Some Of The Best Ethiopian Poems and Poets

Ethiopian poetry comprises of one of the many unique and amazing secrets held dearly by the people of Ethiopia.

We are all aware of how little is known by non-Ethiopians about the countless rich and varied aspects of Ethiopian life.

What's known is mostly acquired from scant and fragmented media reports about famine, poverty, social unrest, and so on.

But this has only painted a weak representation, which falls far short of portraying a fascinating people, their country, and their history in their true likeness.

The following poems of Ethiopia provide a small glimpse of an aspect of Ethiopian life that has had little, if any, external exposure.

Amharic poetry could prove to be a modest but laudable contributor towards enlightening the masses.

It is almost impossible to get the proper translation of the many Ethiopian poems composed throughout the country's long and culturally rich history.

Qene, is a highly regarded form of Amharic poetry, although the word is also used as a general term to describe all poetry.

True Qene uses double meanings of Amharic words and metaphors to provide one with two entirely different views of the subject.

The first one is the obvious and easily comprehended meaning, while the second is hidden from the reader/listener, who has to go through the process of uncovering its mysterious subtext.

These two meanings are commonly known as wax and gold or "sem ena work", with the obvious one being wax, while the hidden is gold.

Qene is utilized in a variety of ways and circumstances, from secretly criticizing someone while appearing to make a simple joke to expressing one's love to another while insulting them.

This makes translating them extremely difficult, but all said and done, there are many magnificent poems about Ethiopia that have been translated satisfactorily.

Themes ranging from African identity crisis, nature, problems facing educated individuals, the fate of the present generation, social criticism, and more, are recurrent in these poems.

The following are 25 poems by Ethiopian poets and foreigners with the subject generally being about Ethiopians and Ethiopia.

Tsegaye Gebre-Medhin, a poet, playwright, translator, essayist, and art director was also Poet Laureate of Ethiopia and elected to the United Poets Laureate International.

Nile

I am the first Earth Mother of all fertility. I am the Source, I am the Nile, I am the African, I am the beginning! O Arabia, how could you so conveniently have forgotten, while your breath still hangs upon the threads of my springs? O Egypt, you prodigal daughter born from my first love, I am your Queen of the endless fresh waters, who rested my head upon the arms of Narmer Ka Menes when we joined in one our Upper and Lower Lands to create you! O Sudan, born out of the bosom of my being, how could you so conveniently count down in miserable billions of petty cubic yards the eternal drops of my life-giving Nile to you? Beginning long before the earth fell from the eye-ball of heaven, O Nile, that gushes out from my breath of life upon the throats of the billions of the Earth's thirsty multitudes, O World, how could you so conveniently have forgotten that I, your first fountain, I your ever Ethiopia I your first life still survive for you? I rise like the sun from the deepest core of the globe. I am the conquoror of scorching pestilences. I am the Ethiopia that "stretches her hands in supplication to God". I am the mother of the tallest traveller on the longest journey on Earth! My name is Africa, I am the mother of the Nile. O Nile, my prodigal daughter in the wilderness of the desert, bringing God's harmony to all brothers and sisters and calming down their noises of brass in their endless nakednesses, O Nile, you are music that restores the rhythm of existence into the awkward stampeding of these Middle Eastern blindnesses, you are the irrigator that cultivates peace from my Ethiopian sacred mountains of the sun, across to nod on the East of Aden and across Sinai, beyond Gibraltar into the heights of Mount Moriah, O Nile, my chosen sacrifice for a universal peace offering upon whose gift the heritages of Meroe and Egypt still survive for the benefit of our lone World. You are the proud daughter, O Nile, who taught the ancient world how to walk in upright grace! You are my prodigal daughter who saved and breast-fed little lost Jacob whose brothers sold for food, you, who nurtured, fed and raised the child prophet called Moses on your cradle, you, who stretched out your helping hand and protected the baby Christ from the slaughtering swords of Herod, O Nile, my infinite prodigal daughter at whose feet mountains like Alexander bent their unbendable heads to drink from your life-giving milk, O Nile, at whose feet giants like Caesar knelt, conquerors like Napolean bowed their unbowable heads to partake from your imortal bounty. O Nile, you are the majestic blood line of my African glory that showers my blessings upon the starved of the world, you are the eloquence that rings the Ethiopian bell across the deaf world! You are the gifted dancer of graceful rhythms that harmonize with your sisters Etbara and Shabale, with your brothers Awash and Juba, to fertilize the scorched sands of Arabia. O Nile, without your gift Mediterranean shall be a rock of dead waters and Sahara shall be a basket of skeletons! You are Africa's black soil that produces life. You are the milk that quenches the thirsty multitudes. You are the messenger of my gospel, O Nile, that brings my abundant harvest to the mouth of the needy. You are the elegant pilgrim of my mercy. You are the first fountain, you are the first ever Ethiopia. You are the appeaser of the lustful greeds. You are the first Earth Mother of all fertility, Rising like the sun from the deepest core of the globe. You are the conqueror of the scorching pestilence. You are the source, the Africa, the Ethiopia, you are the Nile.

*Note: Written in English, August 1997

Solomon Deressa was born in the western part of Ethiopia and is an essayist, poet, and screenwriter. "L'jnnet" or Youth was his first book of poems and it was said to have been a turning point for modern Ethiopian poetry.

Poem to the Matrix

image and syllable part like the Eritrean Sea Somalia disintegrates at the tight end of unity highlanders, eyes shut, chase a cat's-tail atonement dreamer and dream now live and die lives apart Sabean images gone, the syllabary stays behind going this way, then that, before deciding on left to right... leeching first on prophetic sleight-o'hand then on parting waves then on redemption, here as elsewhere, shorn of compassion arcane allusions separate lofty brow from dancing feet in-bred decorum licks the door to primal mystery ----- only the occasional song leaks between door and wall to repeat what we've heard thrice before the poem, rebus, sound, vow to the para-verbal speech rooted in wombs adjacent to the Seat of Power the Egzi-O, the Ill-la-Hu, the Wy...Wy...Wy, the Ouh...Ouh...Ouh, the Om Ah Om repeatedly re-incarnates. Or is not born at all the Seat of Power, ever present at the play of light and shade, crumbles where table, picture, printer, petals, lips or cheeks intrude, & lovely time rides in on a whiff of baking bread, the softness of skin And the sweetness of breath. Ah! how separation harbours yearning... love, the first begotten of pulsating light tells a harsh story (Lucifer's?) tells of separation and infinite yearning, turns being into cadence... in anxious confinement apes masturbate against panic (improper) with order abstraction, we side-step the moment (immoral) & rhythm becomes time...and matter moves...streaming & speech reaches to image beyond expedient abstraction...(a poem?) we, who have been fragmented by serif and sound-bite who've covered our tracks back to the silence before the first scream whose tongues can no more move the weight of jaded words wait, though no one knows we are waiting (why?) frittered sounds of Oromo, Amharic, Tigrinya, Somali and the fourty-four fourty-four other tongues...(wherefore?) how long pretend that life and death did not trade places & this, the redemptive crucible and not the crotch-point of choices? store the scream of fourty-four tongues tearing? (how?) mind your syllables! my shattering is organic, marrow deep... lie with me in pieces or do not speak at all replicate the howl of the torture dungeon or say no more (poem?) the learned barely glimpse their own noses burnt-face Marxists have proved that, if proof there need be extrapolating the future out of a past not worth the inventing as if the past can be counted upon to count! the past is merely the present limping (did I say that?) (it takes more than good-will to walk backward straight) The past has no dimensions, the past cannot see, cannot hear barely be seen, barely heard - and heard to grant what we already have later is now unlived, half-arse fantasized, a shadowless dark-alley trick... (would you hire the dead & the unbegotten even as boundary markers time's territorial response to panic, a dog's scattered piss presence cat-napping and coming-to in fits and starts?) why else would tectonic plates collide, stars implode (panic?) and the acorn leave eternal encapsulation to stand millennia at best (talkf of perverse ego!) and the bitch carry a yelping litter to term when mother and pup will turn to everywhich master for love? so the epistasis begins at the still point and spreads in swells as the heart sinks: beaches, Goddesses and Gods, disoriented whales, kings and queens, priests and priestesses, all manner of demons, dictators and controllers and toe-suckers and rulers and attendants to their divinities and majesties and sanctities for like the pup they insist they be attended to... holy shit! all this radiance, all this horror, out of panic! et la gloire de dieu n'aura pas lieu just like you I too am born of this...like you the shattered star like the tectonic itch inching toward the rapture in the colossal rub one pup in a litter burning with the ardour of an inflated galaxy... like you like her like him like it like us like them in panic I left...and in panic I launch me home be it no launching be possible for the present be already here impenetrable to aggression piety, yearning or to seduction... it is hard core the saint and the hero are unwelcome here (did I tell you that?) their ulterior motives are a given they lack the blinding speed that curls into immobility the no-mind of the sperm, the ovum's hospitality... the drying river, the crumbling mountain, the sand that rides the wind and the twice fourty-four tongues of the Horn do not recognise them... they speak of ancestral glory, and tomorrow's promise to the millennium unaware that though they utter every name, there will yet be unuttered names... always. And tongues of flame will lick again words like wet-land weeds will reach for the sun the young women will smile for no reason at all and silently ask, how did this all begin?

*Note: This English version by the author first appeared in "Silence is not Golden: A Critical Anthology of Ethiopian Literature", edited by Tadesse Adera and Ali Jimale Ahmed (Red Sea Press, 1995).

Dr. Kebede Mikael is considered one of Ethiopia's best 20th century authors and thinkers. He wrote a total of twenty-six books, and his many translations from a variety of languages includes Amharic versions of "Romeo and Juliet" and "Macbeth". In 1990, he received an Honorary Doctorate from Addis Ababa University for his unequaled excellence in literature, and for inspiring generations of Ethiopian authors and thinkers.

The Nature of Man

Once upon a time, God ordered all the animals to gather in a field: all birds and mammals created from His breath, from mighty strongbones to the smallest gnat sat down before his throne. He called Monkey to account: "Look, Monkey, here are all my creatures from humble Donkey to the haughty Lion, tell me if you think their beauty exceeds yours, don't be afraid to speak truthfully, I will correct whatever you see as your defect." But Monkey answered like a shot: "Defect? My face is ruggedly appealing, my chest is manly and my hands and tail are simply heavenly! Why should I beg you for a change, when here I stand on two of the shapeliest legs in the land? If you are looking for a project, Lord, I'd begin with Hyena's slanted back, his foolish grin!" Hyena sidled up to answer the same question. He simpered that he knew his education was a little basic but his dusty spots could tie a young hyeness' heart in knots. Much better, in his lispy view, to overhaul a beast like Elephant, whose ears could use a cut and paste and stick the trimmings to his scrawny tail! So Elephant appeared to wails of laughter, everyone expected he would rush to ask the Lord to wield his broadest brush and re-invent him. But all he did was praise our Great Creator for his delicate greys: "I never saw a single fault in my appearance! It's Whale who waddles through the sea and flaunts her shapeless bulk, why not remodel her and put a stop to all our laughter?" But Whale was just the same. Every animal thoroughly enjoyed to name the flaws in others, to snicker, scoff and pride themselves as superior stuff. So God dismissed them all. As I do now, but I would like to show you how we can be different: by telling our defects as humans, examine how imperfect our paper generosities, lush-sounding words, when look! we are such small mean lords pumped up with self-importance, empty and rude-fingered sycophants! We humans should tell the Earth and Sky how cruel we are, but it comes as no surprise when our strutting tongues collapse and will not say a word. Our mouth-traps open for gales of mockery: liars laugh at blind men, who hear well enough to snigger at peg-legs, and peg-legs like to jeer at baldies, baldies at the stutterers who leer at pompous clerks who themselves ridicule the hatless customer, and hatless makes a fool of silly face and silly face laughs at ugly and ugly mocks a leper for his leprosy - and who will the leper find to criticise? oh yes, a cuckold racked with jealousies! Man, strange being, uncorrectable, two-faced but strangely simple, continues his own bad example. Generations come and go, we stay the same, like passengers on a commuter train. We're all alike in this, just different in superficialities. We were always meant to give ourselves a long hard stare and see the library list of imperfections there. That's why I think it would be so much better, if we all agreed, not to laugh at each other.

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Chris Beckett, who grew up in Ethiopia

Pride of the Motherland

This poem won seventh place winner in "African's Pride" Poetry Contest in June 30, 2010.

Riding an elephant Down the narrow trail looking triumphant Scanning the golden landscape Like Hannibal with enemies in flight Sight from a lofty height King of the jungle moving With lioness by his side Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro Guides by my side with packs on their backs Some paths steep with rocks Boots slipping below our tired feet Beautiful birds in unison flight Moving with terrestrial light Stunning sunlight summit on the peak Praying in an Ethiopian Church Preserved in rocks built by humans’ hands Never touched by conquest plans Protected from the invaders’ footsteps Queen of Sheba and Solomon’s nest Touched by Arch of the Covenant Mary, Joseph, and Jesus once slept Eating yam, sipping palm wine, and tasting milk Freshly squeezed by experienced hands Taste of life in the mosaic grassland Sustaining and soul refreshing Cradle of humankind adorning Invaded for its gold, riches, and human capacity Birth of life on earth with tenacity Respecting its living and arduous journey Essence of life once was and is again to come Riding a camel across the hot Sahara sand Once wet now dried, exported gold from Mali... Treasures from the hearts of once African empires That which was, is, and shall forever be Africa the birthing Motherland We still love and respect thee!

Welcome White Dove

Welcome, welcome White dove The hatred wall That estranged cousins Have begun to fall When love Incarnated in white dove Started to fly high Over Ethiopian- Eritrean sky. Welcome, welcome White dove You are an antidote Border dispute to solve. Welcome, welcome White dove Ethiopia's port problem Eritrea's financial-return Challenges You are sure to dissolve. Welcome, welcome White dove Tourism and trade Must spur ahead. So to wipe out Dislike's filth Let us put a glove. Welcome, welcome White dove To make up for Lost resources and chances Also the two cousins From dislike to absolve.

*Note: Ethiopia and Eritrea have finally resumed friendship after twenty years of a no-war-no-peace stalemate.

Mengistu Lemma was a poet and playwright. He was socially committed to popularizing Ethiopian indigenous culture; this is best seen in his notable work ‘Yabbatoch Ch’ewata’ (Pastimes of the Forefathers), a collection of poems.

Longing

The train hauled me out of London - out of the smoke, the smog, the grime, the filthy mix of soot and dust - while the train spun fog from the fabric of steam, clothing the land with its garment of blessings and punishment, Yizze kataf, yizze kataf, goes the powerful weaver. Isn’t it amazing? Life’s a miracle: coal smoke set free through the power of coal! The carriage was big enough for ten, but no-one was brave enough to open the door I’d shut fast to keep in the warmth. Instead, they huddled in the corridor, unwilling to share the warmth with a black man - even though coal is black, even though the wealth of England was forged by black coal. The train whistled like a washint flute; haystacks dotted the distant fields, just like the straw roofs of houses in a village at home. And in the blink of an eye, I turned into ‘a traveller of God’ in the meadows of England... ‘Greetings to your household!’ I cried, ‘I am your “black”, your unexpected, guest: your kindness to me will bring you God’s blessings’. ‘Welcome, come in!’ the head of the household replied. Then his wife brought a bowl of warm water, and kneeling down happily to wash my feet, ‘Don’t be shy, my friend,’ she said. First my mouth blessed that tulla beer of Gojjam, then a bowl arrived, and my empty stomach began to fill as I licked the linseed oil of Gondar from my fingers; next, chicken stew rich with curds. Contented, I yawned. Sleep overcame me as I lay down on fine cotton and was covered with wool... Dimly, I heard the door slide open — but was fully awake by the time it slammed shut. I jumped, but then calmed myself down, glowering at the reckless young man, the brave one who’d dared to enter my den as I slept. But his spotless shirt and neat matching tie made me laugh: he was so amazingly clean!

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Martin Orwin, Sarah Maguire and the Poetry Translation Centre Workshop.

Gebre Kristos Desta, was born in Harar, Ethiopia. He was an accomplished poet, artist, and teacher. Late in life, he established himself as an independent artist in Addis Ababa, and his work was exhibited both in Ethiopia and abroad.

Solace

Work in progress growing continually whiling away the days. A small room, shelter from the world’s ills. A small chair that hugs that braces. Old clothes worn out comfortably thread-bare. Old shoes that have served that have worked. A decanter, a plate, water water to wash in. A towel, rough. A stove, charcoal fire, fire, warmth. A crumb of bread, milk in a bottle fruit on a plate. A cigarette, half gone, smoking. A letter, a note-book of memories, a newspaper. Kinsmen in a frame, photo of a friend. A bedside lamp, on the wall shadows a picture. Books, books, books (to lean on, to run to, to hide in) that are company, that teach, that bait a dialogue. A bed, a mattress, a pillow a bed to sink into repose. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Also others, also many many others. Provide solace.

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Solomon Deressa.

World famous poets Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson (The Ethiop within) Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson (The Ethiop within) both used an image of an Ethiopian in poems they authored in the 1860's.

Ethiopia Saluting The Colors

WHO are you, dusky woman, so ancient, hardly human, With your woolly-white and turban'd head, and bare bony feet? Why, rising by the roadside here, do you the colors greet? ('Tis while our army lines Carolina's sand and pines, Forth from thy hovel door, thou, Ethiopia, com'st to me, As, under doughty Sherman, I march toward the sea.) Me, master, years a hundred, since from my parents sunder'd, A little child, they caught me as the savage beast is caught; Then hither me, across the sea, the cruel slaver brought. No further does she say, but lingering all the day, 10 Her high-borne turban'd head she wags, and rolls her darkling eye, And curtseys to the regiments, the guidons moving by. What is it, fateful woman--so blear, hardly human? Why wag your head, with turban bound--yellow, red and green? Are the things so strange and marvelous, you see or have seen?

It is widely believed as fact that the great-grandfather of the greatest Russian poet Alexander Pushkin (1799 – 1837) came to St. Petersburg, according to some, from northern Ethiopia. His name was Abram Hannibal (1696 – 1781), and he was brought to St. Petersburg and at the age of 8 or 9.

I loved you...

I loved you, and I probably still do, And for a while the feeling may remain... But let my love no longer trouble you, I do not wish to cause you any pain. I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew, The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain - Made up a love so tender and so true As may God grant you to be loved again.

Paul Laurence Dunbar was an African American poet, playwright, and novelist in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Ode To Ethiopia

O Mother Race! to thee I bring This pledge of faith unwavering, This tribute to thy glory. I know the pangs which thou didst feel, When Slavery crushed thee with its heel, With thy dear blood all gory. Sad days were those -- ah, sad indeed! But through the land the fruitful seed Of better times was growing. The plant of freedom upward sprung, And spread its leaves so fresh and young - Its blossoms now are blowing. On every hand in this fair land, proud Ethiope's swarthy children stand Beside their fairer neighbor; The forests flee before their stroke, Their hammers ring, their forges smoke, They stir in honest labour. They tread the fields where honour calls; Their voices sound through senate halls In majesty and power. To right they cling; the hymns they sing Up to the skies in beauty ring, And bolder grow each hour. Be proud, my Race, in mind and soul; Thy name is writ on Glory's scroll In characters of fire. High 'mid the clouds of Fame's bright sky Thy banner's blazoned folds now fly, And truth shall lift them higher. Thou hast the right to noble pride, Whose spotless robes were purified By blood's severe baptism. Upon thy brow the cross was laid, And labour's painful sweat-beads made A consecrating chrism. No other race, or white or black, When bound as thou wert, to the rack, So seldom stooped to grieving; No other race, when free again, Forgot the past and proved them men So noble in forgiving. Go on and up! Our souls and eyes Shall follow thy continuous rise; Our ears shall list thy story From bards who from thy root shall spring, And proudly tune their lyres to sing Of Ethiopia's glory.

See also:

155 of the Best Ethiopian Proverbs and Wise Sayings in Amharic and English

Alemayehu Gebrehiwot, born in 1962, studied drama at Addis Ababa University, then worked for the Ministry of Culture before emigrating to the US, in 2000. His Amharic translation of Oscar Wilde’s play "Lady Windermere’s Fan" was staged at the Hager Fikir Theatre in Addis Ababa. His collection of poems in Amharic, "Etalem: Sebseb Getemoch" (The Endeared Sister) was published in 2006.

OK, let’s be exiled!

Yes, let’s be exiled, far from our families, our beloved country, our villages, our rivers. Let’s go! let’s rush! yes, let’s be exiled, Mary did it, trudging over the deserts with Jesus in her arms. Then let’s forget refuge forever and start thinking of going back! Let’s build imaginary houses for our hearts to settle in advance and fill them with wealth and blessings, until the cows come home. Yes, let’s return! Let’s never get too comfortable!

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Getatchew Haile.

Amha Asfaw, born in 1949 and later moved to the United States in 1974. He is a physicist at the University of Missouri, Columbia. He has translated Langston Hughes poems into Amharic and his latest collection is called "Yilalla Denebo", the title of a funeral lament.

Silence

Silence is golden, say my countrymen. A bug would not enter a closed mouth, say my countrymen. They have not seen America, a land where silence is synonymous with laziness and a quiet man is considered ignorant.

A Candle in a Jar

Do not deceive yourself that you are a candle in a jar: a candle gives off light. Do not deceive yourself that you are a glowing ember: embers burst into flame. Do not deceive yourself saying “we are the ashes left by a fire”: you never burnt like a fire. You do not have the fuel. You do not have the oil which is the source of all light. You do not have it in you.

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Getatchew Haile.

Alemtsehay Wodajo, born in 1955, is an accomplished song-writer, poet, and actress. Most of her poems are based on traditional war songs, which women sang for the purpose of inspiring soldiers in the field of battle. Two notable poetic collections of hers are ‘Marafiya Yattach Heywot’ (A life that has no resting place), published in 1996, and ‘Yemata Injera’ (Evening Bread, 2009).

The Soul Has a Message

From the time she arrives, until the time she leaves her borrowed body, the soul has a message, a role to perform and the means to perform it: she creates the things she likes, but also works for others and plans for the future, spinning comforts like a thread. The soul has a message, she is entrusted with an assignment. There are those who are dead even while they live, who have erred and disappointed the soul, who have carried her without benefit and paid no attention to her, who have passed away despised, who let their soul pass away despising her. To the likes of these, she should not have been given. To those who, carrying the soul, have no soul.

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Getatchew Haile.

Lena Bezawork Grönlund, born in Addis Ababa but was raised in the northern part of Sweden. Lena has a master’s degree in Library and Information Science from Uppsala University and a B.A in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Montana.

Mercato, Addis

red bicycles blue houses red bicycles I dream of blue houses red bicycles

Addis Ababa

This city wakes with the mosques that begin their days praying, closing its eyes to the sound of drums echoing from the churches out into the night.

Close

Beza, this is dust this is seventeen years of dust at this market yet everything here carried me

Alemu Tebeje Ayele, is a poet, journalist, social worker and internet campaigner residing in the UK. His poems were published in the anthologies ‘Forever Spoken’ and ‘No Serenity Here’, featuring twenty six poets from twelve African countries.

The Saucepan and the Cabbage

One day, the ghosts of two dictators bump into each other in the Palace: Mengistu: I found a cabbage BIG as Ethiopia! Meles: I found a saucepan BIG as Ethiopia! Mengistu: Well, what will you do with it? Meles: I will cook your cabbage in it! Our country is that saucepan and we are the cabbage, still cooking on the fire they lit.

At the Departure of My Best Friend

My best friend has died and my grief is a fire that burns even my tears. I miss his honest smile, his goodness keeps me company. Now the mourners walk away and do not see me burning for my best friend. He is far from life now, burnt out of his life by the flames of yellow fever.

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Chris Beckett.

Hama Tuma, lives in Paris, France and is considered to be an influential Ethiopian political activist, as well as, a poet, and author of satirical articles/short stories. Notable of all his works are his first collections of stories: ‘The Case of the Socialist Witch Doctor and Other Stories’, which was published by Heinemann London in 1993.

Of Guilt

The man ran after his fart to slap it back and erase the shame. The stink lingers. Today’s love is tepid, almost cold, won’t dry a hankie, no heat at all. Time has subdued my countrymen, they pass history twice and leave no shadow behind. The frog in the pond laughed itself to death, the owl is blind. In the Waldiba monastery, forever silent, noisy festivities are held. Time moves on grinding all, changing all, but the crocodile has no teeth and the Ethiopian no guilt: everyone’s heart is lost.

Bewketu Seyoum is a writer and poet from Mankusa in Gojjam. His father is an English teacher and his mother comes from a family of Orthodox priests. He published three collections of Amharic poetry, two novels and two CDs of short stories. Bewketu was awarded the prize for Young Writer of the Year in 2018 by the President of Ethiopia and in 2012, he was chosen to represent Ethiopia at the Poetry Parnassus festival in London.

I Won’t Climb a Mountain

I won’t climb a mountain to touch the clouds, I won’t lift the frown of a rainbow into a smile, I won’t borrow Tekle Haymanot’s wings or Jacob’s ladder - when I want to climb, the sky will come down to me! አልወጣም ተራራ አልወጣም ተራራ ደመናን ልዳብስ ቀስተ ደመናውን፣ ሽቅብ ልቀለብስ አልዋስም እኔ ካ’ቡነ ተክሌ ከንፍ ከያዕቆብ መሰላል እኔ መውጣት ሳስብ ሰማዩ ዝቅ ይላል፡፡

The Door to Freedom

If tortured spirits who have lived in chains are suddenly called to freedom, the door of their cell thrown open and the guards sent home, they will not feel truly free unless they break through the wall. ፍኖተ አርነት ተበዳይ መናፍስት ታፍነው የኖሩ ወደ አርነት ዐውድ በድንገት ሲጠሩ ያለጠባቂ ዘብ ተከፍቶ ሳል በሩ የወጡ አይመስላቸው ቅጽሩን ካልሰበሩ

Fool’s Love

For him she is not just a woman: she holds the stars in her body, the earth in her soul. Even if he spends his life running away, he will not get far. ሞኝ ፍቅር ለሱ ሰው ብቻ አይደለችም ጠፈር ናት ባካሏ መሬት ናት በነፍሷ ዕድሜ ልኩን ቢሮጥ አያመልጥም ከሷ፡፡

In Search of Fat

A multitude of thin people, all skin, call out like rag and bone men, “Where’s our fat?” They rummage every mountain, stone and huddle-huddle, search in the soil, search in the sky. At last they find it, piled up on one man’s belly! ኅሰሳ ስጋ እልፍ ከሲታዎች ቀጥነው የሞገጉ “ስጋችን የት ሄደ?” ብለው ሲፈልጉ በየሽንተረሩ በየጥጋጥጉ አስሰው አስሰው በምድር በሰማይ አገኙት ቦርጭ ሆኖ ባንድ ሰው ገላ ላይ፡፡

Elegy

The fall of every leaf diminishes me, so when I hear a rustle I send my eyes out of the window to look at the trees in the yard. Alas! where there were woods, I see flag-poles standing. Men have swept nature’s nest away to build their cities. The melody of the nightingale has lost its immortality and I am sitting on a dead land, writing an elegy in the sand. ሙሾ ያንዲት ቅንጣት ቅጠል መውደቅ እንደሚያጎድለኝ አውቃለሁ፣ ኮሽታ በሰማሁ ቀጥር፣ ዐይኖቼን በመስኮቴ ማዶ እወረውራለሁ፣ በጉዋሮዬ ያሉትን ዛፎች ለማየት ፡፡ እነሆ ዛፎች በነበሩበት፣ የባንዲራ ምሶሶዎች በቀሉበት፡፡ ሰዎች የተፈጥሮን ጎጆ መነጠሩ፣ ከተሞቻቸውንም ሠሩ፡፡ እኔም ፣የሽመላው ማህሌት፤ ህያውነቱን ሲያጣ እያየሁ፤ በሙት ምድር ላይ ቆምያለሁ፤ ባሸዋ ብራና ላይ የሙሾ ግጥም እጽፋለሁ፡፡

Prohibited!

Smoking is prohibited! Whistling is prohibited! Peeing is prohibited! The whole wall made up of prohibitions. Which one is right?? Were I blessed with a piece of wall, a little piece of power, my slogan would be: Prohibitions are prohibited! ክልክል ነው! ማጨስ ክልክል ነው! ማፏጨት ክልክል ነው! መሽናት ክልክል ነው! ግድግዳው በሙሉ ተሠርቶ በክልክል የቱ ነው ትክክል? ትንሽ ግድግዳ እና ትንሽ ኀይል ባይለኝ “መከልከል ክልክል ነው!” የሚል ትእዛዝ አለኝ፡፡

*Note: The translations were done by the author in collaboration with Chris Beckett and Alemu Tebeje Ayele, except for ‘Prohibited!’, which was translated by Bahrnegash Bellete.

Zewdu Milikit, born in 1958 on the shores of Lake Tana in Bahir Dar, Ethiopia, studied languages in Addis Ababa University and is now a lecturer at Gondar College of Teacher’s Education.

Year of the Spider

Animals symbolised years since the olden days, but animals are old hat now, insects are the way to go in the year of the spider - everyone’s weaving a ladder of cobwebs, and trying to fly when they’re falling. የሸረሪት ዘመን አየተመሰለ በእንስላት ዘመኑ፣ ብዙ ዓመት ታልፎ ነው የደረስን ካሁኑ፡፡ አለፈበትና ምስለት እንስሳቱ፣ ቀስ አያልን ደረስን ከምስለ ነፍሳቱ፡፡ ሆኖ የሸረሪት ምስለት ዘመኑ፣ ሰዎቹ በሙሉ በማድራት ተካኑ፡፡ አድርተው አድርተው አንዴ እንደሞከሩ፣ እንደሸረሪቱ ሸረር ብለው ቀሩ፡፡

The Few

Who in their hunger find a sort of bread, joy even in what they dread, a maybe in never. Who, being few, do not envy others and whose works, like brothers you can count on one hand, count forever. የአለም ጥቂት ሰዎች ርሃብ ጥጋባቸው፣ ደስታ ሃዘናቸው፣ ፍቅር ጥላቻቸው፣ ሁሉም ጥቂት ሆኖ በጥቂት ያልቅና፣ ጥቂት ስራቸው ግን ቢሰፈር አያልቅም በዘመናት ቁና፡፡

Ripe and Raw

Something ripe and something raw, when cooked together, go to war. But that’s not all, there’s more: as raw gets ripe, the ripe burns down, so ripe might just as well be raw! Mix your feelings up together and however fast you stir and stir, the fresh ones turn out nice and brown, but older passions end up sticking to the pan. ብስልና ጥሬ ብስልና ጥሬ ባንድ እየተቆሉ፣ ሁሉም ክስል ያሉ የጨሱ መሰሉ፣ ሰካስ እንዲያ አይደለም ወዲህ ነው ምስጢሩ፣ ጥሬው እስኪበስል ብስሉ ነው ማረሩ:: ደግሞ እንዲሀም አለ ብስልም ጥሬ መምሰል፣ አብሮ እየተቆሉ እስኪያሩ መማሰል … መማሰል … መማሰል … መማሰል ሲበዛ ጥሬው በሰለና፣ ብስሉ አራራ ሆኖ ምጣድ ላይ ቀረና::

The Fashion of Silence

He used to let his beard grow long and never comb his hair. “Little’s all I need”, he’d say, his pants as thin as hermits under an itchy coat. He loved a fierce discussion for the sake of it, the rip of one opinion being torn from all the talk around. But that’s long gone: today his hair is short and smartly trimmed, his handsome new persona boasts a wardrobe of fine clothes: shirt and t-shirt combos! jackets and their matching ties! tailored trousers loose enough to bag a thousand private thoughts - such quiet quality, whispery as a woman’s dress, whispery as him. The temper of the times has changed, no talk of so, so many things, no fierce discussion, clashing views - today the House of Learning wears a fashionable hush. የዝምታ ፋሽን ጺሙን አጎፍሮ፣ ፀጉሩን አንጨፍሮ፣ ዓለም በቃኝ ያለ፣ መናኝ የመሰለ፣ ሱሪውን አጥብቆ “በሳሪያ” ኮት ታንቆ፣ ማውራት መነጋገር፣ ብዙ ብዙ ነገር፣ በጥብቅ መወያየት፣ መፋጨት መጋጨት፣ በሃሳብ መናጨት፣ እንዲህ ነበር ድሮ፣ ዛረ ተቀየሮ፣ ፀጉር ባጭር ባጭር፣ ከርከሙ የሚያምር፣ መልከን የሚያላምር፡፡ የላይ ልብስ መብዛ፣ “ሸሚዙ ቲ ሸርቱ፣ “ኮቱና ጃኬቱ::” ሱሪው ያልጠበቀ ሰፊ የሚያዝናና፣ ሽፍኖ የሚይዝ የራሰን ገመና:: አይ ሱሪው ስፋቱ! እቤት ደስ ማለቱ፣ ጥሩ ቀሚስ መስሏል ምትለብስውን እቱ:: ደግሞኮ ፀጥ ነው፣ ፀባይ ልዩ ነው:: ማውራት መነጋገር፣ ብዙ ብዙ ነገር፣ በጥብቅ መወያየት፣ በሃሳብ መጋጨት፡ ያያ ዛሬ ቀርቷል፣ የዝምታ ፋሸን “ከምሁር” ቤት ገብቷል::

Wood’s Story

Wood burned and heated Metal. Metal melted into Axe and cut down a whole family of Trees. But when the mother of all Trees cried out for justice, Axe felled another forest, and Wood fell for his own tricks, by changing his name to Handle. የእንጨት ነገር እንጨት ነደደና ብረትን አጋላ፣ ብረትም ጋለና አይሆኑውም ሆነ፡፡ ብረት ተቀጥቅጦ ምሳር ሊወጣው፣ የእንጨትን ዘር ሁሉ ቆራርጦ ጣለው፣ ምሳር ቂም ሊወጣ ሲቆርጥ እንጨትን፣ እንጨት አጋዥ ሆነ ቀይሮ ስሙን፣ ራሱን አታሎ ራሱን ሸንግሎ፣ ራሱን ቆረጠ እጀታ ነኝ ብሎ፡፡

*Note: Translated from Amharic by Chris Beckett and Alemu Tebeje Ayele.

Liyou Libsekal,, born in 1990, grew up in several countries of East Africa. She moved to the US and received her BA in Anthropology in 2012 from George Washington University. After a brief stay in Vietnam, she returned to her homeland of Ethiopia and in 2013 began writing about culture and the environment for Ethiopian Business Review. She received the Brunel University African Poetry Prize in 2014.

Riding Chinese Machines

There are beasts in this city they creak and they crank and groan from first dawn when their African-tongued masters wake to guide them lax and human-handed through the late rush when they‘re handled down and un-animated still as we sleep, towering or bowing always heavy we pour cement through the cities towns, through the wild onwards, outwards like fingers of eager hands stretched across the earth dug in the lions investigate and buried marvel rumbles squeezed for progress

Momentum Lives in the Foothills

here, the mountains sit heavy while their children buzz under, around and in between them ambitious, soles in cycles feet snug in cement-dusted leather we build and the air smells of movement of hope-soaked bodies and chemical dirt we watch creaking teeth smash concrete unaffected operators; friends at their feet they move through creatures missing shirking heads and quick limbs

Childhood was Mud-Play and Dirty Fingernails

I was born to a woman whose hands are washed with ritual balancing act temperatures and tempers home grown versus raised afar, cleansing finales this, always with translucent crowns on blushing fingertips I thought her magic lay in age- in mine, the earthworms slipped beneath the dirt unsexed and unbothered simply hydrated to form and the heart-red soil had to follow suit under muted hose and desperate hands

Agar

I remember a yellow scarf fashioned every which way and beautiful bones that peaked at the cheeks. Mounted proud “young mother” in eyes mourning a daughter left behind Families don’t speak of shame and hindsight lives in layers. She was pieces of you strolling tall, slender and curved but you were with me as she cocooned and rolled and stretched. Always in a flowered dress, always drenched in fate you sit, a lakeside lullaby a picture of youth then, and forever and forever I gnaw on whether you knew near the end but with age as authority, we lived in darkness why expect more in death? My anger lives in layers un-abandoned, if only for my sake.

Sorry, We Are Busy Growing

Before I left the neighborhood, the city and so on, our mad man was simply a boy. Settled in thoughts until he had to chase taunting children from his lost mother’s door; until he found himself in dust-covered green, keeping time with short sharp steps and an extra arm. Sixteen years and his rambles announce his arrival. His steps still sure on our still rubbled paths, parted quick of boisterous kids who run to whisper behind the skirts of busy women or the makeshift seats of idle men. And all watch like the shabby dog who guards his weathered sleeping spot, eyes speckled with suspicion Our mad man’s words are strung without beginning or end, missed by blocked ears hot with fear of the glazed look that sits on a body born to hurt, on a face that betrays the dearth of a nation concerned only with numbers.

Regrets as Long as Fishing Lines

I dreamt we were made of sand trickled from the mouth of a catfish (and I remembered pulling two out of Langano) when this mother was done spilling us into form, she coughed up a coil of bronze and sunk it into each of our foreheads then, beginning from her whiskers she cracked into a pile of sheer shells so I carried them nestled in my hair to the edge of a shoreline wanting to bless her with rest but her pieces had melted in the sun leaving my strands soaked in liquid gray

Born in 1950, he attended Addis Ababa University and later, Sheffield. Fekade has had 5 collections of poems published in Amharic, a book on famine poetry, 2 books on folklore and numerous articles about Ethiopian literature. He is currently an associate professor of Ethiopian literature and folklore in Addis Ababa University.

Addis Ababa

I walk your streets, but make no strides: your shops and kiosks crowd my eyes ENTs and dentistries music stalls drug shacks photo booths jumbled! chaotic! so many loud bars competing to make the most noise how can so much thunder come out of shops as small and cluttered as gravestones? this flow of people that never stops pushing, storming, elbowing measuring the chaos of your streets… I walk your streets, but make no strides: dinginess and squalor poor rag-dirty men all men, sleeping rough in your abundant filth on every corner keep piercing my eyes, I stop and glance, not long enough to see if they are alive, I march forward, like everyone else we all march forward. I walk your streets, but make no strides: your population is so dense there is no space to walk! your bodies look so pale and shrunken discoloured! slack! I ask myself, do they have food? do they have a roof over their heads? is everyone sleeping rough on street corners lying in make-shift tukuls? piled on top of each other like planks? I walk your streets, making no strides, hands stretch out and hold me back, begging every step: thousands of fathers and mothers! hundreds of babies and young girls! crowds of skinny old men and teenagers with no one to care for them all searching for scraps, a living out of scraps. I walk your streets, making no strides: a naked boy runs past me another clutches a stone or stick others a flower or a rag or a paper long black hair locked in dreads skin burnt to charcoal shouting in the squares where other people call them insane! but there is always some truth in what they say they have nobody to care for them but they are your decorations, Addis, your beautiful jewels! I walk your streets, but make no strides: how can I avoid playing football with your children? your streets are a playground a nursery where you bring up your young your little shoe-shine boys lottery-ticket hawkers and cigarette touts q’olo corn sellers, gum sellers, paperboys children doing nothing children begging look! it is World Childrens’ Day they are performing a show for everyone to see about survival they have made your streets into a stage. Yes, I have walked your streets, I have made no strides. Your secrets are endless, Addis! I will give in now, I will rest.

*Note: Translated from Amharic by the author, in collaboration with Chris Beckett.

‘We do not respect an angel for his wings…’

We do not respect an angel for his wings or because he covers his face with his wings. After all, birds and insects have wings. We do not respect an old man for his white hair. After all, wood may turn white in cold air. We respect a man for his wisdom, not his white hair.

Liqoo Kefle Yohannes, translated by Chris Beckett.

‘One teacher bows to another…’

One teacher bows to another. Finger and thumb are unequal brothers.

Author unknown, it is an ancient Gondar "Gubae Cana”, translation done by Chris Beckett.

‘Mount Tabor’

Mount Tabor, though it could make men quake, could not explain God’s secrets. But the cloud, so insubstantial, spoke.

Author unknown, it is a Zeamlakye Q’ene from a Gondar scholar, translation done by Chris Beckett.

‘Since Adam…’

Since Adam/your lip did eat of that Tree, The Saviour/my heart has been hung up for Thee.

Author unknown, it is a "sem ena work" (wax and gold) q’ene where 2 subjects are placed side by side and the second line puns on the verb, "tasaqala", which can mean "is crucified" or "is anxious to be near". This poem is deals with Christ atoning for the sin of man, but its second meaning is that of a sensual love poem. The translation was done by Donald Levine.

‘What use is tella? What use is tejj?’’

What use is tella? What use is tejj? When you see the enemy, serve him coffee!

Author unknown, Tella is a form of watered down beer, while tejj is a much more stronger wine made of honey. This is a "merimer q’ene" which plays on 2 meanings of a phrase, in this case "buna adargaw" (give him coffee) and bun adargaw (burn him to ashes), so the "work" (gold) of the second line is: When you see the enemy, burn him to ashes! The translation was done by Donald Levine. reference: themissingslate