Dedication by Wole Soyinkafor Moremi, 1963

Earth will not share the rafter's envy; dung floorsBreak, not the gecko's slight skin, but its fallTaste this soil for death and plumb her deep for life

As this yam, wholly earthed, yet a living tuber To the warmth of waters, earthed as springsAs roots of baobab, as the hearth.

The air will not deny you. Like a topSpin you on the navel of the storm, for the hoeThat roots the forests plows a path for squirrels.

Be ageless as dark peat, but only that rain'sFingers, not the feet of men, may wash you over.Long wear the sun's shadow; run naked to the night.

Peppers green and red—child—your tongue archTo scorpion tail, spit straight return to danger's threatsYet coo with the brown pigeon, tendril dew between your lips.

Shield you like the flesh of palms, skyward heldCuspids in thorn nesting, insealed as the heart of kernel—A woman's flesh is oil—child, palm oil on your tongue

Is suppleness to life, and wine of this gourdFrom self-same timeless run of runnels as refillYour podlings, child, weaned from yours we embrace

Earth's honeyed milk, wine of the only rib.Now roll your tongue in honey till your cheeks areSwarming honeycombs—your world needs sweetening, child.

Camwood round the heart, chalk for flightOf blemish—see? it dawns!—antimony beneathArmpits like a goddess, and leave this taste

Long on your lips, of salt, that you may seekNone from tears. This, rain-water, is the giftOf gods—drink of its purity, bear fruits in season.

Fruits then to your lips: haste to repayThe debt of birth. Yield man-tides like the seaAnd ebbing, leave a meaning of the fossilled sands.

IN THE SMALL HOURS by Wole SoyinkaBlue diaphane, tobacco smokeSerpentine on wet film and wood glaze,Mutes chrome, wreathes velvet drapes,Dims the cave of mirrors. Ghost fingersComb seaweed hair, stroke acquamarine veinsOf marooned mariners, captivesOf Circe's sultry notes. The barman

 

Dispenses igneous potions ?Somnabulist, the band plays on.

Cocktail mixer, silvery fishDances for limpet clients.Applause is steeped in lassitude,Tangled in webs of lovers' whispersAnd artful eyelash of the androgynous.The hovering notes caress the nightMellowed deep indigo ?still they play.

Departures linger. Absences do notDeplete the tavern. They hang over the hazeAs exhalations from receded shores. Soon,Night repossesses the silence, but till dawnThe notes hold sway, smokyEpiphanies, possessive of the hours.

This music's plaint forgives, redeemsThe deafness of the world. Night turnsHomewards, sheathed in notes of solace, pleatsThe broken silence of the heart.

Civilian and Soldier by Wole SoyinkaMy apparition rose from the fall of lead,Declared, 'I am a civilian.' It only servedTo aggravate your fright. For how could IHave risen, a being of this world, in that hour Of impartial death! And I thought also: nor isYour quarrel of this world.

You stood stillFor both eternities, and oh I heard the lessonOf your traing sessions, cautioning -Scorch earth behind you, do not leaveA dubious neutral to the rear. ReiterationOf my civilian quandary, burrowing earthFrom the lead festival of your more eager friendsWorked the worse on your confusion, and whenYou brought the gun to bear on me, and deathTwitched me gently in the eye, your plightAnd all of you came clear to me.

I hope some dayIntent upon my trade of living, to be checkedIn stride by your apparition in a trench,Signalling, I am a soldier. No hesitation thenBut I shall shoot you clean and fair With meat and bread, a gourd of wineA bunch of breasts from either arm, and thatLone question - do you friend, even now, knowWhat it is all about?