When I searched online for a copy of the poem A Quiet Evening by Edwin Thumboo, I hardly got a reliable copy of it. Since it is included in many prescribed syllabus of Postcolonial Poetry, I thought of reproducing it from a soiled copy of the poem offered by my friend. Click here to read an introduction to Edwin Thumboo
We ate among friends,
Did not need to shine with facts
And figures, exhibit a diagnostic ease,
Cleverly express doubt or disbelief,
Or raise intricacies to simplify an argument.
There was surplus laughter, mild surprise.
We ate among friends.
He came late, our guest of honour.
Perhaps the cares of state, of nerves,
Habits of self debate, took time to shed.
One who knew famous faces thought
He looked angry and red, unlikely
To sheath his tongue, that
The good food would not help:
We ate amidst silence.
I wondered if he thought
Of those who gave so freely,
Who broke the bread of politics with him,
Now departed from the state
Under a great dispersal,
Amidst silence.
Our President
Spoke with a proper turn of mind.
We were loyal, ordinarily; even wholesome;
Would support the national cause; co-operate;
Give both hands; make minor vows
For the love of country, but retain an
Academic claw or two.
Our guest of honour rose
He spoke of Britain, noting the aches and
Ashes of government: a great people
Declining east of Suez,
Adopted less attractive shape,
A narrow self-protecting line.
He chatted, thought aloud,
Confessed that socialists were human.
The good life meant just that.
After the hard industrial fight we'll
Learn to live, admit the graces.
But there were problems...
Nearer home our local sun...
The silences of sand and jungle,
Played tricks...and made
Us difficult neighbours for other men.
And so he spoke, ruminated,
Fathomed past, present, future...
The evening was serious friendliness,
The evening was an open heart,
Dressed properly with coat and tie.
Had run to fight another day-they had important work,
Could not be spared, were needed to arrange
More demonstrations.
Impersonally, the verdict was
Exile to the motherland,
A new reality.
He stood pale, not brave, not made for politics.
No comments:
Post a Comment