Poem
Togara Muzanenhamo
IN THE MUSIC OF LABOUR
IN DE MUZIEK VAN DE ARBEID
Eerst het verzet van ’t koppig groen, tot elke slagvloeiend wordt voortgejaagd door kniehoog gras, zijn vak
volkomen meester, knieën die zwaaien lichtjes mee-
geven, zijn rechterarm die zonglans vangt van ’t blad.
De dag lang werken, schuifelend door verschoven plekken,
kevers en krekels springend door ’t scherpe schampen vonkend
van steen, gebaarde kin in zweet gedrenkt. De hitte
deert hem schijnbaar niet, maar staalt zijn concentratie
tot in de last van zijn geloof. Waarom de zon komt en verdwijnt,
waarom zijn nijdig wijf gelooft dat God de mensheid redt,
is evenzeer de vraag als waarom ’t onaf sterven van zijn kind
zwaar op elk dagen hangt. In de muziek van zijn arbeid
werpt elke vaste slag graszwaden naar het zonlicht,
elke bekwame snee zweeft ritmisch onder het gewicht
van de zon die diep brandt in zijn hart, het meesterschap
van zijn arm akkoord met de steeds hoorbare zang der uren.
IN THE MUSIC OF LABOUR
At first the stubborn growth resists him, till each strokeis fluently flung to clear the knee-high grass, his task
down to an art, the pendulous swing of knees slightly
giving, his right arm catching the sun wet off the blade.
All day the work, shuffling steps into shuffled clearings,
beetles and crickets rising off cordite clicks sparking
off stone, bearded chin sequinned with sweat. The heat
seems not to bother him, but steels his concentration
deep in the trials of his faith. Why the sun rises and falls,
why his jaundiced wife believes God will save them all,
is just as unclear as why his newborn’s unfinished death
hangs heavy on every dawn. In the music of his labour,
each composed thresh throws slashed grass to sunlight,
each mastered stroke floats timed beneath the weight
of the sun burning deep into his heart, the mastered art
of his arm fluent with the song the hours constantly sing.
From: Gumiguru
Publisher: Carcanet, Manchester
Publisher: Carcanet, Manchester
Poems
Poems of Togara Muzanenhamo
Close
IN THE MUSIC OF LABOUR
At first the stubborn growth resists him, till each strokeis fluently flung to clear the knee-high grass, his task
down to an art, the pendulous swing of knees slightly
giving, his right arm catching the sun wet off the blade.
All day the work, shuffling steps into shuffled clearings,
beetles and crickets rising off cordite clicks sparking
off stone, bearded chin sequinned with sweat. The heat
seems not to bother him, but steels his concentration
deep in the trials of his faith. Why the sun rises and falls,
why his jaundiced wife believes God will save them all,
is just as unclear as why his newborn’s unfinished death
hangs heavy on every dawn. In the music of his labour,
each composed thresh throws slashed grass to sunlight,
each mastered stroke floats timed beneath the weight
of the sun burning deep into his heart, the mastered art
of his arm fluent with the song the hours constantly sing.
From: Gumiguru
IN THE MUSIC OF LABOUR
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère