Staff rider Vol. 11 Nos.

1,2,3,41993
Poetry

Noemia De Sousa
Mozambique

Two Poems
Translated by Luis Raphael

Chimami
Whenever I remember my childhood's house on the shore of the sea, I see your half-eyes of a wounded xipeia, wet with humility and constant, like the pain of regret. Do you remember, my friend, the straw hut in Guachene? A doll, her eyes as green as the cat's, was always smiling in my selfish arms of lady of the house. And in your arms that were always empty, Chimami, there was only an immense and unsatiable tenderness, the true tenderness of a mother. Your gentle eyes of a wounded xipeia, with their eternal glint of resignation, slowly caressed, almost with despair, my beautiful blonde doll. Do you remember? Then it was Christmas and my flouncy silk dress was one of the highlights of the day. And what about the little oven papa gave me and the gold ring that my godfather brought and mama's present of white shoes? And the cakes, the rice pudding, and the pig on the spit, and the flowers on the white table in the dining-room? It's Christmas, Chimami, Christmas day! Did you go to mass like I did, did you go to mass, Chimami?

Staff rider Vol. 11 Nos. 1,2,3,4 1993 Poetry

No, Chimami, didn't go to mass, more likely she doesn't even know it's Christmas day, because she didn't wear a flouncy dress, only the same striped dress she wore everyday, the old and torn dress she had bought from the Indian in the bazaar. And she came barefoot, without a present or anything at all, only with her large gentle eyes of a wounded
xipeia

of that glowing face stuck into the long, thin neck. Ah, Chimami, on that day you shared my Christmas. And you continue to share all the Christmasses that come after. But now? Now? Who's going to wipe away that tear that always remains in your gaze of a wounded xipeia, that gaze, constant like the pain of a regret, that hurts beyond all comparison! Ah Chimami, my Chimami!

i
Poem For Rui De Noronha
(On the Anniversary of his Death) In the wild bushveld of our native land the tracks slashed open by the cutlass have taken a new emotional direction, a single path that cannot be changed... A path of sharp points, oh yes, thorns, but still a path for wounded feet to walk on, surely, Poet, taking us there... As the new horizons open themselves like a gift, our resigned souls learn to desire, both with strength and in rage, and they raise themselves, warrior-like, ready to face the difficult struggle, and our mouths become a single closed line in that final No of a vigilant sentry.

Staff rider Vol. 11 Nos. 1,2,3,4 1993 Poetry

Rui de Noronha, in this new Africa restored to its strengths and certainties, you come to me, tormented and solitary, and even though you are immersed in 'passions' and in the drunkenness of Christmas-time, you still delve into the deep clefts of your inner world, sunk as they are in the prodigious greens of boredom and dissatisfaction... You come to me bleeding of your loves, Poet, your inhuman loves, with suicidal despair and Brahmin pride

Staffrider Vol.11 Nos.1,2,3,4 1993 Poetry

But even though you come to me, Poet, all banished and tragic, I shelter you within my warm capulana of understanding and I lull you with the music of the most enchanting song I learnt from my black grandmother... And you, Poet, will sleep, sleep that slumber you desired so much, rest after having lived through all those fictitious tragedies which are yours alone, but don't pay any attention to the song... Allow its tenderness to heal the wounds, but don't pay any attention to it, no! It may awaken the tokolosh of remorse, for the song comes with the most powerful sorceries of the ngomas of Maputo, the land of my black grandmother. And perhaps it will ask you very gently: ah, Poet, always so blind and deaf and insensitive, what did you do for me, what did you do for Africa? - Did you not go past it and yet did not see it? - did it not raise itself and yet you did not sense it? - did it not shout and yet you did not hear it? and the remorse would be even more painful, Poet, like an army of chigoes assailing your whole body.

swallowing up all your human life. Sleep, sleep, oh Rui de Noronha, carry on sleeping, my brother, imprisoned in the walled-up hut of your inner world. Don't pay any attention to the song it's too late... But as for the dying and weak torchlight which your imperceptible hands barely tolerated holding, give it us, for we'll take it! We'll give it life with the resin of our new agonies, we'll make the flame rise higher with our lit fires, and with the flames of our hopes that always renew themselves, we'll keep it as the flame of life! And then, oh then, raised by our strong bronzed hands, as if a banner, to the heights of life may his blood-stone of indestructible effulgence be our guide and inspiration, and spur on the rebellion born in the swollen veins. Like a comet crossing the night of our crushed breasts.