Quincy Troupe

COME CLOSER

come closer, don't be afraid of these words,
come closer, rub your mind up against them,
see in them the possibility that birds seek,
like ones perched on the other side of this wall
& further out to see where the waves crash,
aren't they beautiful there dressed all in black
& white feathers, like some skin-tones, look, see
them in their flocks there in the sun shaking off
water sprays from their feathers, now their wings
opening &closing before they take flight to freedom,
as sea waves crash in in foaming thunder leaving
their lace hissing at the top of their curling flight,
crashing, then eddying back out as spent bubbles,
look at all this evoked in the words of this poem,
isn't it beautiful, the view seen from here
my friend, on this dark wall leading up
to snatch a little sunlight at the end of this
tunnel, my friend, digdown &find the light
within yourself, see that seagull there ready
to take flight, as if sprung from a dream, there
as you walk out this dark tunnel into the glorious
air &light, you hear waves crashing their thunder
as the seagull takes flight, you know freedom's
out there, at the end of these words

POEM FOR A VOICE ALWAYS IN PRAYER
for Salif Keita

imagine a high-pitched clear voice shouting in the middle
of a malian plain, around the village of djoliba,
a plain dotted with fruit trees, fine grains of hot sand,
pebbles of white quartz, imagine that voice alone there shouting
to beat the band, in the middle of scorched summer days, see a whiteblack
ghost of a child shouting monkeys away from banana &fruit trees,
people thinking him crazy until all the monkeys leave lickety-split dropping pee,
this black-white african boy who would have been sacrificed because of fear,
if not for his royal bloodline stretching back like the niger river,
because of the big power of collective fear, of being an african ghost child who
shouted monkeys down out of banana, fruit trees, because the people were afraid,
this eerie ghost boy with the royal bloodline going back to soundiata keita,
founder of the mandinka people, now imagine that boy as a shouting
spirit, whose ghost face floated through the darkness like his voice
to mingle with ancestral ghosts up in baobab trees,
balafons strings trembling lyrical as leaves
up in trees stirred by ghost voices & breezes, now imagine
an african ghost boy, whose face floats
through the darkness like his voice, who tried to touch God
with his voice, who shouted monkeys out of trees,

in a village that is afraid of his strange power, his difference,
a child who always tried to coexist with God,
in harmony, the voice growing more plaintive, clear, pure as it grew,
as the years blew by like sahilian harmattans in the north of mali, the voice
grew translucent as a scrim, through which an ancestral memory now flowed
whole &beckoned, powerful as the history of heat, the shouts
those monkeys heard, the voice now dreaming of water, surging as currents
of a wide, powerful river around mopti, where the voice now lived,
as a husband &a father &a griot with a guitar
after bamako &the rail band&paris, near a river that has carried histories
up &down its wet back under boats, from timbuktu down to mopti, the nigerbani
flowing wide there as dreams of cool drinks of water

up in the desert north, where the dragon-tongue heat is regular &fierce,
now imagine that voice again as salif keita's voice, a voice always in prayer now,
a voice that passes through your senses &goes straight to the heart,
as that shout once went straight to the hearts of monkeys,
it now enters the spirit as a gift, as a breath of cleansing air, light,
as a song shaped by rolling syllables that ring transcendent
as bells, lyrical as koras &balafons, it is swelling,
it is golden, it wraps itself around your spirit
as would a shower raining down vowels and consonants,

the voice as its own instrument, as the lope of an antelope is magic
the voice dances through air as prayer, as spirit riding the wind as mystery,
the gong of the voice inside rope-a-dope language, inside song,
like a po-inchworm hitching a ride, burrowing along from dusk
to dawn, it is now galloping inside a zebra, the voice there almost religious,
is religious &is talking to you now in prayer,
jambalaya fandango soliloquies from mali, is a gong voice singing,
riffing through malian air by the juju man keita, whose ghost face floats through
the darkness like a song, hear a voice there with wings beating up inside winds,
beautiful as prayer, the spirit dancing down roads,
is alone now with secrets of magic, mystery, is a shaman man
shouting to beat the band, singing from his knees now, his white-black
ghost face floating through the darkness like his song, is high-pitched,
powerful as the history of heat, we must pass through the song,
its mystery &its magic &its heat, is the history of us all now

& it sings jambalaya fandango prayers, the juju ghost man from mali,
his cadence &language the rope-a-dope lope of an antelope,
in the air it shouts soliloquies once heard by monkeys, is a voice always in prayer,
powerful &pure as harmattan sand storms, it always goes straight to the heart,
is a winged voice free as syllables of the wind

& is always going straight to the heart,

imagine salif keita, a white-black ghost man whose face floats through
the darkness like his song, his voice always arrowing straight to the heart,

his winged voice always a song, always a prayer, imagine salif
keita, imagine a winged voice, golden & always in prayer

& always arrowing with total belief toward the heart

is always arrowing with total belief, to enter the heart

BELLS
after Gustaf Sobin

eye am hearing bells in the music of poetry, bells
inside laughter tinkling like silver, bells rinsed in colors, shapes
&forms washing wave after sonorous wave, bells washed t~rough
wind chimes, swept through morning's first breaking light, rolling
bells shivering in damp cool speech hip language seduces
&imitates, bells coursing through syllables spilling from lips,
bells tinkling through raindrops, pooling on rooftops,
spreading like rosebuds, airborne on wind tongues,
drooling down storm drains, riding water through whirlpools,
drop by dropping drop, bells spooling electric
through hearts in sacred himalayan mountains of tibetan buddhists, bells
swirling through pooling deep eyes oflovers, trilling inside bright voices
raised by small children, bells seducing through winds that play games
with our minds, with the way we hear time slipping through our ears,
&there are bells heard in kisses when sucking lips meet, vibrating,
electric bells, silver bells, breeze-blown bells that tongue
through fragrant afternoons of spring/time,
bells in silver dewdrops shimmying down bright green leaves
that land &float like rafts skimming surfaces of glass-blue rivers,
bells that dive through sparkling waterfalls like voices or solos
rinsed with clear welling sounds that tickle our senses
like crystal runs of bill evans laying down clues, bells sluicing through,
in flight, the way a thief steals through the night's deep music like a sleuth,
the way blues tiptoes over piano keys dropping bell notes here
&there as chords shimmy-shangling through the thick night air rinsed
in shimmering, electric beauty, bells that render us spellbound,
as when the heart seduces sound by locking up pure
rhythm that is light, conjuring bells that speak in voices dazzling,

church bells that ring inside seductive sweet strides of dancing women,
as when bells roll through their hips swaying lyrical, incredible magic, &eye
heard bells in heat of summer language making sweet flowers rise,
heard bells in the voice of pavarotti's "nessun dorma,"
heard bells clanging &rolling through the square fronting westminster abbey,
heard bells in the sound of african dew mornings rising, trumpets blaring,
heard bells in the silver ice of hale-bopp's streaking comet tail,
heard bells ringing throughout plazas of freedom everywhere--
but not from the cracked fluke bell squatting mute in philadelphia
heard bells inside all beauty heard or seen anywhere,
bells, bells, splendid sweet bells,
heard bells in the seduction of great poetry singing,
heard bells ringing through the luminous language of sweet birds
riffing, bells, bells, splendid sweet bells,
swelling inside the air's sweet music

© 1999-2006 by Quincy Troupe