Read Online The Return by Dany Laferrière - Free Book Online
Authors: Dany Laferrière
Tags: Poetry/Fiction
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Thatâs what my grandmother used when I had nightmares. But I treasure those dreams. Theyâre the only thing thatâs left of my life from before.
My mother and my sister
come out to be with us
on the gallery.
A choir singing religious music on the radio.
My mother accompanies them.
Evening falls.
A Social Problem
A cold face in the pale early morning light.
A young shark in a Cardin shirt
striding swiftly to his car
seems as insensitive to life as to death.
To survive if only morally
in this city where the rules change
according to the customerâs looks,
the rich man has to avoid
meeting the poor manâs eyes.
Every hour
the exchange rate for the gourde changes.
Even if money is concentrated
in the same hands.
What can such financial frenzy mean
on an island abandoned by the birds?
He rushes from his house to his car,
from his car to his office,
from his office to the restaurant
and from the restaurant to his seaside house
where heâll meet his mistress of the month.
He may know nothing of the poor man
but the poor man is watching his every move.
The rich man is a creature of habit.
What good is being rich in a country
constantly at the mercy of a bread riot?
The chances of losing a fortune
overnight are high.
A can of gas and the whole neighborhood goes up.
The game changes so fast.
One starving guy with a match
calls the shots.
Why stay in this mudhole mixed with shit trampled by crowds hemmed in by malarial anopheles when you could lead a dream life somewhere else? Here the rich man must collect the poor manâs money. And he canât delegate an operation like that, considering the countryâs current moral state. People have no scruples about keeping money for themselves that they figure is stolen. The debate raging these days in the poor districts where Christian morality has gotten its hooks in can be summarized by this mighty question: is it theft to steal from a thief? The State says yes. The Church does too. But what if just once the question wasnât put to them? The pressure is strong on the ill-paid office clerk who has to deliver to the boss, down to the last penny, all the money gathered in the poorest districts of the hemisphere. All those houses with neither roof nor door rented to large needy families by usurers representing the rich who live in the luxury villas set high up the mountain. Weâre really living in Victor Hugoâs Les Misérables.
When I went North, I had to rid myself
of the heavy reality of the South
that oozed from every pore.
I spent thirty-three years adapting
to that winter country where everything is so different
from what Iâd known before.
Returning South after all these years
I am like someone
who has to relearn what he already knows
but had to forget along the way.
I admit that itâs easier
to learn than to relearn.
But harder still
is to unlearn.
The Blind Archer
Noise was the path the Caribbean used
to enter me.
I had forgotten the racket.
The bellowing crowd.
The overabundance of energy.
A city of beggars and rich men
awake before dawn.
You can find the same energy
in a naïve painting
where the vanishing point
is not at the back of the canvas
but in the solar plexus
of the viewer.
When you look at a market scene
by any street painter
you donât feel youâre entering
the marketplace but that
instead the market
is entering you, overwhelming you
with smells and tastes.
Which is why you step back
faced with these strong primary colors.
People die faster here than elsewhere,
but life is more intense.
Each person carries the same amount
of energy to burn
except the flame is brighter
when the time it has to burn
is briefer.
Behind me, the blue mountains
that surround the city.
This dawn sky with its rosy hue.
A man is still sleeping
under a truck packed with melons.
In the international media
Haiti always appears deforested.
Yet I see
My mother and my sister
come out to be with us
on the gallery.
A choir singing religious music on the radio.
My mother accompanies them.
Evening falls.
A Social Problem
A cold face in the pale early morning light.
A young shark in a Cardin shirt
striding swiftly to his car
seems as insensitive to life as to death.
To survive if only morally
in this city where the rules change
according to the customerâs looks,
the rich man has to avoid
meeting the poor manâs eyes.
Every hour
the exchange rate for the gourde changes.
Even if money is concentrated
in the same hands.
What can such financial frenzy mean
on an island abandoned by the birds?
He rushes from his house to his car,
from his car to his office,
from his office to the restaurant
and from the restaurant to his seaside house
where heâll meet his mistress of the month.
He may know nothing of the poor man
but the poor man is watching his every move.
The rich man is a creature of habit.
What good is being rich in a country
constantly at the mercy of a bread riot?
The chances of losing a fortune
overnight are high.
A can of gas and the whole neighborhood goes up.
The game changes so fast.
One starving guy with a match
calls the shots.
Why stay in this mudhole mixed with shit trampled by crowds hemmed in by malarial anopheles when you could lead a dream life somewhere else? Here the rich man must collect the poor manâs money. And he canât delegate an operation like that, considering the countryâs current moral state. People have no scruples about keeping money for themselves that they figure is stolen. The debate raging these days in the poor districts where Christian morality has gotten its hooks in can be summarized by this mighty question: is it theft to steal from a thief? The State says yes. The Church does too. But what if just once the question wasnât put to them? The pressure is strong on the ill-paid office clerk who has to deliver to the boss, down to the last penny, all the money gathered in the poorest districts of the hemisphere. All those houses with neither roof nor door rented to large needy families by usurers representing the rich who live in the luxury villas set high up the mountain. Weâre really living in Victor Hugoâs Les Misérables.
When I went North, I had to rid myself
of the heavy reality of the South
that oozed from every pore.
I spent thirty-three years adapting
to that winter country where everything is so different
from what Iâd known before.
Returning South after all these years
I am like someone
who has to relearn what he already knows
but had to forget along the way.
I admit that itâs easier
to learn than to relearn.
But harder still
is to unlearn.
The Blind Archer
Noise was the path the Caribbean used
to enter me.
I had forgotten the racket.
The bellowing crowd.
The overabundance of energy.
A city of beggars and rich men
awake before dawn.
You can find the same energy
in a naïve painting
where the vanishing point
is not at the back of the canvas
but in the solar plexus
of the viewer.
When you look at a market scene
by any street painter
you donât feel youâre entering
the marketplace but that
instead the market
is entering you, overwhelming you
with smells and tastes.
Which is why you step back
faced with these strong primary colors.
People die faster here than elsewhere,
but life is more intense.
Each person carries the same amount
of energy to burn
except the flame is brighter
when the time it has to burn
is briefer.
Behind me, the blue mountains
that surround the city.
This dawn sky with its rosy hue.
A man is still sleeping
under a truck packed with melons.
In the international media
Haiti always appears deforested.
Yet I see
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