CHRIS BECKETT, POET & TRANSLATOR
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Mahibere Dego
 
      (published in Magma 87, autumn 2023)
 
On a mountain called Association of the Kind,
on the island of its mountaintop, they rip
the wings from people’s backs and shoot them
off a cliff.     It is the sunniest day of the year
when the valleys of Earth are most red 
and so many hearts are singing. Your father
has lost the hand he would have stretched out
to you. The cave you hid in as a boy
is choked with stones.  An island in the sky
is meant for quiet thought and hermits. Today
it means that evil goes unseen…
   except this phone
has eyes and watches without blinking. It notes
impassively that kindness cannot save a man,
even when it is a giant wave of rock
with a giant’s shadow and a hundred winds
shrieking their objections…
        how powerless
are those who lose!     how unbelievably craven
is the captain’s heart!      but bless, if you can
bear it, this soldier shouting, out of shot   
bek’a, it is enough!    
                        bek’ign, it is enough for me!     
he has found his voice, lying like a tombstone
in his throat   hello, he says to his voice   
                             get up, it is time for us to speak


     (from Tenderfoot)

Good bread

 
         for Abebe i.m.
 
Still warm and spongy    almost wet
a circle of injera on the mesob
sits in my mind’s eye and goes with me
reaching its gentle hand into my head
 
it makes me think about the day
your father took us to a market
in the hills    that red-eyed roadside boy
furiously begging to be fed…   
 
do any of us really understand, Abebe
how finger close a boy can be
and still have nothing    nothing
of the world’s good bread?


Elegy for a thunderstorm

​What is a storm if not weeping?
   and the boy
washing himself in the storm
   with rough hands
and soap   is he not a slim trunk of water
attracting thirsty looks on the track?
 
rain grieves when our loved-ones
   suffer drought
it fills our ears with sadness
   how can we not weep
when rain weakens
and the storm is bled?
 
one restless afternoon 
   a thunderstorm
like a stampede of buffalos
like a panther hide thrown over the earth
   roaring and hissing
like a colossal road traffic accident
 
on the muddiest section
   of motorway
between Addis Abeba and the underworld
   when everyone rats
into their holes and the town sags
and starts to break apart
 
the possibilities for great
   naughtiness
spring up amongst wet children
   even rainbuckets
lick their lips as another thunder crash
unties a row of houses
 
and the storm looks at itself, amazed
   by its own strength
frightened even, knows full well
   this is too much
water in an old box of drought
too purple this shower
 
for a folk with such clean noses
a religion washed
   in Nile-water
so the storm looks for a tap
   somewhere up there
in the kitchen clouds
 
and turns itself off  
   to peels
of great bell-drops banging down on roofs
that cause even the roofs
   them-tin-selves
and the boy scrubbing his arms
 
to beat this elegiac
   drum roll
for the unforgettable thunderstorm
   of their life
since none of us is half as
strong as our desires


I shave my soft hair
 
     starting with a verse by Mekonnen Galaacha  
     singing Geerarsa, the poetry of Oromia

          
I shave my soft hair
I shave my soft hair
hoping beautiful curly hair will grow
 
I sing my shrill voice
I sing my shrill voice
hoping a rich smooth voice will grow
 
I run my small feet
I run my small feet
hoping a pair of marathons will grow
 
I tug my novice chin
I tug my novice chin
hoping a long wise beard will grow
 
I read my crinkle books
I read my crinkle books
hoping a brain the size of Addis Ababa University grows
 
I pat my ropey belly
I pat my ropey belly
hoping a beautiful fat paunch will grow
hoping a beautiful fat paunch will grow



     (from Ethiopia Boy)​

Lemon for love
 
Today Mahmoud Ahmed is singing again
wailing out of Abebe’s radio
 
lemon for love! lemon for love!
lemon you are so sweet
 
his voice is long and stringy as a branch  
it throws the lemon down at his girlfriend’s feet
 
lemon for love! lemon you are so tasty!
if she picks it up, it means she will marry him
 
now the chorus is shouting hohohohoho!
clapping all its hands, stamping its fifty feet 
 
now Abebe’s fingers are jumping and clicking
shoulders shaking! knees popping!
 
because the girl in the song is beautiful as Makda
     Queen of Sheba
and yes! she has bent to pick up the lemon
 
Mahmoud Ahmed, you must never stop singing
your voice can make anything happen
 
it twists round my brain like the roots of a tree
it opens a fresh leaf in my heart
 
Mahmoud Ahmed, if I sit here by Abebe’s window
will you throw my lemon for me?

(from Ethiopia Boy)​

mahibere_dego.m4a




To hear Chris reading Mahibere Dego, please click on the link. 





























​
To hear Chris reading, Good bread, from Tenderfoot, please click on the link. 





















To hear Chris reading Elegy for a Thunderstorm, from Tenderfoot,  please click on the link. 






































​





















To hear Chris reading, I shave my soft hair, from Tenderfoot, please click on the link. 

























​





Picture





​





Click on this photo to listen
to Mahmoud Ahmed
singing Lomiwen teqebelech
​(She accepted the lemon)

Picture
እናቴ  ከመልካዋ

ከመንግሥት ፈቃድ፣ ሰነድም ሳያሻት፣
እናቴን  በምሥጢር፣ በውስጤ ደብቄያት፣
በናፍቆት አርግዛኝ፣ በናፍቆት አርግዣት፣
አሥራ  ስምንት  ዓመት፣ ቆይቼ ሳኖራት፣

አሁን ግን እምዬን፣ በሞት ስንቀማ፣
የተስፋዬ ጨረር፣ አጽናኜ የነበር፣ በናፍቆት ጨለማ፣
ከልቤ  ወጣና፣ እሱም ተስፋ ቆርጦ፣
መንታ አነባ እኔ ጋ፣ ሃዘን ተቀምጦ።

My mother in her country town
    by Alemu Tebeje

 
I did not need a permit
to keep my mother
deep inside of me for eighteen years,
her sadness at not seeing me,
my sadness at not seeing her.
 
But after eighteen years she died
and then the tiny ray of hope
inside the sadness of not seeing her
slipped out of me
and sat down on the ground
and wept.
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