Felix Morriseau-Leroy

Natif-Natal

Translation by Jeffrey Knapp

So in the year 1995 there will be
in a village in Haiti located
by the sea and the hills
a worried little girl named Melanie
she will suffer, will travel

Return
become
the poet
the priestess
beloved of her people
and then in the end without vanity
or pride
will recount this:

one has never so loved anything as this sea
this beach this sand
this cold spring
and this multitude
of equal friends
nothing loved more than this birth house
this cemetery
one has loved nothing more than this sea
which repeats the same insult
the same defiance under the windows
of the dying and the newborn babies
when the rain envelopes the village
like a giant fish net
hold your breath!
nothing is more unbearable
for us
than your silence

for as the wind blows the names of the comrades
we are here again, in front of you
adolescent
born of the legend
where one cuts the head of the sun
held by its azure hair
nothing more than this sea tree
this mountain cut straight
with such patience
by your salt teeth, but
nothing more than this rock faithful
to the point of not having drawn
on itself the lightning
for the sole pleasure of being witness
to this return and not having hoped for this joy
which will cry out so soon
one can enter without opening the door
in spite of or because the earth turns so fast
or boils
like a brain, like a brain
fermenting and crawling
there, over the voting capital
here, with all the factories on strike--

come in the closed door and find
again on the raw wood table
the same fruit
the knife
the dagger enters the fruit
which continues to live
its abundant life of two
halves of the pomegranate
while

the placid coast
which once was an advanced cape
passes before the wooden boat
one has wanted so much to set on the sand

this foot which serves to push
the slippers of the dead
--by the way she had the same name as you--
nothing more loved than this plain
this mud this rot from which she nourishes

he fat leaves
come in leave and even bring back
because the sky turns so swiftly
without opening the windows the pampas gets vertigo
just by looking at the airplane pass
oh, no longer this high plain since they burnt it
with red iron for a road

where a car brings to death
the queen of belgium
in the congo
the same races of prey
one finds in North America,
or south
or west
or east
throw water, my daughter
throw water three times
in front of the doors
for all your insulted ancestors

what's so surprising that I crawl
I descend from the worm just like you
what's so surprising that I eat glass
and dance on fire
I make space disappear like time, just as my brothers do
there are, though, two or three tasks at which I excel
since the oldest days in Africa,
two or three postures where I am, O my rivers
O my nights so beautiful,
two or three gestures
which my genius truly knows.

one has never so cherished the sky the horizon the
palms the
bamboo
the flowers the spring the summer the pathway the
pond the
grass
together in this land
of rediscovered childhood
so loved as all of this
which was
feared so much
(melanie trembles)
as if one had been away
so long a time
for the sole pleasure
of returning
so long the dream of getting rid of
address books and baggage
itineraries and plans
so much wanting to be oneself and overcome oneself
and so much wanting to take root and bud
to feed on all earth's essence
all the vibrations of the lights
and all the poisons of the air
to run long-strided across the land
to caress with breast, stuffed with clouds
the mountain's haunches, cool and burning
to ascend without soft wings-
on the contrary, to cut them off as if grown by chance
to dissolve in all the hills of darkness
to plunge straight into the sleeping monster
in the hope of salvaging the planet from the final disaster
and cut his neck without noise
at the risk it might reveal itself in daylight
to be some old habit

so powerful is this chant
flowing from the heavy hands, the skinny hands of women
three times they pour fresh water
at the doorstep
the night is empty and the gods far away
they beg in vain, helping themselves
with the monotonous flapping of their palms.
nothing!
peasant people, we don't know how to pray
we sing to charm and appease
our spirits our hopes our saints our mysteries our agonies
our heroes our duties, being familiar with them
answering fit for tat
their reproaches their bad humor their threats
with the same familiarity of people equally
bad equally brave equally
cunning as we have been forever-what's the use of lying
to this vagabond band of gods, unreliable, talkative
filthy and gluttonous, foul-mouthed and spiteful
shamelessly curseful
of whom we are the image

they need so much forgiveness
their only excuse of goodness
is to fly to the aid of the afflicted, the villains, the idiots
that, through their own fault, most of us become
stuffing the night, drunkening it with song
ready to blow it up from of its own silence
the matronly aunt
-she has the same name as you-
suddenly
and brutally
will incarnate the most gallant vodou horseman
this vodou achade -- where do you come from like this?
from so far so far this vodou achade
had trekked three days, this achade
and finally his feet and shoulders bruised
each woman who goes to the ceremony
tumbles dizzy, loses balance, and gets up complaining--
the impertinent! the strange! the ludicrous! the droll!
melanie advances, turns on herself
graceful and neat
offers her right hand

turns again, so slowly this time
offers her left hand
and flexes her knees, so fluidly
that everyone looks at each other
--Is she not wonderful? Where did she learn this?--
but one doesn't learn this greeting
to sing or dance it--
one either knows or is not of that breed
find out, then, what it is to discover
with the dance the only and true balance
the style and grace, the rhythm and gestures
of the whole continent
from alaska to tierra del fuego
in what damned country have I seen you already?
it is good to again put foot down on island
vibrant
as if yesterday born of the volcano whose sap
nourishes the thunder of the gods, our fathers
and the rhythmic verve of the goddesses, our mothers
as well as the flame trees the cotton trees
the medicine bush the lemon grass the vervain

ask me what the song can do!
I swear I have seen it roll over and revive
twelve women and seven men
with more ease that a hurricane
might lift the smallest bird
if the walls of the jails ever burst with laughter
if truth ever braved the armies
and if my people had ever days of victory
each word of his song was as heavy each time
as the weight of the world
turned upside down
there are coward killings
and enormous, temporary buildings
but of heroes saints gods and civilizations
there is none without song

calm down, cairn down
simbi of the waters, mistress of my house
my adored snake
my unreachable rainbow
my inconsolable siren
my sobbing star, shadow and flame of my joy
who will take care of the children? who?

some days they call you papa
others they call you mama
at times they don't even recognize you-
you are you-they are only themselves
don't let them know! they will know too much.

the lost paradise is instinct
they have spoiled it so
that now
what's the use of recovering it?

after twenty centuries of obscurantism
go to the square of regression
and read to the people the shameful
account
listen! sing it to them, if you can
just to be heard
it is lovely, isn't ft, your saved world?
stuck like an insect in the web of espionage
with its compromised popes
its defeatist universities
its scandalous press
its semitic controversy
its purges
its ku klux klan
its white on right, black on left
its security of state
and states of siege!

antilles, antilles, born far from the cursed
mediterranean
untouched antilles
painful, rhythmic
vodou rhumba congo groca and calypso
all your black sabbaths
under the vast sky
defy the senile continent
taunt the amused vulture
destined to insignificance
within 700 years

by 1937 we all believed
didn't we? that everything was possible
think of that time, of those speeches and books
we have all believed, haven't we?
and we who were born by 1913
they have been selling us just as before
but with electricity this time
well-sold, white black yellow pink neutral
wholesale on the stock market
the magnificent display
of wallowing youth under the sun

(Continued next issue)

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Cover Design: Joseph McNair