To a stranger in a faraway land
To an Ivory Carver
Stranger,
far
far away
please
hear my words
from a quiet forest in Africa
Close your eyes
run your fingers over the cool smoothness
of the ivory before you
feel the presence of a gentle nobility next to you
let it touch your spirit
open your heart to it
This presence was once living
breathing
a beloved stitch of the tapestry of trees and waterholes
He walked mile upon mile
through burning plains
cool forests
in sunshine
in rain
He too felt Hunger
as you do
He too felt thirst
as you do
He too mourned His dead
as you do
Lift your face to the African sun
feel it warm you
as He did
hear the scolding churr of the Oxpecker
as He did
taste the river water
as He did
smell the dry Savannah
as He did
feel the freedom
of the cool Night
from the heat of the sun
as He did
Now open your eyes
and see what is left of the magnificence of Him
lying before you
What your industry has reduced him to…
He deserved to die
in His time
in peace
with His world
but you far away
had ordered his death
Can you not you feel the pain and despair seeping out of these tusks
that He once dug for roots with
in the red earth of Africa
Can’t you sense the brutal bloodshed that has traveled with Him
the horror and anger of Mother Africa
even though your fingers would carve beauty
you are moulding Death
and Death and bloodshed hang over you
Death greets you at the door when you enter your workplace
Death sits with you and watches over your shoulder as you work with His ivory
Death is embedded in your day and your evenings are shadowed by it
Death drips agony in your dreaming
It can be no other way
because He did not die in peace with His world
He died for you to carve
and His spirit has stayed trapped
with His tusks
When you sell your work
you are selling Death
His spirit, his traumatized Spirit,
will stay with His ivory
Each time you unpack a new crate of tusks
you are unpacking more Death and blood
agony and anger
and a curse and the sadness of Mother Africa
I know this
because I sit here in the forest
and I hear the trees whisper of Her pain
the birds are silent
each time a noble elephant falls
in agony
while the butchers that you have summoned
do your work
hacking off their tusks while they are still alive
the forest cries
and the Earth mourns
Burn the ivory
set their trapped spirits free
to return to the Dreamtime of Mother Africa
Christine Jordaan, 2013© 2017
To an Ivory Carver
Stranger,
far
far away
please
hear my words
from a quiet forest in Africa
Close your eyes
run your fingers over the cool smoothness
of the ivory before you
feel the presence of a gentle nobility next to you
let it touch your spirit
open your heart to it
This presence was once living
breathing
a beloved stitch of the tapestry of trees and waterholes
He walked mile upon mile
through burning plains
cool forests
in sunshine
in rain
He too felt Hunger
as you do
He too felt thirst
as you do
He too mourned His dead
as you do
Lift your face to the African sun
feel it warm you
as He did
hear the scolding churr of the Oxpecker
as He did
taste the river water
as He did
smell the dry Savannah
as He did
feel the freedom
of the cool Night
from the heat of the sun
as He did
Now open your eyes
and see what is left of the magnificence of Him
lying before you
What your industry has reduced him to…
He deserved to die
in His time
in peace
with His world
but you far away
had ordered his death
Can you not you feel the pain and despair seeping out of these tusks
that He once dug for roots with
in the red earth of Africa
Can’t you sense the brutal bloodshed that has traveled with Him
the horror and anger of Mother Africa
even though your fingers would carve beauty
you are moulding Death
and Death and bloodshed hang over you
Death greets you at the door when you enter your workplace
Death sits with you and watches over your shoulder as you work with His ivory
Death is embedded in your day and your evenings are shadowed by it
Death drips agony in your dreaming
It can be no other way
because He did not die in peace with His world
He died for you to carve
and His spirit has stayed trapped
with His tusks
When you sell your work
you are selling Death
His spirit, his traumatized Spirit,
will stay with His ivory
Each time you unpack a new crate of tusks
you are unpacking more Death and blood
agony and anger
and a curse and the sadness of Mother Africa
I know this
because I sit here in the forest
and I hear the trees whisper of Her pain
the birds are silent
each time a noble elephant falls
in agony
while the butchers that you have summoned
do your work
hacking off their tusks while they are still alive
the forest cries
and the Earth mourns
Burn the ivory
set their trapped spirits free
to return to the Dreamtime of Mother Africa
Stranger,
far
far away
please
hear my words
from a quiet forest in Africa
Close your eyes
run your fingers over the cool smoothness
of the ivory before you
feel the presence of a gentle nobility next to you
let it touch your spirit
open your heart to it
This presence was once living
breathing
a beloved stitch of the tapestry of trees and waterholes
He walked mile upon mile
through burning plains
cool forests
in sunshine
in rain
He too felt Hunger
as you do
He too felt thirst
as you do
He too mourned His dead
as you do
Lift your face to the African sun
feel it warm you
as He did
hear the scolding churr of the Oxpecker
as He did
taste the river water
as He did
smell the dry Savannah
as He did
feel the freedom
of the cool Night
from the heat of the sun
as He did
Now open your eyes
and see what is left of the magnificence of Him
lying before you
What your industry has reduced him to…
He deserved to die
in His time
in peace
with His world
but you far away
had ordered his death
Can you not you feel the pain and despair seeping out of these tusks
that He once dug for roots with
in the red earth of Africa
Can’t you sense the brutal bloodshed that has traveled with Him
the horror and anger of Mother Africa
even though your fingers would carve beauty
you are moulding Death
and Death and bloodshed hang over you
Death greets you at the door when you enter your workplace
Death sits with you and watches over your shoulder as you work with His ivory
Death is embedded in your day and your evenings are shadowed by it
Death drips agony in your dreaming
It can be no other way
because He did not die in peace with His world
He died for you to carve
and His spirit has stayed trapped
with His tusks
When you sell your work
you are selling Death
His spirit, his traumatized Spirit,
will stay with His ivory
Each time you unpack a new crate of tusks
you are unpacking more Death and blood
agony and anger
and a curse and the sadness of Mother Africa
I know this
because I sit here in the forest
and I hear the trees whisper of Her pain
the birds are silent
each time a noble elephant falls
in agony
while the butchers that you have summoned
do your work
hacking off their tusks while they are still alive
the forest cries
and the Earth mourns
Burn the ivory
set their trapped spirits free
to return to the Dreamtime of Mother Africa
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