Editorial

Amatoritsero Ede

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I grew up speaking the African Yoruba language, which is highly tonal and performative. The sonic range of Yoruba speech and verbal arts therefore is the unconscious underbelly of my experimentation with postcolonial English prosody. The ‘do-re-mi’ of Yoruba diacritics is then conjoined with the – to appropriate Heaney –  “ta-dum-ta-dum” of English meter and prosody. Due to this indigenous African provenance of my modern postcolonial poetics, I have an unconscious preference for the free verse form, which in self-reflection, is probably not unconscious at all but influenced by the verbal arts in Yoruba orature. This is because Yoruba is the first language I spoke before English and before German. That non-Western antecedent is remarkable when I perform my poetry – the very art of delivery is symptomatic of an oral performance in Africa. I do not read from a book, I recite as much of the work that I can remember that makes full sense and then I stop. Typical of what Walter Ong refers to as Oral noetic, it is the rhythm of the poem that acts as memory. I only remember in as much as the rhythmic pattern is not broken in my mind. Once there is a break and unexpected pause, I lose the thread. This further emphasises the importance and interrelationship of Orality, graphology and cadence in my work. Reading a poem for me is a practical demonstration of how my poetry becomes sheet music on a page in which word placement, and displacement aids the reading voice to find the right enunciation and rhythm. In conclusion, I will give an example of such sonic performativity by reading the poem, “Caribbean Blues.”

                                                                   I

                                                       Postcards
                                                            scented with love
                                                                 describing

                                                                                        exotic Jamaica   

                                   

                                                       postcard
                                                                                     still careful artists                                                                                                                                                                                             painting pictures       
                                                     

                                                                          of  Bob Marley
                                                                         immobilised forever in stone
                                                                                  plucking a tone-dead guitar 
    

                                                                                         because
                                                                                               he does not know 
                                                                                                               the reggae of it                                                                 

                                                                            
                                                                                                    pictures        of gurgling brooks
                                                                                          of lakes of sunlight
                                                                                               of surf and sand and nothing…                                                                                                                                    

                                                                      II                                                                                                                                                                                                            Your photographs
                                                                    are all hidden away
                                                    but do not feel that I do not feel     
                                                                                    

                                                                    It is the  camera-flash of your smile
                                                                                                              which   blinds
                                                                        and  I must shutter my mind                                                         

                                                                           against the bright and the dark
                                                                  bullet-proof my soul against your
                                                                                               flash-bulb eyes                                                         

                                                   do not feel that I do not feel

                                                                                     but those  palm-grooves
                                                                                                   of naked bodies
                                                                           all that oil all that ripeness   

                                                                         It is love ship-wrecked in the sun        
                                                      

                                                                 even though your name
                                                                               promises  a plenitude
                                                                                      like the blue waters of the bay                                                                            

                                                                         it is safe harbour for the sea-faring gulls
                                                                                      or the salt of life
                                                                                                    for the diver-fish

                                                                                   water    to flood
                                                                                                  the sea-ways to a arid heart                                                                                                                                                                                             it is

                                                                                         sea-winds swaying the sad palms –                                                                                 eternal witnesses to many a drowning                                                                                                                                                       even though you once  said to the waves:

                                                                                        „No panic on the Titanic“

 

                                                                                            III                                                                        

                                                                                  still the Titanic  sank
                                                                                  sitting still in the still blue silences
                                                                                         of a dead sea-bed …

The graphological arrangement of the sample suite of poems above demonstrates the visual lineation and its placement and displacement of words. You read the lines above quietly or out loud in relationship to the tonal undulation suggested by the placements of lines relative to the margins of the page as explained previously. The sonic result would be the natural rise and fall expected of measured lyrical poetry –  the ta-dum-ta-dum of Heaney’s theorising. 

 
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