from the first ever anthology of Ethiopian Amharic poetry, Songs We Learn from Trees<\/em>, just published by Carcanet Press<\/p>\n This era of exile <\/p>\n Before my finger loses its best friend, without a drum-beat, it can carry and if the pen falls in love soberly, as hopefully is happening now, (translated by B. Selassie & the poet, with Chris Beckett)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n KEBEDECH TEKLEAB<\/strong> is an Ethiopoian poet, painter and sculptor based in New York. As a student activist in Addis Ababa, she was forced to flee in 1979, escaping through the Ogaden dessert, where she was captured by Somali soldiers and held in a concentration camp for ten years. Eventually, she arrived in USA where she studied at Howard University in Washington, then worked as a studio artist and teacher. From 2016 she has been teaching in Queensborough Community College, New York. Her art work has been widely exhibited in USA, including at the National Museum of African Art in Washington, DC. She has published one book of poems, Yet New? (Where is it?), with Kuraz Publishing, Addis Ababa.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n From the time she arrives, until she leaves her borrowed body, She creates the things she likes, but also works for others The soul has a message, she is entrusted with an assignment. To the likes of these, she should not have been given. <\/p>\n A man who digs up the tomb and bursts open the coffin, <\/p>\n I slip into the pantry to fetch her baby bottle, When I return, she is looking round the living room. and when I look into her eyes, (translated by the poet together with Getatchew Haile)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n ALEMTSEHAY WODAJO<\/strong> is a poet, actor and song-writer living in Maryand, USA. She played Portia and Ophelia in the National Theatre in Addis Ababa and has written lyrics for many famous Ethiopian singers, including Tilahun Gessesse, Mohamud Ahmed and Aster Aweke. She founded the Taytu Center in Washington to promote African culture through poetry nights, drama and art productions. Her poetry collections are Marafiya Yattach Heywot (A life that has no resting place), and Yemata Injera (Evening Bread). Many of her poems are modelled on traditional war songs in which women sing in order to inspire soldiers preparing for battle.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n All night the city chicken crows\u2026 <\/p>\n Half his life he spends regretting his bad luck note: to \u201csleep in a tree\u201d is an Ethiopian expression meaning to be successful and powerful, due to political favours etc. MEKDES JEMBERU<\/strong> is a popular Ethiopian poet and founder of the Ethiopian Women Writers Association. In the late 1990s, she helped to organise an anthology of women\u2019s writing, entitled\u00a0Egna\u00a0(We). Her own poetry collections include\u00a0Muga\u00a0(2008) and\u00a0Enbassel\u00a0(2016). Her wonderful poem The home I left behind was published in Asymptote Journal in Jan 2018 and a recording of Fasika Ayalew reading the Amharic original is available online: https:\/\/www.asymptotejournal.com\/search\/?query=mekdes+jemberu<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Three contemporary Ethiopian women poets from the first ever anthology of Ethiopian Amharic poetry, Songs We Learn from Trees, just published by Carcanet Press KEBEDECH TEKLEAB Cotton-life This era of exile winds\u00a0its spindle of raw cotton before the seed is removed and life bursts out, before the cotton is combed, before it is roved and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":45,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[394,395],"tags":[398],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n<\/h4>\n
<\/h4>\n
KEBEDECH TEKLEAB<\/h4>\n
Cotton-life<\/h4>\n
\nwinds\u00a0its spindle
\nof raw cotton
\nbefore the seed is removed
\nand life bursts out,
\nbefore the cotton is combed,
\nbefore it is roved
\nand made into thread,
\nbefore it is woven into cloth,
\nbefore its pattern is decided
\nand its colours applied,
\nbefore it is given a name,
\nbefore it is worn as a garment,
\nbefore it is put on as a cloak,
\nbefore it is blessed\u2026
\nthis age of exile
\nspins\u00a0without uncoiling,
\ntangles\u00a0without threading,
\nand before its cotton-life begins
\nit announces its end.<\/p>\nBefore my finger loses its best friend
\n(written during the poet\u2019s 10 year detention in a Somali prison)<\/em><\/h4>\n
\nbefore it casually forgets its pen
\nand begins tapping on the ground;
\nbefore the clean sheet disappears
\non which it pours out its complaint,
\nconversing with the world;
\nbefore it gives away the means to write
\nits message, share the panorama
\nof its thoughts using a pen determined
\nto write soberly, and when it\u2019s sober,
\nwrites in blood-red ink, un-wash-away-able!
\nand if anybody tries to scrub its writing off
\nor over-paint, it flares up and if they try
\nto burn it down the dry sheet will turn wet;
\nbefore my finger casually forgets its pen\u2026<\/p>\n
\nacross borders, without an arrow
\nit will penetrate the eye,
\ndemolish buildings, put up new ones,
\nit will never be confined, because the mind
\ncannot be chained like legs, its dreams
\ncannot be lowered to subhuman levels;
\nbefore its aspiration will evaporate,
\nat day-break when night fades to protect flesh
\nfrom lifting off the bone and changing into dust,
\nwhen mind is deep in worry about enemies,
\nbefore a pen loses sight of its best friend,
\nbefore it starts talking to the ground by tapping on it,
\nwhen the brain is restless, bleeds a little,
\nwhen imagination is all-powerful, bright red,
\nbefore anything is casually\u00a0forgotten,
\nbefore the mind sells out in order to survive,
\nwhen it is docile to its inner consciousness,
\nwrites down its message, ink on paper \u2013
\nnow the pen speaks, spreads its wings, flies
\nendless distances, demolishes the old, builds new\u2026<\/p>\n
\nlike a bee sucking droplets from a flower,
\nif it sips love from the inkpot,
\nthen it will write in praise of beauty,
\nhow the world is blessed with wonders,
\nbeautiful words will beautify its work,
\nenchant its readers with artistic voice,
\nput love into the house it builds,
\nremoving the old view, replacing with its own,
\nso readers see love through the pen\u2019s
\neye, a pen\u2019s precise perspective\u2026<\/p>\n
\nbefore my finger casually forgets its friend
\nor the clean sheet of paper disappears
\non which it pours out this complaint,
\nbefore my pen finds itself speaking to the floor!<\/p>\nALEMTSEHAY WODAJO<\/h4>\n
The soul has a message<\/h4>\n
\nthe soul has a message, a role to perform and the means to perform it.<\/p>\n
\nand plans for the future, spinning comforts like a thread.<\/p>\n
\nThere are those who are dead even while they live,
\nwho have erred and disappointed the soul,
\nwho have carried her without benefit and paid no attention to her,
\nwho have passed away despised, who let their soul pass away despising her.<\/p>\n
\nTo those who, carrying the soul, have no soul.<\/p>\nThe hero does not recognise death<\/h4>\n
\nwho demolishes our burdens with his heroic deeds,
\na man who is untouched by lies and theft and fraud,
\na hero, the best of men, who punishes death,
\nwho keeps obsequiousness at a distance and offers his life
\nas a sacrifice, knowing it will never come back,
\nwho chooses to die rather than live with disgrace,
\nwho invokes his country saying \u201cin the name of the Father\u201d,
\nwho overcomes death, frightens death, who protects
\nthe borders of his country and makes his people proud,
\na hero of life, whom death cannot catch,
\nwho is never far from his people and their achievements,
\na hero of the pen, a warrior with words, a ladder of growth
\nand doorkeeper of unity, a candle of research, pencil-point
\nof creativity, the undefeated hero whose work shines,
\nwhose mane is the honey of his tongue, present in our mouths,
\na hero of every task, a role model who is always with us,
\neven when his body is in the earth, like a tribute,
\nhe has not died, he is still unchallenged, his words are
\nunwavering, his faith is firm, he laughs at danger,
\nknowing he is alive, that death finds his a bitter taste,
\nthat time will never enclose him in its walls.
\nHe is a hero who kills death by painting it with his brush,
\nwho lives through his art, whose creativity is a victory
\nfor everyone, who even when he dies in the cold,
\nwithout convenience or comfort, has given us all comfort,
\nwhose name does not die with him, behold, he is here! he is there!
\nhis story will not be erased, his deeds created him, made him
\na hero, one whose weakness was tested in the fire, whose heart
\nadvises his heart to rebel, who is not a slave of his belly,
\nnot a sucker for success, who sticks simply to his plans
\nand lives for now, for justice, defending what is right,
\nnot to be admired or to acquire honours, not to think
\nonly about himself, because a man like him does not die,
\ntime may steal his body but it cannot dull the hero\u2019s history.<\/p>\nTime<\/h4>\n
\nstay there a moment, checking the milk\u2019s temperature.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWhere have you put the car keys, Mum?\u201d she asks<\/p>\n
\nI have a bone to pick with time.<\/p>\nMEKDES JEMBERU<\/h4>\n
City chicken<\/h4>\n
\nso slick and smart
\nthat dawn or dusk\u2026so what?
\nbrave bird\u2026tradition pah!
\nwhy should he care\u2026?
\nso this is what the city chicken says
\n\u201ccockadoodledoo!\u201d he cries\u2026impatient
\nfor the waking hour\u2026to herald day
\n\u201cI\u2019m living for myself\u2026why give a fig for time?
\nwho gains\u2026by suiting others?
\nI\u2019m not the embers in the dung\u2026I don\u2019t sleep nights away
\na fuddy-duddy cock\u2026a bumpkin chicken
\nboasting dawn is here!\u2026I wasn\u2019t always shrewd
\nin fact, for ages I was one of the thicky ones
\nyou know, those roosters who go fizzle, pop\u2026and ramble on
\nabout the dawn\u2026lordy, where has night gone now?\u201d\u2026
\nso crows the city chicken….all long-night long
\njolting every sleeper\u2026..out of sleep
\nand when the day approaches
\nwhen sky reddens
\nand time is getting out of bed\u2026
\nwhen dawn bells ring\u2026
\nthen our restless city chicken\u2026.well, he sleeps on his two feet
\ncollecting all the grains he\u2019s scratched during the night\u2026
\ninto his dreams<\/p>\nThe man who dies complaining<\/h4>\n
\nadmiring others on the up
\ntrampling, scratching whatsoever\u2019s in the way
\nof his heart\u2019s desires\u2026his lucky day\u2026
\nmission accomplished, he shoots up high
\nto thunderous applause, great joy
\nhe\u2019s made a quantum leap! he\u2019s reached the top
\nforgetting where he started from
\na cataract of comforts films his eyes and mind
\nhe lolls amid the sated snoring crowd
\nso blinded by a life of luxury and ease
\nhe does not see the morning come
\nnow here he is complaining, clutching, tumbling
\nout of the tall tree he slept in\u2026
\nwhat awful luck\u2026<\/p>\n
\n(translated by Fasika Ayalew & Chris Beckett)<\/p>\n