Someni tongo / So Many Tongues

  • Wan bon
    someni wiwiri
    wan bon.
    Wan liba
    someni kriki
    ala e go na wan se.
    Wan ede
    someni prakseri,
    prakseri pe wan bun mu de.
    Wan Gado
    someni fasi fu anbegi
    ma wan Papa.
    Wan Sranan,
    someni wiwiri,
    someni skin,
    someni tongo.
    Wan pipel.

< R. Dobru 1965 in Sranan Tongo.

***
One of the first poems in a creole language which got me good. There is only one letter difference between artistic and autistic. If I am on the latter spectrum at all it is liminally, on the cusp of normalcy or more accurately normality. I do remain residually dyslexic and hence sensitive to things cognitively dissonant, such as the relationship between a standardized language and a creole “derived” from it. Hence my book Entwisted Tongues Comparative Creole Literatures.

 

 

 

 

Review

“[This] is a work of passion that conquers through its erudition, seduces through its interpretations, and convinces through its style”  Research in African Literatures – Volume 33, Number 3, Fall 2002

Dobru’s own translation:

One tree
so many leaves
one tree.
One river
so many creeks
all are going to one sea.
One head 
so many thoughts,
thoughts among which one good must be.
One God,
so many ways of worshipping
but one Father.
One Surinam,
so many hair types,
so many skin colours,
so many tongues.
One people.

For those who are native speakers of Dutch but also those who might still be able to read it in the oblique way referred to above, here is a wiki on R. Dobru (1935-1983), erstwhile nationalist political leader and Minister of Culture in the early years of independent Suriname.

Among other things, Dobru plays on wiwiri: leaves, also hair, thread and wire < the SIL Sranan-English dictionary based on John Wilner’s 1994 Wortubuku fu Sranan Tongo.

 

 

 

 

 

Distraction

Last weekend an old friend of my age
plunked his pill jar down on the brunch table
and proclaimed astutely that without
medical science he wouldn’t be there
to enjoy the free-range egg omelet
and crisped smoked bacon I served him.

Last night, thanks to Netflix, I took in two
noirs which I would never have been able, let
alone be allowed to see in the ringworm-ridden
movie houses of my boyhood. Planes, then,
had propellers. They flew just above the clouds.
Girls got pregnant. Boys fought with their fathers.

None of this makes any difference now – neither
last night nor this morning. No one uses cash or
thinks of change for phones. Things that mattered
then stayed off-stage. I need to remember to dim
the digital clock and make sure I haven’t
inadvertently set it for some wrong hour.