The Night Lion
Dust devils, scratchy wind, a boy who
hearing things
has got up and parted the tent flap,
steps out to find himself
in the court of the Night Lion.
Neither sees the other well, the boy, well,
he is sleepy
and the king of beasts is busy with trash,
a carcase of camp mutton picked out
by flies and the smell of old fat.
Moon films the stillness. Boy’s ten curly toes
holding their breath,
Lion’s tatty mane and rheumy eyes,
his haunch ripped open by a rival’s claw –
can you hear the boy's forgotten scream?
Lion's roar that never makes it past a grumble?
The Day Lion
Lion!
who stands on a step and towers over the Emperor:
is this your father or just a sliver of meat
with ridiculous medals?
Lion!
who never bothers with freedom or captivity
who we hold up for boys, saying
this is a symbol of courage and strength!
even as we crush you like salt in our fingers
Lion!
born in Elubabur in the blinding daytime
of a thorn acacia tree
whose mother taught to smell meat even in your sleep –
smell these daisies from the Emperor’s garden
their scent is round and delicate
like the breath of a small yellow klikspringer
just before you snap her neck
Note: Haile Selassie’s favourite lion, Tojo, loved the smell of flowers. Now he stands stuffed at the head of the stairs in the Emperor’s old palace in Addis Ababa, staring and sniffing through the open window.
* Chris Beckett grew up in Ethiopia. He won first prize in the Poetry London competition 2001 and second prize in Chroma 2006. He has translated work by the young Ethiopian writer, Bewketu Seyum, and is working on a collection of poems about boyhood in Ethiopia.