Aux Brésiliennes*
24 hours of kisses, a gallon of rum,
and les Brésiliennes are almost divinities—
never undone or outdone.
They are unceasing beauties—
each caramel miracle,
each coup of copper & pepper….
Steeped, walnut cinnamon is she—
or she’s crackling iron muscles
backing Amazonian bronze breasts.
I sight five-spice gold,
opalescent sepia—
Clio, Queen of Sheba, Cleopatra,
Queen Charlotte Sophia, Colette.
Let them lounge spectacularly,
suck back just as much rum as Mauritians,
and feast on bread that’s really cake.
Africa’s exemplary nymphs
flesh out an ideal—Beauty—
usually untouchable.
They bring us jollities—
sooty coffee, snooty port, beauté booty,
and perpetual ebony wine for an ivory flask.
[Salvador (Brazil) 9 novembre mmvii
& Playa del Carmen (Mexico) décembre mmvii]
Isandlwana (II)*
Thus, our Empire frittered away its finest young.
The dark holocaust clotted
with sunlight’s galling honey,
regardless the quick, Zulu slain—
whose strewn bodies looked blackish leaves.
Our troops fared worst, unable to best
that unremitting, relentless devil—
kaMahole!—
that cold shade,
who fell upon supposedly safe, British mothers,
turning their proud wombs into far-off graves.
The Zulu black bulk
actually defiled our horses,
their lances scissored whinnying eyes;
their blades penetrated tumbled riders;
our blanching corps shattered into dreadful pieces.
kaMahole—the crow—
that black, crowing wolf—
could guttle horse and human equally.
His monstrous wretches—
worse than any Mongol breed—
fisted rocks to crack skulls and wrack ribs.
They treated our initial survivors
as dessert,
falling upon this groaning prey
as a chiaroscuro plague—
murderous shadows and bright blades.
Howls thwacked the valley.
Our soldiery sprouted myriad thorns,
capricious spikes,
as Zulu spears rooted in bowels
or flowered from throats.
Hateful whims desecrated us.
(One blacky’s spear-tip pricked my crown,
but he was too rushed in his work
to stab through my brow.)
Curious Genius animates kaMahole:
Yes, he conquered our superior body;
but stooped to extirpate every member.
So much blood made false wine;
still, flies got drunk.
If we cannot crush the Briton-smashing kaMahole,
if his troop must bash ours,
if our shining graves chapter his grim epic,
Assassination is our policy.
[Ottawa (Ontario) 27 octobre mmxiii]
