Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Michael Rothenberg



THE REVOLT OF THE DONKEYS
         for Noureddine Bazine, May 2014


Only fools
plan

for a better
world

Five minutes
a day

under
the carob tree

we speak
without

fetters
But mostly

we carry
carts

of sweet
oranges

to the market
Lean

against
the heat

and blood-
fissured

fortress wall
and weep

for our
masters

Not so much
for ourselves

The road
is long

and awkward
We stop

at the gasoline
station

for rice
and olive salad

The water
comes

from the cooler . . .
And

the American
donkey

tosses
in the back seat

and thinks of
an air-conditioned

nightmare
Which raises

the price of travel
Making

life
more difficult

for a donkey
on a third

world income
But

for scholars
who need


to be cool,
we all pay

the price
and continue

our journey
east

While
Africa

weeps
While

Mexico,
Macedonia,

Egypt,
Tunisia,

Libya
and

Syria
and

some very
specific

regions
of the USA

weep
Actually,

we bray
not weep

Grunt
not weep

Everywhere
permaculturists


and
counterculturists

Even
journalists

like you,
Nourredine,

who write
for the culture

section
of the national

news,
bray!

I will never
understand

why
we don't just

give up
our revolt

and pay
attention

to the authorities
who know

best how to
manage

our fragile
resources

Still,
together

we weep
Bray


and weep
Like

the Um Rabi'a
River

which lately
has been

running
dry

Oh,
poor donkey,

save
your tears!

There’s
nothing

we can do
about it

The Chinese
are coming

soon
to build

the future
and

donkey
meat is cheap. 





REMEMBERING THE MAJOON TRAVELER
 

Exotic poverty
and public

drunkenness
Souls

that climb
like the Atlas

Mountains
Going up

and down
freely

by themselves
We never

talk about
the gluttony

of kings
Dyed

in the wool
in the old way

There are no
books

for modern
intellectuals

Travel abroad
is difficult

And the men
still go

hand in hand
on


uneven streets
and beach

promenade
Like the old days,

they bring
mint tea

in tall glasses,
steeped

in sugar and sky
That's what

Habib told us
He says

he will take us
there

to some forgotten
butterfly

long before
the death

of Gabriel Garcia
Marquez

Or the birth
of Mohammed

Mrabet
When honey

stuck
in the teeth

of the astral
shepherd

And the spotted
goat


climbed
the argan tree

to the realm
of Jilala

and the sleepless
beggar.

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