Village Dance

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  • Childhood

    Village Dance

    The drums are alive
    the dance has moved
    to the market place
    bare-assed children
    dance to naked drums

    I hear jungle drums
    in my head
    echoing from Inyi, that small
    village across Niger
    mother’s voice-a magic flute
    floats to me…
    like a sculptor’s knife
    shaving away the rough edges
    of my turbulent youth

    I see again
    the village damsels
    take to the centre
    their breasts arrows poised
    aimed at my infant heart
    and I die again at the vision.


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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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