Bleeding Paradoxically in the Motherland: Everything New is Old Again

[Joseph Armstead]

In Kinshasa, the Digital Lion Dances Blind

by Joseph Armstead

A thunderstorm threatens
the serenity of the morning
and I rise,
battling a hangover,
to the early sun's
silvery light and walk out
onto my room's balcony...

... the spectre of a forgotten Lion stirs ...

The Congo River sweeps
majestically
past the ghosts of fishing villages
in the morning's fog
as the metallic rush and buzz
of automobile traffic
rides the air currents,
chasing away
the colonialist memories
of old Leopoldville
and the spirits haunting
the trading post of antiquity
past the rapids below
Livingston Falls
and before Matadi beside the sea.

... I remember the mystery of Africa ...
... The Lion no longer knows its name ...

The francophone phonems of Paris
roll from the lips of a dusky people,
tall, lean, hawkish, some still
in tribal dress while carrying
their PDAs, Blackberries,
and multi-function iPhones,
these people  
still conversant
in tribal Lingala,
their dark skin and eyes exotic,
hinting at secret histories
paler European visitors
could scarce imagine:
savage kings, sage warriors, shamans,
concubines, warlords, and tyrants,
the scars left by Mobutu's excesses
still thinly scabbed over,
still capable of bleeding.

... I remember caravans and safaris ...
... The Lion no longer knows its name ...

Television and radio are the gods here now.
Electromagnetic waves
hop to and from
electronic transmitters
and fiber-optic cables
flash impulses of lightning
to and from the Internet.
Satellites, like artificial stars
cast from steel, ride the heavens,
scattered into earth-orbit
by the hands of
multinational
corporate deities,
relaying emails and blog entries
and electro-mnemonic prayers.
And the busy airport christened N'Djili
connects the bustling metropolis
to a world where Lion Dances,
tribal tattoos, and worship
of the tree gods in the rain forest
are forgotten, replaced
by the worship of the IMF and World Bank.
Boulevard du 30 Juin is the asphalt artery
bypassing the slums, leading past La Gombe
and Kintambo, snaking on towards
the sparkling Bay of Ngaliema.

... I remember the dark heartbeat of legend ...
... The Lion no longer knows its name ...

Looking out from my hotel balcony,
I watch the sky of gray clouds rain
circuit-imprinted
silicon chips
onto the gritty streets. 

[Author-Poet Aberjhani]

A splendid write Joseph. Your pen in this instance seems to flow like that of a sphinx jotting notes between centuries to compose a tapestry of uncertain cultural paradigms. Appreciate the sharing.

Aberjhani