Today a few word pictures

Impressions that stay with me as I observe life here in a city that is physically half the size of Salt Lake valley but with a population of some thirteen million. Of all the places I’ve been in the world, this Congo capital has roused compassion like no other.  I decided to ennoble those I observe, so I capitalized their jobs like titles of respect in this poem. Giles

(Read it aloud for greatest effect)

                                                                The Walls of Kinshasa

   

 Teeming millions moving atomically 
 amid myriad structures and vehicles
 of old and new design, living between
 and in-front-of each other as if this is
 all there is to life.
                         This is it.
 It’s all they know or get to know
 from birth and every day til death.
 They crowd these squalid streets—
 pocked with pits and strewn with stones
 where Carriers and Sweepers do 
 the only thing they know: 
  
 balance burdens on heads held high and still,
 with posture as erect as any king
 or queen—noble, bold, and strong;
 some burdens rise impossibly high
 declaring both a gravitas and grace;
 or swing their pendulum of straw
 to clear the dust from both the streets 
 and walkways whether paved or dirt.
 
 Unlike the Carriers, Sweepers bend
 and stroke the ground with downcast
 gaze to hide their face as if ashamed
 of their demeaning task beside and in
 the traffic and the bustling city life.
 And some will even wear disguise
 as if to say don’t see me here among you.
  
 Then there are the Watchers who sit
 or stand outside a wall or next to
 tiny stands with food or other wares
 they’ve made or bought to sell
 so they can eek out their existence. Some
 with patched umbrella and old boards to form
 the shelves for neatly stacked tomatoes, 
 cigarettes, or bottled pop, or fruit.
  
 These scenes are ancient: old as Man, 
 the scenes outside the walls—those walls
 that close off anything of worth. 
                                    Walls line
 all streets and say Keep Out: It’s Mine.
 Outside high walls the slovenly tenements
 all lean and tip together, rusty, rustic, rude,
 Exposed to storm and sun and theft.
  
 Behind the walls, all topped with rolls of wire
 as barbed as any warzone, warning us Beware
 of Guards—those other Watchers—always there
 like sentinels and stark reminders of how cold
 the most recent revolution chills their blood.
  
 Whatever thrives inside those walls is private,
 so unlike the public sharing, vacant staring, all-
 too-naked, so-called living that survives outside.
  
   DRC 15 September 2019