Ubuntu
by HEATHCOTE WILLIAMS
An anthropologist tells a story
Of how he proposed a game
To the children of an African village;
The game was played like this:
He placed a basket of fruit beneath a village tree,
Then told the children the first one to reach it
Would be judged the winner and could have it all,
But as soon as the anthropologist called “Run!”
The children looked at each other, then they grasped
Each other’s hands and all together
Ran forward, and then they ran back with the basket
And then they all sat down to enjoy it.
When the anthropologist asked them
Why they’d run like that, in unison,
Instead of letting a winner have it all
And take the fruit for himself,
They said, “Ubuntu” “What’s Ubuntu?”
The anthropologist asked, confused.
“How can one of us be happy,” they explained,
“If all the others are sad?”
Ubuntu’s an African philosophy
And the word Ubuntu translates:
“I am what I am because of who we all are.”
Or, being selfish makes no sense.
But its spirit’s forgotten if people are programmed
By money and competitive tyranny
To believe that the world is more efficiently run
By opulent psychopaths using violence.
Arms are exported to Africa to allow corporate power
To elbow its rivals for resources to one side:
Rivals for oil; for diamonds; for gold and for coltan,
None of which can be as good for you as fruit.
The Moon, or,
How to solve the world’s problems
by HEATHCOTE WILLIAMS
The sunlight shining
On the surface of the Moon
Arrives undimmed
By an atmosphere.
Without cloud cover
It has an extra radiance.
And so, if long, photovoltaic
Bandages of silver solar panels
Were wrapped around the Moon
To harvest pure sunlight,
The Earth could be solarized
And its energy needs met
By billions of terawatts
Relayed by microwave
And beamed down to earth,
Allowing the Earth’s ancient Moon
To stem Earth’s rising tides
For as long as the Sun may last –
Thus calming the polluted ferment
Now cursing Earth with a deadline.
The Selenium in solar cells
Generates electric power
And, by coincidence,
Selene is the goddess of the Moon –
As if her silent, wordless Moon magic
Was fated to make this interconnected galaxy Queerer than we can ever think
And give Earth a new beginning.
Life on Earth first began
With tides caused by the Moon –
Powerful cyclic tides creating
Self-replicating molecules –
And thus, before the world ends,
A Moon Messiah may heal
The breathless lunacy below,
Upon which it still smiles.
Heathcote Williams a poet, playwright and actor, has made a significant contribution to many fields. He is best known for his extended poems on environmental subjects: Whale Nation, Falling for a Dolphin, Sacred Elephant and Autogeddon. His plays have also won acclaim, notably AC/DC produced at London’s Royal Court, and Hancock’s Last Half Hour. As an actor he has been equally versatile – taking memorable roles in Orlando, Wish You Were Here, and Derek Jarman’s The Tempest, in which he played Prospero.
when you killed my wife
by KHALIL IHSAN NIEVES
Ibrahim, you are my oldest son, and I want you to always remember this poem. Know, that when you receive it, I may be dead.
while I was away in my fields,
you came to murder me,
strafing my home,
and killing my wife and youngest son,
rasheed.
killing them,
you ripped the sun and the moon suddenly from the heavens
shredding my heart,
leaving open scars
in the burnt land.
now, what is there for me?
i gave what was left of my broken burnt home to my uncle
and took to the mountains.
the first month i hardly slept,
but one night,
i slept for 12 hours
i dreamed of maryam
she called me
as I just stood there
watching her,
unable to move,
and
wanting to reach and touch her face
i don’t want to wake
you must
our country must be free
i had met her when i went to sell my pomegranates in the village market
she asked me their price,
whatever you would like to pay
and she smiled
i fell in love then
with this shy woman,
yet, she was as strong as the trees that bend with the mountain winds
pure as the spring snow melting and rivering
towards the village.
it was then that i knew i would marry her.
dreaming that our children would be like her.
so,
ibrahim,
that is why i married your mother.
the next day
we climbed higher into the mountains.
the thin air rasped my lungs,
and in the distant skies
a strange and yet beautiful metallic bird of death
glinted in the sun.
as we marched,
we constantly recited, from Allah we come
and to Allah, we return,
not knowing when and where and how we would die.
still we climbed into the mountains
we were always mindful of death-
one day we came under fire
it was as if earthquakes were exploding
that afternoon, sayid, bilal and abu dhar died.
we buried their bodies
in shallow graves,
in the rocky soil.
we have breathed life into these rocky soils,
growing pomegranates,
and now our brothers are returning to the source of life.
russian, british, russian, american
we have known generation,
after generation,
now eight generations of our people have known war.
you may snap the last thread of my slender life,
but my brother, my son, and his son
will take my place.
on the third day of ascension
we came across a russian tank
its rusted barrel thrust into the sky
still expecting an attack on a long vanished enemy.
the russian monuments are now joined
by the american monuments
the metal bird came again
as we hid among the rocks by the upper mountain spring
it is april
in those long ago times
maryam would bring me cold water in the fields.
we would laugh,
then she would tease me,
you silly old farmer,
and toss small pebbles at me,
then scream when i chased her
and as I ran after her,
i would catch glimpses of the young, shy girl i had married.
that is the past.
there were no afghanis on the twin tower planes
we bore no enmity to the american people
now, we have grown to hate you,
masters of the universe.
ramadan began when we made camp that evening
the wheat in the fields is green.
my uncle will hitch the old mare
and plow the fields that my father
and his father
and his father plowed.
today, the wheat is golden.
in different times ahmad and i would harvest it
this time another dream
i have prayed to Allah
that this old and lonely man
could return home to his simple farm
to his wife,
and his son.
that night I slept 11 hours.
when we broke camp
i thought of when the wheat will be ready to make bread.
i would give this rifle
for a plough,
these bullets
for seed
and this sleeping bag
for a bed.
in different times, ahmad and I would
harvest it
this time another drone.
i have prayed to Allah
that this old and lonely man
could return home to his simple farm
his wife,
and his son.
i had only wanted to be a farmer
to come home in the evenings to our small stone home,
to walk with my wife in the waves of my wheat,
to draw water from the well my grandfather dug.
my son,
i had married our mother when i was 20 and she was eighteen
and i told her,
i want to grow old with you.
we had built a small house
and when you were born,
we cried, and i went to the mosque more often
ploughed the field for the widow
whose husband died fighting the russians.
when the predators came
some in our village say it was futile to resist
and other, we took to the mountains.
when I asked her father for her hand
she blushed.
she could have married iqbal
who would have taken her to paris simply to shop for shoes.
but she chose a simple farmer.
i was born in those mountains,
and your mother was born in the valley,
because of her,
we moved into the valley,
but now i am returning home.
on the fifteenth day of ascension we came across a russian helicopter,
its blades slowly turning in the mountain air.
there were no afghanis on the planes slamming into the world trade center
we bore no enmity against americans
take my slender life.
but my brother,
my son,
and his son
will take my place.
it is spring.
the wheat in my field is golden.
my uncle will hitch the old mare
and plow the fields that my father,
and his father
had plowed.
i had not wished for this
but, it is the time of martyrs.
that night i cried
not from fear of death
i have my death shroud
and view it constantly,
imagining the smell and touch of the earth
that will soon be my home.
i cried,
because i would be leaving you
and i prayed that in the life to come, ibrahim
that we would be together,
once again.
there will be no tears,
our laughter will echo across the rivers of paradise,
no sorrow,
and we will be together,
again,
forever.
khalil ihsan nieves. I am going to let you into my heart. My grand-daughter, Sakina, smiles like her mother’s, it is early morning sunlight. One day I want to walk with her on the beaches in St. Croix, but our very existence is in danger because of the threat of World War Four. As a father and a grandfather, I am committed to preparing people for generations of struggle to stop this war and to continue creating a new world.
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