Song of the Andoumboulou: 23

 

 

 

This poem originally appeared in SULFUR 34 (Spring 1994).

 

Audio clips are provided here in .au format and .wav format. Sound players are available from the Institute’s FTP site for AIX 3.25, Windows 3.1 and Macintosh.

 

 

         --rail band--

      Another cut was on 
   the box as we pulled 
     in. Fall back though we 
    did once it ended,
                       "Wings
       of a Dove" sung so 
      sweetly we flew... 
     The Station Hotel came 
   into view. We were in
       Bamako. The same scene 
      glimpsed again and 
        again said to be a 
                           sign... 
    As of a life sought
       beyond the letter, 
      preached of among those 
   who knew nothing but, 
                         at yet 
     another "Not yet" Cerno
       Bokar came aboard, the 
      elevens and the twelves locked 
        in jihad at each other's 
    throats,    bracketed light
       lately revealed, otherwise 
                                  out...
      Eleven men covered with 
     mud he said he saw. A 
        pond filled with water 
   white as milk. Three chanting
       clouds that were crowds of 
      winged men and behind the 
                                third
        a veiled rider, Shaykh
                               Hamallah...
      For this put under house arrest 
         the atavistic band at the 
     station reminded us, mediumistic
       squall we'd have maybe made 
                                   good on
    had the rails we rode been
                               Ogun's... 
      Souls in motion, conducive 
     to motion,    too loosely 
      connected to be called a 
     band, yet "if souls converse" 
    vowed results from a dusty 
                               record
    ages old

             .

      Toothed chorus. Tight-jawed 
   singer...    Sophic strain, 
     strewn voice, sophic stretch... 
    Cerno Bokar came aboard, 
                             called
      war the male ruse, 
                            muttered 
     it under his breath, made sure
                                    all within
       earshot heard...
                           Not that the 
         hoarse Nyamakala flutes were 
    not enough, not that enough 
      meant something exact 
                            anymore... 
     Bled by the effort but sang 
        even so,    Keita's voice,
                                   Kante's
   voice, boast and belittlement 
       tossed back and forth...
                                Gassire's 
      lute was Djelimady Tounkara's 
                                    guitar, 
    Soundiata, Soumagoro, at each other's 
     throat...    Tenuous Kin we called 
   our would-be band, Atthic Ensemble, 
                                       run 
      with as if it was a mistake we made
    good on,    gone soon as we'd 
                                   gotten
   there              

             .

     Neither having gone nor not having
       gone, hovered,    book, if it
                                     was a 
    book, thought wicked with wing-stir, 
        imminent sting... It was the book 
      of having once been there we 
         thumbed, all wish to go back
        let go,    the what-sayer,
                                   farther 
          north, insisting a story lay 
      behind the story he complained he 
         couldn't begin to infer...
                                    What 
       made him think there was one
        we wondered, albeit our what 
     almost immediatelv dissolved as we
                                        came
      to a tunnel, the train we took
   ourselves to be on gone up in 
       smoke,    people ever about to get 
     ready, unready, run between what, 
                                       not-what. 
         And were there one its name was 
       Ever After, a story not behind but in 
          front of where this was,    obstinate
        "were," were obstinate so susceptible, 
                                               thin
      etic itch, inextricable
                              demur

             .

       Beginningless book thought to've 
    unrolled endlessly, more scroll 
     than book, talismanic strum.
   As if all want were in his holding 
      a note    only a half-beat 
                                 longer, 
     another he was now calling love 
       a big rope, sing less what 
    he did than sihg, anagrammic sigh, 
      from war the male ruse to "were" the 
            new ruse,    the what-sayer, 
                                         sophic
       stir... Sophic slide of a cloud across 
   tangency, torque,    no book of a
        wished else    the where
                                 we
     thumbed

 

Performers: Royal Hartigan (drums), Nathaniel Mackey (vocals), Hafez Modirzadeh (tenor saxophone).