of thieves
Who became pregnant, on our sweat
After selling their bodies and souls
to the Devil
They drowned nightly in fat lies –
poor thieves!
NO SWEETNESS HERE
(For Jack and Frank)
Anger prowls in the charged atmosphere
Settles on the dreamy brow,
Hopes and cherished tomorrows
Crumble and dissolve into restless sighs.
The young no longer nurse democracy
And the old ones who have seen this before
Have retreated into their shells:
Foul air colonizes their nostrils.
There is no sweetness here
Nightmares take shape
In painful yodels
Of ruling for life;
Fears of yesteryears return
Recollect themselves in these hollow breasts.
No sweetness here
Corruption, hunger, and poverty
Have become the day’s menus;
While rich blasts
Continue to baptize helpless masses.
No sweetness with these hordes of earthworms
Exploiting, manipulating;
Emerge, outgrown mouth, for another skinning
Of the excised.
CRY OF THE INNOCENTS
Uncertainty lurks in the tranquil village
Where feeble innocent undergrowth
Trampled in the bud, squirm,
Wriggle helplessly in the abandoned hut.
When will they live in the sunshine?
Breasts ripped by profiteering gods
Torn viciously between fat claws
And teeth of hounds
That prey the weak and the deceived.
When shall this pain finally go?
Gored breasts in the throes of pain
Thrown roughly from side to side
As the abandoned hut careens, stalls,
Hurtles down the downward slope.
When shall we stop crying?
Pot-bellied children, stand naked
Bewildered mothers cry, wanting;
In the village, grown up men bend their knees
Bow down in prayer.
When shall they hear our call?