The Lucky Plaza
Dinah Roma
Manila
And I remember her through the day’s leisure.
My veiled urgency to leave the spot
where we found each other. Wanting her to end
the telling of stories whose origins I know so much
and wouldn’t want to recall. To reach or her
from my table’s end, and touch her hand trained
in the acquiescence of service. To let her know
she could leave the bowl, it’s cool indifference,
behind. Simply, to let her know stories
revive and inspire. That I do have my own.
They come from where she’s from.
The same fractures of a people beyond
breaking. The same faith past years
of despair. That light unwilling to surrender
to the remaining hours of the day. The slow
return to night. for that is all we have.
She to the house polished to her children’s
absence, strangers in the company of kins.
And me to the books I judge the world by.
wiser by the hour as the tensile lines
singing of beauty cage her pain
within places of the imaginary.
The Lucky Plaza
Dinah Roma
Manila
And I remember her through the day’s leisure.
My veiled urgency to leave the spot
where we found each other. Wanting her to end
the telling of stories whose origins I know so much
and wouldn’t want to recall. To reach or her
from my table’s end, and touch her hand trained
in the acquiescence of service. To let her know
she could leave the bowl, it’s cool indifference,
behind. Simply, to let her know stories
revive and inspire. That I do have my own.
They come from where she’s from.
The same fractures of a people beyond
breaking. The same faith past years
of despair. That light unwilling to surrender
to the remaining hours of the day. The slow
return to night. for that is all we have.
She to the house polished to her children’s
absence, strangers in the company of kins.
And me to the books I judge the world by.
wiser by the hour as the tensile lines
singing of beauty cage her pain
within places of the imaginary.
The Lucky Plaza
Dinah Roma
Manila
And I remember her through the day’s leisure.
My veiled urgency to leave the spot
where we found each other. Wanting her to end
the telling of stories whose origins I know so much
and wouldn’t want to recall. To reach or her
from my table’s end, and touch her hand trained
in the acquiescence of service. To let her know
she could leave the bowl, it’s cool indifference,
behind. Simply, to let her know stories
revive and inspire. That I do have my own.
They come from where she’s from.
The same fractures of a people beyond
breaking. The same faith past years
of despair. That light unwilling to surrender
to the remaining hours of the day. The slow
return to night. for that is all we have.
She to the house polished to her children’s
absence, strangers in the company of kins.
And me to the books I judge the world by.
wiser by the hour as the tensile lines
singing of beauty cage her pain
within places of the imaginary.
The Lucky Plaza
Dinah Roma
Manila
And I remember her through the day’s leisure.
My veiled urgency to leave the spot
where we found each other. Wanting her to end
the telling of stories whose origins I know so much
and wouldn’t want to recall. To reach or her
from my table’s end, and touch her hand trained
in the acquiescence of service. To let her know
she could leave the bowl, it’s cool indifference,
behind. Simply, to let her know stories
revive and inspire. That I do have my own.
They come from where she’s from.
The same fractures of a people beyond
breaking. The same faith past years
of despair. That light unwilling to surrender
to the remaining hours of the day. The slow
return to night. for that is all we have.
She to the house polished to her children’s
absence, strangers in the company of kins.
And me to the books I judge the world by.
wiser by the hour as the tensile lines
singing of beauty cage her pain
within places of the imaginary.
Africa
Africa my Africa

Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs

Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
Africa, tell me Africa
Is this your back that is unbent
This back that never breaks under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying no to the whip under the midday sun
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous child that tree, young and strong
That tree over there
Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers
That is your Africa springing up anew
springing up patiently, obstinately
Whose fruit bit by bit acquires
The bitter taste of liberty.

David Diop, a Senegalese poet, uses his poem entitled “Africa”, to lament the state of the African
continent and also valorize it despite its long-suffering experiences with colonialism and neo-
colonialism. Following in the footsteps of the well-known African writer and former president of
Senegal in his first twenty years (Léopold Sédar Senghor), Diop utilizes the trope of Africa as woman.
This poetic male tradition is upheld through allegorical means where Africa is conceptualized as a
mother to the Black populace born from her landscaped body. Although the Mother Africa trope has
its shortcomings, David Diop’s poetic vision comes through: He is able to communicate the plight of
the colonized/postcolonial continent through the skillful use of language and structure. His
metaphorical body of work offers a depth of meaning and concludes with a message of hope,
reminding Africans that they can rise above the colonial system.
Within “Africa”, the poet addresses the land as if it is a real person, and this denotes the use of
apostrophe. Apostrophe allows for an interesting dramatization which holds the readers’ attention and
allows them to identify with Mother Africa’s human experiences. It almost gives us the sense that the
earth itself is not a lifeless thing but is somehow alive. The representation of Africa as an animate
female is a long standing colonial tradition; however, the damaging image is subverted (to some
extent) in the poem. Africa is epitomized as a strong and beautiful nurturer who endures and reproves
her ‘impetuous’ children with warm proverbial advice. The poem begins with the poet’s possession of
Africa through the designatory diction of ‘my’. The placing of the word ‘Africa’ at the beginning and
end of the phrase ‘Africa my Africa’ is also repeated in lines 12 and 21, creating the poem’s refrain
which not only emphasizes the persona’s supposed ownership[1] and control of Africa [2] but
balances the rhythm of the piece. This choral effect is also typical of apostrophic poetry which is
usually a kind of invocation.  The musical quality of the poem is additionally increased through
assonance which is essential in a free verse poem. Within this loose form, similar to “And If You
Should Leave Me” by Ben Okri, an external pattern is imposed and this allows the poets to appeal to
the “human instinct for design [and] our love of the shapely” (Perrine, 771). For Diop, the repetition
of vowel sounds enable him to make the beginning lines sound hoisted and spiritual. It is in tune with
Africa who has reared ‘proud warriors’ that are a testament to her pre-colonial glory in the time of
‘ancestral savannahs’ (2). It is an Africa with a tradition of orality where the praise-singing
grandmother tells the tale of the land’s greatness to her grandson, supposedly the poet. These lines
refute the “assumption underlying the French policy of ‘assimilation’ that Africa was a deprived land
possessing neither culture nor history” (Britannica.com). Perhaps the distant river bank the
grandmother sings on suggests the far-removed location of the African generation from its hallowed
cultural source where it can never go back to. Or the poet could simply be remembering his dead
grandmother who he believes extols Africa from the distant, mystical land of the ancestors, only
linked to the real world through a river journey. One might even draw another conclusion by
examining the poet’s background: Diop, has ‘never known [Africa]’ and her struggles firsthand in the
way that his predecessors did since he was born in France and lived there for most of his life.
Nonetheless, his father and mother were Africans, their ‘blood flows in [his] veins’ which is why he
spent significant time living and teaching in Africa. The blood is not only representative of his familial
ties to Africa but the cause of the people which pulses within him.  He then goes on to line 7 which
utilizes alliteration to add forcefulness to his conviction that Mother Africa’s ‘beautiful Black blood…
irrigates the fields’. It is through the struggle and hard work of black people that the encountering
nations like France were able to reap the harvest (financial, infrastructural profits) and build domains. 
Thus, Mother Africa is represented as a slave that was physically abused and exploited economically.
Her oppression is continuous and exemplified through parallelism with the run-on lines from 8-11
which keeps the reader anticipating what comes next:
…The blood of your sweat

The sweat of your work

The work of your slavery

The slavery of your children…

The lines become memorable and emphatic as they give off a sonic effect and signify the buildup of
colonialism in African history. Even the organization of speech sounds reinforce meaning as the lines
move from monosyllables (sweat, work) to trisyllables (slavery) and disyllables (children). The tempo
of the lines eventually become slower as articulation becomes as leaden as the colonial transition of
the African people.

The poem shifts from a praise and observation of Africa’s situation to a questioning of her decision to
yield to colonialism. The speaker demands that Africa tell him if this is her, ‘…this back that
is bent/ This back that breaksunder the weight of humiliation…(13,14). These lines utilize alliteration
which conveys the enquirer’s forceful presumptuousness. This interrogation is additionally buttressed
by the insistent repetition of ‘this back’ and the internal rhyming of ‘break’ and ‘weight’ which calls
our attention to Africa’s subjugation. Here, Diop’s anthropomorphic inclination is greatly expressed
when Mother Africa’s back is ‘trembling with red scars [as she says] yes to the whip under the midday
sun’ (15, 16).  The personal suffering of the mother is symbolic of the trepidation of the African
continent, traumatized by colonial experiences. The lines could even foretell the disastrous and
exploitative consequences which arose from the 1958 Referendum when Senegal became a neo-
colonial territory, that is, maintained cultural and economic ties with France, under the leadership of
the nation’s first president, Léopold Senghor. Some may argue that the persona addressing Mother
Africa is displeased with her character which was once proud and resistant to western culture. Many
feminists might argue that through his male gaze, she embodies the speaker’s “honour and glory or his
degradation as a citizen” (Stratton, 51). Even more unfortunate is that women’s persecution becomes a
metaphorical medium through which poets cast their vision. This adversely gives license to the
stereotype of women as compliant towards domination. However, in a similar reading, I could add that
Diop does not romanticize Mother Africa which would contradict the actual struggling, marginalized
position of women in Africa. Also, Africa’s true condition may not have been distorted as she corrects
the male’s assumptions about her experience. She replies in a ‘grave voice’ which could be the
feminized conscience of the poet himself. Regardless, the speaker is labeled as ‘impetuous’, he makes
rash assumptions without thought or care.  She additionally alters the way he envisions her, she
assigns the image of redemption to a pomological entity where Africans are symbolic fruits that
develop, adapt, diversify and evolve even while faced with threats to their ecosystem:

The lines may indicate that the poet does not truly perceive what Africa is; the constant use of
demonstratives tells the reader that Africa (Tree of Life) is far removed from the female speaker. The
answering female suggests that Mother Africa is not a burdened or super woman but a flourishing
being, or rather, an ever-growing metaphysical tree which slowly renews itself, with the aid of a
resourceful generation, after being hacked by colonial forces. The parasitic flowering plant of white
domination will see its end and the continent of Africa will rise, unwavering, to bursting greatness.

The poem ends with interlaced rhymes and a rising cadence which gives a pleasing effect, indicating
that the poem has finally arrived at a thoughtful and substantial conclusion. The ending lines are
paradoxical as you would not associate liberty with bitterness, yet, a deeper truth is implied through
the contrast: Independence is often a goal achieved through sacrifice, coups, chaos and hard work.
Nonetheless, the poem ultimately communicates that the fight is worth it; the African mind must
exercise both continental and state optimism and turn away from colonial resignation in the walk
towards socio-cultural and economic freedom.

AFRICA MY AFRICA
David Diop

Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs

Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
Africa, tell me Africa
Is this your back that is unbent
This back that never breaks under the weight of
humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying no to the whip under the midday sun
But a grave voice answers me
 Impetuous child that tree, young and strong Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole;
That tree over there The mellow glory of the Attic stage,
Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child.
That is your Africa springing up anew
springing up patiently, obstinately
Whose fruit bit by bit acquires
The bitter taste of liberty.

LOVE AFTER LOVE INVICTUS

Derek Walcott Willi am Ernest Henley

The time will come  Out of the night that covers me,
when, with elation  Black as the pit from pole to pole,
you will greet yourself arriving  I thank whatever gods may be
at your own door, in your own mirror  For my unconquerable soul.
and each will smile at the other's welcome, 
In the fell clutch of circumstance
and say, sit here. Eat.  I have not winced nor cried aloud.
You will love again the stranger who was your self. Under the bludgeonings of chance
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart  My head is bloody, but unbowed.
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
all your life, whom you ignored  Looms but the Horror of the shade,
for another, who knows you by heart.  And yet the menace of the years
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,  Finds and shall find me unafraid.

the photographs, the desperate notes,  It matters not how strait the gate,
peel your own image from the mirror.  How charged with punishments the scroll,
Sit. Feast on your life. I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

TO A FRIEND
by Matthew Arnold

Who prop, thou ask'st in these bad days, my mind?--

He much, the old man, who, clearest-souled of men,
Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,
And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind.

Much he, whose friendship I not long since won,

That halting slave, who in Nicopolis
Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son
Cleared Rome of what most shamed him.
But be his

My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul,

From first youth tested up to extreme old age,
Business could not make dull, nor passion wild;