Zusatztext A magical writerone of the greatest of the twentieth century. Margaret Atwood The father of African literature in the English language and undoubtedly one of the most important writers of the second half of the 20th century. Caryl Phillips! The Observer Chinua Achebe is gloriously gifted with the magic of an ebullient! generous! great talent. Nadine Gordimer Informationen zum Autor Chinua Achebe Klappentext "The father of African literature in the English language and undoubtedly one of the most important writers of the second half of the twentieth century." --Caryl Phillips, The Observer Chinua Achebe's award-winning poems are marked by a subtle richness and the political acuity and moral vision that are a signature of all of his work. Focused and powerful, and suffused with wisdom and compassion, Collected Poems is further evidence of this great writer's sublime gifts and it is an essential part of the oeuvre of a giant of world literature. Prologue 1966 absentminded our thoughtless days sat at dire controls and played indolently slowly downward in remote subterranean shaft a diamond-tipped drill point crept closer to residual chaos to rare artesian hatred that once squirted warm blood in God's face confirming His first disappointment in Eden Nsukka, November 19, 1971 Benin Road Speed is violence Power is violence Weight violence The butterfly seeks safety in lightness In weightless, undulating flight But at a crossroads where mottled light From old trees falls on a brash new highway Our separate errands collide I come power-packed for two And the gentle butterfly offers Itself in bright yellow sacrifice Upon my hard silicon shield. Mango Seedling Through glass windowpane Up a modern office block I saw, two floors below, on wide-jutting concrete canopy a mango seedling newly sprouted Purple, two-leafed, standing on its burst Black yolk. It waved brightly to sun and wind Between rains-daily regaling itself On seed yams, prodigally. For how long? How long the happy waving From precipice of rainswept sarcophagus? How long the feast on remnant flour At pot bottom? Perhaps like the widow Of infinite faith it stood in wait For the holy man of the forest, shaggy-haired Powered for eternal replenishment. Or else it hoped for Old Tortoise's miraculous feast On one ever recurring dot of cocoyam Set in a large bowl of green vegetables- This day beyond fable, beyond faith? Then I saw it Poised in courageous impartiality Between the primordial quarrel of Earth And Sky striving bravely to sink roots Into objectivity, midair in stone. I thought the rain, prime mover To this enterprise, someday would rise in power And deliver its ward in delirious waterfall Toward earth below. But every rainy day Little playful floods assembled on the slab, Danced, parted round its feet, United again, and passed. It went from purple to sickly green Before it died. Today I see it still- Dry, wire-thin in sun and dust of the dry months- Headstone on tiny debris of passionate courage. Aba, 1968 Pine Tree in Spring (for Leon Damas) Pine tree flag bearer of green memory across the breach of a desolate hour Loyal tree that stood guard alone in austere emeraldry over Nature's recumbent standard Pine tree lo...

#8220;A magical writer—one of the greatest of the twentieth century.” —Margaret Atwood

“The father of African literature in the English language and undoubtedly one of the most important writers of the second half of the 20th century.” —Caryl Phillips, *The Observer

*“Chinua Achebe is gloriously gifted with the magic of an ebullient, generous, great talent.” —Nadine Gordimer

Autorentext

Chinua Achebe

Klappentext

**"The father of African literature in the English language and undoubtedly one of the most important writers of the second half of the twentieth century." --Caryl Phillips, *The Observer

***Chinua Achebe's award-winning poems are marked by a subtle richness and the political acuity and moral vision that are a signature of all of his work. Focused and powerful, and suffused with wisdom and compassion, Collected Poems is further evidence of this great writer's sublime gifts and it is an essential part of the oeuvre of a giant of world literature.

Leseprobe
Prologue

1966

absentminded

our thoughtless days

sat at dire controls

and played indolently

slowly downward in remote

subterranean shaft

a diamond-tipped

drill point crept closer

to residual chaos to

rare artesian hatred

that once squirted warm

blood in God's face

confirming His first

disappointment in Eden

Nsukka, November 19, 1971

Benin Road

Speed is violence

Power is violence

Weight violence

The butterfly seeks safety in lightness

In weightless, undulating flight

But at a crossroads where mottled light

From old trees falls on a brash new highway

Our separate errands collide

I come power-packed for two

And the gentle butterfly offers

Itself in bright yellow sacrifice

Upon my hard silicon shield.

Mango Seedling

Through glass windowpane

Up a modern office block

I saw, two floors below, on wide-jutting

concrete canopy a mango seedling newly sprouted

Purple, two-leafed, standing on its burst

Black yolk. It waved brightly to sun and wind

Between rains-daily regaling itself

On seed yams, prodigally.

For how long?

How long the happy waving

From precipice of rainswept sarcophagus?

How long the feast on remnant flour

At pot bottom?

Perhaps like the widow

Of infinite faith it stood in wait

For the holy man of the forest, shaggy-haired

Powered for eternal replenishment.

Or else it hoped for Old Tortoise's miraculous feast

On one ever recurring dot of cocoyam

Set in a large bowl of green vegetables-

This day beyond fable, beyond faith?

Then I saw it

Poised in courageous impartiality

Between the primordial quarrel of Earth

And Sky striving bravely to sink roots

Into objectivity, midair in stone.

I thought the rain, prime mover

To this enterprise, someday would rise in power

And deliver its ward in delirious waterfall

Toward earth below. But every rainy day

Little playful floods assembled on the slab,

Danced, parted round its feet,

United again, and passed.

It went from purple to sickly green

Before it died.

Today I see it still-

Dry, wire-thin in sun and dust of the dry months-

Headstone on tiny debris of passionate courage.

Aba, 1968

Pine Tree in Spring

(for Leon Damas)

Pine tree

flag bearer

of green memory

across the breach of a desolate hour

Loyal tree

that stood guard

alone in austere emeraldry

over Nature's recumbent standard

Pine tree

lost now in the shade

of traitors decked out flamboyantly

marching back unabashed to the colors they betrayed

Fine tree

erect and trustworthy

what school can teach me

your silent, stubborn fidelity?

The Explorer

Like a dawn unheralded at midnight

it opened abruptly before me-a rough

circular clearing, high cliffs of deep

forest guarding it in amber-tinted spell

A long journey's end it was though how

long and from where seemed unclear,

unimportant; one fact alone mattered

now-that body so well preserved

which on seeing I knew had brought me there

The circumstance of death

was vague but a floating hint

pointed to a disaster in the air

elusively

But where, if so, the litter

of violent wreckage? That rough-edged

gypsum trough bearing it like a dead

chrysalis reposing till now in full

encapsulation …