Lament of the Images by Ben Okri

They took the masks
The sacrificial faces
The crafted wood which stretches
To the fires of natural gods
The shrines where the axe
Of lightning
Releases invisible forces
Of silver

They took the painted bones
The stools of molten kings
The sacred bronze leopards
The images charged with blood
And they burned what
They could not
Understand

They burned
All that frightened them
In the ferocious power
Of ancient dreams
And all that held
The secrets
Of terror
And all that battled
With dread
In the land
And all that helped
The crops
Sprout
All that spoke
To the gods
In their close
And terrifying
Distance
They burned them all
They burned them in heaps
They burned them in alien pity.

They took some images
And brought them across
The whitening seas
And stored them in
Basements
For the later study
Of the African’s
Dark and impenetrable
Mind.
They called them
’Primitive objects’
And subjected them
To the milk
Of scientific
Scrutiny.

2

The Images died in spirit
And contorted
Their faces
In the Western
Darkness.

In their native lands
Other images were made
For new seasons
A new god
For a new
Age.

And when the Images began
To speak
In forgotten tongues
Of death
The artists of the alien
Land
Twisted the pain
Of their speech
And created a new
Chemistry
Which, purified of ritual
Dread,
They called
Art.

3
The secret places
Of the African’s
Dark and impenetrable
Mind
Touch the spirits
Of the deepest night.
The masks still live
Still speak
And only a few
Can hear them
Hear the terror of their
Chants
Which breed powers
Of ritual darkness
And light
In the centre
Of the mind’s
Regeneration.

The makers of Images
Kept their secrets well
For since the departure
Of the masks
The land
Has almost
Forgotten
To chant in ancient songs
Ceased to reconnect
The land of spirits.

4
And the spirits
Hunger
For our touch
Our contact.
The spirits
In their
Loneliness
Have begun
To go insane
They possess
Our minds
They grip our dreams
They weigh down
The flights
Of our inventions.
And every now and again
We break out
In strange tongues.
Rashes
Of violence
Streak across
Our continent
And hang over our
Skies.

The makers of Images
Dwell with us still
We must listen
To their speech
Re-learn their
Songs
Recharge the psychic
Interspaces
Of our dying
Age
Or live dumb
And blind
Devoid of old
Song
Divorced from
The great dreams
Of the magic and fearful
Universe.

https://benokri.co.uk/