Today we will talk about the Congolese writer and poet Jean-Baptiste Tati Loutard. To celebrate the ‘independence’ of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), we will focus on Loutard’s poem on Congo: Congo natal (Natal Congo). Even though Loutard is from the Republic of Congo or Congo-Brazzaville, one can tell that he is talking about the entire Congo basin. This poem is very lyrical, and deeply rooted in Congolese identity. It also shows his deep love of Congo and its landscape, joys, flora, fauna, people, and essence. He starts by letting you know the effect of exile on his soul, far away from its country. Then he centers it around nature, but highlighting a world anchored on African ancestral maternal protective traditions.
Enjoy ‘Congo Natal‘ by Jean-Baptiste Tati Loutard, published in his poetry collection La tradition du songe: Poèmes. Presence Africaine (1985). Translated to English by Dr. Y. Afrolegends.com.
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| Congo Natal Je ne redoute rien tant que l’exil Le regret de mon soleil versé sur les vagues Comme l’huile qui s’exalte dans la poèle Et chante le cantique du feu Et ma mère trempée d’angoisses Devant son foyer aux-trois-pierres Combien de poètes portent à jamais Le deuil des Tropiques dans les contrées du Nord Les douleurs dans leurs écrits se disposent comme des noctuelles sur des étaloirs Quand le climat déploie ses forces arides L’oeil s’ouvre sur la grisaille et s’embue Le coeur nidifie dans la pierre Parfois la mémoire se déplie Vient la clarté puis à nouveau le ciel s’embrume Toi l’étrange cultivateur transmigrant Quel espace as-tu fructifié Depuis que la terre en toi s’est rétrécie Que le fleuve Congo n’y est plus qu’un sillon Je pense à mon horizon où lève l’épi de l’aube Aux enfants qui s’éparpillent sur le miroir du jour Aux passereaux en tumulte dans le rônier A ce peuple missionné qui reprend feu Quand passe le vent avec ses poissons-pilotes de feuilles mortes Cherchant dans son trouble inapaisable A jeter bas les masques du mensonge A ceux qui ont déserté les ailes D’une maison obscurcie par la mort Le soleil survient qui replante ses lances dans la rue J’observe les générations nouvelles qui ondulent Et cette fille de l’espèce lianescente Sort du terroir profond Son visage a bruni au feu de santal Elle passe comme une jacinthe dans les eaux errantes Aveugle elle va briser son coeur sur l’écueil L’asphalte lui ouvre ses mares ses mirages Et je n’oublie pas la gloire des Jours d’Août Sanglés dans leur tunique couleur de sang Et l’héritage exhalant encore le parfum du frangipanier. | Natal Congo I dread nothing so much as exile, The longing for my sun spilled upon the waves Like oil rising in the pan Singing the hymn of the fire, And my mother, steeped in anguish Before her three-stone hearth. How many poets forever mourn The Tropics while in northern lands? The sorrows in their writings are arrayed Like owlet moths upon a display board. When the climate unleashes its arid forces The eye opens upon the grayness and clouds over The heart makes its nest in the stone Sometimes memory unfolds Clarity comes, then the sky grows hazy once more You, strange transmigrating cultivator What space have you made fruitful Since the earth within you shrank Since the Congo River became but a furrow there? I think of my horizon where the stalk of dawn rises Of the children scattering across the mirror of the day Of the sparrows clamoring in the Palmyra palm Of that missioned people catching fire again As the wind passes, with its pilot-fish of dead leaves, Seeking, in its unappeasable turbulence, To tear the masks of falsehood from the faces Of those who abandoned the wings Of a house darkened by death, The sun arrives to plant its spears once more in the street; I watch the new generations undulating, And this daughter of the vine-like breed Emerges from the deep soil; Her face has turned brown in the sandalwood fire, She passes like a hyacinth through wandering waters; Blind, she will shatter her heart against the reef, The asphalt opens up its pools and mirages to her, And I do not forget the glory of the August Days, Girt in their blood-colored tunics, Nor the legacy that still exhales the scent of frangipani. |
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