Poetry

Auscultate

by Monchoachi

translated by Patricia Hartland

Jaz Graf, Between What Was, 2018, toned cyanotype and serigraphy on paper, 25 x 33 in.

[Listen to the poem in the original Creole]

And the musicians played tunes of madness
(the holeyz and olé-olézz and olélé-olélé
the wélélézzz)
On a Godyé viol
Strings: 7 hairs p’lled from th’tail of 7 hawssez
On a mountain where there lived a lunatic
with 7 vultures
and 7 blindfolk that he
twisted into dance
with the godyé’s sound.

That the ears might hear what the eyes can’t see
“the other face of truth”
eye be sun, ear be moon
yard, aureole, th’audience
orbiting world, swiftest spin
dwelling chants.
Listening, the blindman sees.
That the ears might hear what the eyes can’t see
the bloss’m, the bett’r.

And they laughed like cherubs
cherubease, neat n’ clean
cooing sweet
dodoméa

And the musicians played played
viol tambou-di-bass kalabash
middle’v-a-krossrode
kross mission in-midst
and above dust with chipped ficus bark
and above th’dust n’ then chipt khaya bark

all try-as-they-mightness
all voice-in-the-windness
cãyin-cãyan

Sing w/ voicez veiled rasping ’xhausted
ript shredded split

in tatters

to have opened them wide (them voices) swift winded
its own tongue
rigamarole-less nonsenseless
no frills no froufrou
sans latutune-bertune
bass note vibrations
bll-bllbll-bll
husk-voice husking
coocooing
playful speeches
jousting speeches
talking drum
bll-bllbll-bll
kalabashflighting
chchchchchchch
n’ the threshers clack
bom-bombom-bom
they scrape
cralaaaaaaaaaaaaa
And there descend upon those straight-up-hobnailed-faithfuls
those children unaging,
those formerly “counted,” dancing
a neck shaked
a body saved
dance and call
my crown crowned
me, bareheaded
nay, nay say I
w/ th’ head hard
hard headed
rhênni! [heehaawww]

body bared unto spirit
unto endangeredous

And exit-toward-apparition with the mouth of an other
clothed ’n tha Lyfe ’v anotha
w/ a line ’v tha Ded, a.k.a them smokiiing
motherless, fatherless
but armed with violin, copper-red
neithernomothernornofather
out from a heap of red earth

said not to call him not to cawl me-it’s-time
to call him
said to call him instead
role reverse
play play
said his name is ich chein name is dogson
said he can’t be called he has so many names
made of zigzags like a bindweed vine
and red
" and made of lisssps of tongueflipsss of vowlz
on lipsss
a’hundr’d heads he has
a’hundr’d fifty pairs of wingz

That ears might listen, that eyes see not
that thunder might growl in the clowdz
breath’s road compels breath
’n whirlwynd rides up the currents
Nobahdee suppozed he’d lissen w/out dancen
he’d parlay parabole
pirouetting at the ball

no MOUN, that is, no MAN without a symbol
nor cymbal
without entering fresh air’d BODY into the dance circle
curve cove, in th’larônne
In skin
an offering
the thin-neck’d beast

freshly skorch’d
good for good evil for evil
good for evil evil for good

Th’current descends
th’sky opens
th’sky is fresh
th’beast snarls snrrrl-snrrrl
trek of wind
th’wind haz transported th’ash.

Translation from the Creole

Monchoachi (b. 1946), the pen name of André Pierre-Louis, is a prolific poet and essayist in both French and Martinican Creole. As fellow writer Patrick Chamoiseau describes it, “Monchoachi has completely renewed our vision of the Creole language—the way we read it, practice it, defend it.”

Patricia Hartland translates from French, Martinican Creole, and Hindi, with a special interest in Caribbean literature. Her translations of prose, poetry, and theater have appeared in Asymptote, Circumference, Drunken Boat, and elsewhere.

Buy PRINT Issue Subscribe TO WLT