How effortlessly Tati-Loutard dances from the personal lyric, to the grandeur of the cosmic, to the pathos of the miniscule, to the deepest, chromatic grief. This is a poetic language of a high communication, sending out its call to those with ears to hear.
News Of My Mother
by Jean Baptiste Tati-Loutard
I am now very high upon the tree of the seasons;
Far below I see the firm earth of the past.
When the fields opened themselves to the flow of seed
Before the baobab took aim at a flight of birds
With the first call of the sun,
It was your footsteps which sang around me:
A shower of bells chiming with my ablutions.
I am now very high upon the tree of the seasons.
Know by this fifteenth day of the moon
It is these tears – up till now –
Which fill your absence,
Which lighten drop by drop your image
Too heavy on my pupil;
Each night I waken drenched through with your pain
Even as if you lived in me again.