Ben Okri Recites Christopher Okigbo

What moves me about this poem is its solemn beauty, its music, its prophetic role which leads on to the poet prophesying his own death.  It is impossible to separate what moves me in this poem from the inner nature of the way it is written.  The poet seems to have gone beyond the rim of ordinary experience, to have wandered to the outside constellations of what it is to be human.

Ben Okri is a Nigerian poet and novelist, and in the eyes of critics he walks in the renown company of Indian-British Salman Rushie and Colombian Gabriel García Márquez.  He recites Elegy for Alto, by Christopher Okigbo, and above explains why it moves him:

(with drum accompaniment)
AND THE HORN may now paw the air howling goodbye…
For the Eagles are now in sight:
Shadows in the horizon-
THE ROBBERS are here in black sudden steps of showers, of caterpillars-
THE EAGLES have come again,
The eagles rain down on us-
POLITICIANS are back in giant hidden steps of howitzers, of detonators-
THE EAGLES descend on us,
Bayonets and cannons-
THE ROBBERS descend on us to strip us of our laughter, of our thunder-
THE EAGLES have chosen their game,
Taken our concubines-
POLITICIANS are here in this iron dance of mortars, of generators-

THE EAGLES are suddenly there,
New stars of iron dawn;
So let the horn paw the air howling goodbye…
O mother, mother Earth, unbind me; let this be my last testament; let this be
The ram's hidden wish to the sword, the sword's secret prayer to the scabbard-

THE ROBBERS are back in black hidden steps of detonators-
FOR BEYOND the blare of sirened afternoons, beyond the motorcades;
Beyond the voices and days, the echoing highways; beyond the latescence
Of our dissonant airs; through our curtained eyeballs, through our shuttered sleep,
Onto our forgotten selves, onto our broken images; beyond the barricades,
Commandments and edicts, beyond the iron tables, beyond the elephant's
Legendary patience, beyond his inviolable bronze bust; beyond our crumbling towers-
BEYOND the iron path careering along the same beaten track-
THE GLIMPSE of a dream lies smouldering in a cave, together with the mortally wounded birds.
Earth, unbind me; let me be the prodigal; let this be the ram's ultimate prayer to the tether…

AN OLD STAR departs, leaves us here on the shore
Gazing heavenward for a new star approaching;
The new star appears, foreshadows its going
Before a going and a coming that goes on forever…

This poem, and Okri's solemn yet forthright reading of it, do remind me of Juan Vidal's thesis in his article Where Have All The Poets Gone?

For centuries, poets were the mouthpieces railing loudly against injustice. They gave voice to the hardships and evils facing people everywhere. From Langston Hughes to Jack Kerouac and Federico García Lorca — so many — verse once served as a vehicle for expressing social and political dissent. There was fervor, there was anger. And it was embraced: See, there was a time when the poetry of the day carried with it the power of newspapers and radio programs. It was effective, even as it was overtly political. What has happened?

At its root, poetry is the language of protest. Whether centered on love, beauty, or the ills that plague a nation, it's all inherently political, and it all holds up as a force in any conversation. What seems like forever ago, poetry unflinchingly opposed corruption and inequality, civil and national.

I hope I am, and hope to be, such a mouthpiece.  Three years ago I wrote a collection of sonnets, inspired by WH Auden's `In Time of War, in which I aspired to assume an epic perspective and adopt an epic spirit for our times.  It was at the heels of Arab Spring, such as that in Egypt.  I will post poems from it in time, and hope to have it published in time as well.