JESÚS SEPÚLVEDA
FROM THE GREAT BEYOND - Timbila Writers’ Village
South Africa is as vast as a planet and as hypnotic as a zebra. At night, the leopard watches from the corners of darkness
Crossing the bush where once the girl spoke with the fire and listened to the stars. That was before demons came with their bulldozers and carried her heart off to the city
Crossing through the wild where the eyes of the living see the horrific illusion that bipeds call Control
After a long journey with our friend Tumi, the earth lights up with its reddish complexion, which resembles a tongue of clay
There lives an elephant that not even five bullets could bring down. It is the privilege of the gods, and of those blessed by the open ears of Ganesh
Timbila is an imaginary house founded upon a cloud.
There is nothing there that can be snatched away from language, even life or death. Proper names remain in suspension
A pen writes in verse. An eye underscores the apparition. Lips part the petals that kiss the morning mist
One cannot articulate what the universe has left in the drawer of the ineffable. Such is the yearning of the fool!
Stealing the fire or shackling the ankles of imagination leads to the mount where eagles scarf the liver of humankind
The left hand opens the pages of a book—there the she-cat writes her aphorisms: the South is global
The right hand turns the leaves as autumn clears the grove
Timbila is a hallway in my memory.
A dream hangs on one side of the corridor and rests upon a mat woven from mango leaves
The serpent tricks the mind, blurbs the mirror of the soul—but you can always walk away and be grateful you have a long journey ahead
Timbila is also a path of light stalked by darkness
Once upon a time, there was a thicket that pale-face devils blasted open with shotguns to carve out the path to the baobab
Oh, my cheerful-browed friend! Your voice is like the Spring reciting a refrain that rhymes with Mandela’s name
The wound stops bleeding and children repeat the song while forming a circle around my Chilean accent
Can we say that on the other side of the tunnel there is a broad smile floating in the air?
Yes, we can
There you have it, a blue backdrop and acrid soil beating beneath the visitors’ feet
Where are the seers?
The profound south resides in the imaginary house where a promise is one’s word, and a given word is gold forged in the cauldron of alchemy
Let us spell out the names of the warmongers and we will know how to break their spells
Let us break the spell and dream the poem that gathers us all together
The sacred thread of life is as still as a mountain and as fluid as a river
Moths fill the open air, the salamander protects the rising sun, children delight in being alive
Tell us how the spine of your country creaks, and how your village levitates. Do not forget to utter the words the ancestors sent from the great beyond.
