Nine Poems
Ondjaki
Translated from Angolan Portuguese by Rui Martinho
1.
in the morning, before the world,
things always look simpler.
there is a tenderness in the word dew;
the pigeon and the cock greet
in a slippery come-by.
moments drip and
tick the hours away.
in the close ceiling
there are still sparrows asleep
again and again forgotten.
in the sky, the yellow cloth
comes, returns.
before the world happens
(almost every time)
an oriental magic sustains
each tiny moving change.
a breath.
2.
I touch
the division of the lips
and therefore know I exist.
I search with loose hands
the world
one world.
and in the chair called Autumn
I inscribe – in blood, periodical remembrances.
if the leaf falls I hear it
touch the ground.
if the ground smiles
the season whispers in me
for me
what is yet to see.
a transparent spit
rests then in my mouth
in the cave;
for I drool.
on the wooden chair
the still chair
called Autumn.
I wait.
3.
hands clap, as the band marches
in Indian file.
as dead march
as in the ports men
bandage their hands.
men in black and white portrayed
in the protection of distance.
distance yourself coldly.
hands you clap while in the ports
dead march, band together
in an Indian file.
while death fiddles.
4.
I’m blinded
with the sound able to draw worlds.
me-piano; me-mistake;
blind as my dog’s transitory fleas;
blind in the learning of the cane
I call ground.
life touches me
I breath not the air, not the wind,
but the curve side of the breeze.
5.
the heavy side of the raft.
the net slipping
in the night’s sail
in the naked speed.
a piece of bread, a smell of fish.
in the distance, the lamp
the light
that lights
the opposite beach.
from the opposite coast – a whistle.
feminine. a shiver.
pioneer moon that plays newly
in the dawn.
there’s humidity in the air.
the flame on the pipe,
put out.
6.
the sea-smell shatters in light from grieving,
piling nails over ashes.
ships: calm, rusty, fuming.
of crying, the (un)winding sound;
of water, the discrete rug.
calm hands, tremulous,
making the ash-sea velvety;
bed-hands, trepidous,
turning the nail-sea flat.
death, calm, mirrored me from above
looks of good-bye.
some nets, some prayers.
(…) life (un)stretching,
unisensory fluid.
the door fencing sharp strikes
against the mirror…
my last mirror
over the sea.
7.
let the bugs sleep because I no longer can.
burst from unexplainable sins, get sent to the music
and moments still available.
let the others who can, sleep.
night is a finish line to be trans lived, never achieved.
a sort of endless line to which I was denied
the way
to the winner’s end.
let the more careless ones sleep, for we will be awake.
with odourless liquids at sight, with sheets dripping
hiding sweetened detours.
the penis hidden in the pajamas. the penis found again
in the morning, in the cold,
on the cold hand.
the day, the light rising; the world stirs, dances.
and the eye of the insomniacs waiting for the end
of the afternoon.
the night, the drowsy, white night.
the look of those who cannot sleep peacefully.
not the look of the lince, not the look of the bug
but a look like a spear.
let the winners sleep for we will be wearing out
our bodies,
our bad conscience,
our bruises.
8.
I am the flower’s skin. the softness, the scent, the dead viscosity, on some dead subject. I walk skin-deep, skim the harsh tone of singing, what was it?, what was it?, the mute sound which remained in the back while things were screamed and dreamt.
I am the bottom of the page, not the dividing line, but what is already torn; time decomposing me while I’m still here waiting for tautological bites. I like to look at tables, the ones which have envelopes on them, or else stamps, pubic hair, all that reminds me of travelling. now I remember the sea. the sea.
I am the return of the wave, the wave returning to the sea.
9.
for love is rose, cactus
and spine,
and I am prose, pity
and wine.
of song and verse I want
the curve announced.
of surf and inverse, search
the fireplace not put out.
and ecstatic, not dead as an exception,
I want light to feel.
for love is wave and wing
and cold,
and the wind made me still.
Ondjaki is a writer from Angola. He has written poetry, children’s books, short stories, novels, drama and film scripts. Ondjaki received his Doctorate in African Studies in Italy. To date (2025) his body of work includes six novels, six collections of short stories, seven collections of poetry and nine children’s books. He wrote and directed the short “the kitchen” (2022). In 2013 he was awarded the José Saramago Prize for his novel Transparent City.
Rui Martinho, based in Lisbon, Portugal, is currently a Tradutor at Comité das Regiões Europeu. Rui Martinho holds an MA in Translation from Universidade Nova de Lisboa.
*Image by Catia Dombaxe on Unsplash
