I'll come back to this book after reading a few more
recent poems.
And this first is called "Ceremony."
And it takes its occasion from a moment
of seeing a young Arab boy walk through a cemetery in North
Africa.
As Adam said, I'm from South Africa,
so the sense of the continent in its entire reach
is something that's been pressing
on me since I was a child.
In this case, the poem is also reacting to my first encounter
with Picasso's painting of The Young Boy
Leading the Horse, probably familiar to most of you.
"Ceremony."
A small boy leads of white horse out into the century.
Cracked soil, unnamed white stones
past which the boy walks loosely, carrying the reins,
barely awake.
Barefoot.
No shirt.
His body, the color of dust.
The horse's head rises and dips behind the boy's right shoulder
and it could be blind.
Something should follow, but it's
vanished further up the path.
Call it the memory of peace.
Then words as if they were the last.
Once prayers were cheaper.
Once birds fell silent as we passed.