may my mind stroll about hungry

On Saturday morning, George has gone to take an exam and I am left to lounge in bed and admire the effect of soft sunlight filtering through the mosquito net. It always reminds me of the great folds of clothing that used to be draped around the beds of nobility – though much less substantial. It protects us not only from buzzing, blood-sucking pests, but from the worries of the outside world. Still, on a lazy morning I like to listen to the sounds of life outside our little haven.

In the distance are the sounds of construction – power tools, hammers, men shouting. Closer to home is the darasa, where young children are learning to recite the Qur’an. The teacher speaks first, a deep voice in measured tones, and the children repeat in
an uneven chorus, half-chant, half-song. I can’t tell what language they’re speaking, but I assume that it’s Arabic. All I can hear is the cadence and metre, the rise and fall of voices. Closer still are the neighbours and the sounds of the main house. To either side, there are women washing, sweeping, watering plants. Conversing in Somali. Only a few steps away, I can hear Mumbe moving about in the kitchen while the children chase each other around the house, shrieking in Kikuyu and Kiswahili. Finally, my own voice, whispering English poetry. And of course the birds, sparrows and chickens hopping about in the muddy road and singing in their own languages.

Before I left, my friends J and T gave me a small booklet of poetry. Last year they walked across America (seriously!), and had brought the same poems along with them. These words are well-travelled. The first poem in the book, and possibly my favourite, is this one:

may my heart always be open to little
by e.e. cummings

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile