A troubadour I traverse...
By Dennis Brutus, South Africa
A troubadour, I traverse all my land
exploring all her wide-flung parts with zest
probing in motion sweeter far than rest
her secret thickets with amorous hand
and I have laughed, disdaining those whose banned inquiry and movement, delighting in the test of will when doomed by Saracened arrest,
choosing, like unarmed thumb, simply to stand
Thus, quixoting till a cast-off of my land
I sing and fare, person to loved-one pressed braced for this pressure and the captor’s hand
that snaps off service
like a weathered strand:
no mistress-favour has adorned my breast only the shadow of an arrow-band.
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