Alan Pearson Poetry

We're on a trendy train with dining car;
it clatters through a golden landscape,
faster than a cheetah.
Giraffes are running neck and neck;
they want a vegetarian fare,
and stare in our polished windows.

There go a herd of zebras
- see how they run.
African delegates, black and white,
touring, whistle-stop,
to be elected icon of the continent.
How can they lose?

We're elated, here in the dusy veldt,
(never a tree or fence in sight),
here where ancient earth is crushed
by feet of promenading elephant.
Who wouldn't be?

Under trees spread out like parasols
lay mats of shade
for big white hunters,
sipping whisky sours
on folding stools.
Their world explodes
behind crossed hairs.
And when they leave,
the ground is smeary red
as lipstick
on a careless chorus girl.

Hemingway and Rhodes
have gone their separate ways;
and so have Livingstone and Stanley.
Let's not forget this is a country
of such glamorous heroes.
No site for timid folk
too scared to put a sneaker down
for fear of anacondas.

Out there, in blurry heat-haze,
kraals absorb a savage sun;
and idle girls, for fun,
daub cheeks with whitewash,
swat away a fly or two,
or wash goat's blood
from dirty feet of warriors

Yet such a sky of innocence
so overflowing with dishevelment
of pearly culumus;
an airy dome of vastness offering
room for buzzards, hanging
round for lunch.
But so are we.

Our dining-car is offering something
piscatorial and peppery
as we chugalug beside tall grass
littered, here and there, with rusty
Boer Wall shells; or maybe snakes,
slin as green beans, fanged and foraging
for something edible.
Dry stems lean and wave in a breeze...
And we wave back.

Somwhere by a rainy pool,
a lion concentrates on contours
of a sipping antelope -
desperate to place ferocious
into the hide of succulence.

Far off, the jungle hangs
- a verdant waterfall -
heavy with perfume
of trapped sunlight.
All day the murmerous leaves can mimic
a fountain-rustle loud enough
to mask a blowgun's gentle hiss
that brings to earth
a rainbow-vested bird.

What's missing here is a lighter touch,
perhaps a sexy romance.
Surely there is something wrong
when every listless liana
lacks its yodelling Tarzan.

Zaire, Congo, Chad, Zambia,
Gabon, Cameroon and Kenya
we have seen your claw-scarred earth,
thrilled to leopard leaps;
watched buzzards quarrel,
perched on kudu carcasses.

Africa, your air, hot as a mating
lion's breath,
is never free of tribal rivalries
and breeze of assegais
flying thick and fast.

Africa, you are shaped like a heart
but there is bellicosity
in every tom-tom drum beat.
In this country of kill, kill,
the winds of change have blown away
the incense of do-gooders.

Our train is heading for the airport
and, now before you say the name
of Karen Blixen
we'll be Out Of Africa.


	African Sketchbook




	We're on a trendy train with dining car; it clatters through a golden landscape, faster than a cheetah. Giraffes are running neck and neck; they want a vegetarian fare, and stare in our polished windows. There go a herd of zebras - see how they run. African delegates, black and white, touring, whistle-stop, to be elected icon of the continent. How can they lose? We're elated, here in the dusy veldt, (never a tree or fence in sight), here where ancient earth is crushed by feet of promenading elephant. Who wouldn't be? Under trees spread out like parasols lay mats of shade for big white hunters, sipping whisky sours on folding stools. Their world explodes behind crossed hairs. And when they leave, the ground is smeary red as lipstick on a careless chorus girl. Hemingway and Rhodes have gone their separate ways; and so have Livingstone and Stanley. Let's not forget this is a country of such glamorous heroes. No site for timid folk too scared to put a sneaker down for fear of anacondas. Out there, in blurry heat-haze, kraals absorb a savage sun; and idle girls, for fun, daub cheeks with whitewash, swat away a fly or two, or wash goat's blood from dirty feet of warriors Yet such a sky of innocence so overflowing with dishevelment of pearly culumus; an airy dome of vastness offering room for buzzards, hanging round for lunch. But so are we. Our dining-car is offering something piscatorial and peppery as we chugalug beside tall grass littered, here and there, with rusty Boer Wall shells; or maybe snakes, slin as green beans, fanged and foraging for something edible. Dry stems lean and wave in a breeze... And we wave back. Somwhere by a rainy pool, a lion concentrates on contours of a sipping antelope - desperate to place ferocious into the hide of succulence. Far off, the jungle hangs - a verdant waterfall - heavy with perfume of trapped sunlight. All day the murmerous leaves can mimic a fountain-rustle loud enough to mask a blowgun's gentle hiss that brings to earth a rainbow-vested bird. What's missing here is a lighter touch, perhaps a sexy romance. Surely there is something wrong when every listless liana lacks its yodelling Tarzan. Zaire, Congo, Chad, Zambia, Gabon, Cameroon and Kenya we have seen your claw-scarred earth, thrilled to leopard leaps; watched buzzards quarrel, perched on kudu carcasses. Africa, your air, hot as a mating lion's breath, is never free of tribal rivalries and breeze of assegais flying thick and fast. Africa, you are shaped like a heart but there is bellicosity in every tom-tom drum beat. In this country of kill, kill, the winds of change have blown away the incense of do-gooders. Our train is heading for the airport and, now before you say the name of Karen Blixen we'll be Out Of Africa.