Lavi Pa Chanje   

Harry Ayizan Sanon  ©

Gadè nou te semante 

Nou te lite pou sa chanje 

kòte pitit pèp la ta pral soulaje 

Men, jodiya nou wè se yon nouvo alyans 

ant boujwazi e la fanmi 

Nèg yo 

Pa vin defann koz pèp la 

Rèv yo se pou yo monte 

Pi wo 

Yon zètwal file sou yon zile 

nan yon prentan 

kote tan tap brase ak tan 

Klòch sonnen 

kòk chante anba yon chalè midi 

Yon kominike deklannche, 

yon eskandal pètè sou wout Dedal 

Se tankou yon jou dèy 

Tristes ak perez 

Kanaval moun ak fèy 

nan tout lari se te yon jwa kap kouri 

ak yon imaj animal sou tout mi 

Nan yon moman touman 

kote tout depaman kanpe anpenpan 

se te nòmal 

Nan kouri pou lapli 

tonbe sou yon malad mantal 

ak yon lespri kolonyal 

kap fè travay lenperyal 

sa vin fatal 

Ey, koumbalaye, koumbalaye 

Yon maren leve yon maten 

medite sou wètè mètè 

Lavi pa chanje 

Livin pi anraje 

Yon jounalis ekri yon atik 

sou ogi laboujwazi ak lanfanmi ap founi 

Li pedi pou lavi 

Aprè yon mès sete yon pwomès 

yon van demokrasi vante 

Pèp pansel ta pral tètè 

ton Cedric di ounk 

Sa se yontaktik klasik 

Makonnen ak yon politik antik 

sou yon fòm 

Demokratik Matchavelik 

kap ravaje tout yon repiblik.

Life Does Not Change

Harry Ayizan Sanon ©

Look at this! 

We gave a sermon inciting a fight for change 

and relief for the masses of people, 

but today we see a new alliance 

between the Family and the bourgeoisie. 

The politicians do not come to 

defend the people, 

they dream of their own enrichment. 

A star shooting above an island 

in the Spring where things are stirring. 

Bells ring, roosters sing 

under the mid-day sun. 

An official statement released. 

A scandal explodes in the road of Dedal 

like a day of bereavement. 

Sadness, meek in the midst of carnaval. 

People with leaves. 

Everywhere there was a happiness running 

through the street, 

with an animal's image on every wall. 

In a moment of torment, 

where all the perpetrators proudly stood up, 

it was as it should've been. 

Running from the falling rain 

like you would a problem of the brain, 

like colonial thought 

doing imperial work. 

It has become fatal. 

Ey, koumbalaye, koumbalaye.. 

A sailor gets up in the morning 

thinking about removing and replacing. 

Nothing changed. 

Life becomes enraged. 

A journalist writes an article 

about the bourgeois orgy with the Family. 

He disappeared for life. 

After a mass 

there was a promise. 

A great wind of democracy was blowing. 

The people thought they could suckle. 

Uncle Cedric said "God damn it!" 

It was a classical tactic - 

a mixture of old-style politics. 

Democracy à la Machiavelli 

devastating all of the republic.

Dekadans 

Harry Ayizan Sanon  ©

 

La nou pran nesans 

nou aprann syans 

pounn ka gen konesans. 

Patri ya fèn konfyans. 

Nou pasel nan rans.  Nou kaba inosans. 

Nou bay degoutans. 

Nou fout bay repiyans.. 

bann san zenpotans. 

Sitirans fè nou nan soufrans. 

Tolerans fè peyi nou andekadans, 

Ditan lendepandans 

Goman kanpe nan “Grandans”. 

Li pat fè alyans 

ak la frans 

depi-w tande pouvwa yo anbalans. 

Yo monte Souvnans 

al bay fè dans. 

Yo ap chache chans 

nan chache chans 

pou yo jwenn asirans 

a sire patans. 

Silans! Silans! 

Bann san konsyans. 

Tout se tyans.

Decadance 

Harry Ayizan Sanon  © 

There where we are born 

we learn science 

so that we can gain knowledge. 

The country trusts us. 

We do foolishness.  We end innocence 

and add repugnance – so much damn repugnance. 

A troop of no importance, 

there is too much indulgence 

creating a state of decadence. 

Tolerance makes us suffer. 

During independence 

Goman stood up in Grandans. 

He did not make an alliance with France since he heard that their power wasn’t in balance. 

They went to Souvenans. 

They organized a dance. 

They were looking for luck 

To find assurance, 

To ensure departure. 

Silence! Silence! 

So many without conscience. 

Everything is nonsense.

Plezi Pwezi

Harry Ayizan Sanon  © 

Pwezi fè mwen reve 

sa mwen pat dwe reve. 

Pwezi fè mwen kriye 

san je mwen pa mouye. 

Rivye kè mwen seche. 

Pa gen yon degout pou wouze. 

Pwezi ban mwen kouray 

nan moman map trannen. 

Men genyen ki panse 

map byen Mennen. 

Pwezi pale chita 

kriye sou tout chimen. 

Pwezi fè mwen mache 

konbyen kilomet. 

Vizite yon bann planet 

san komet. 

Pwezi pran men mwen 

desann nan fònlanme – 

fè mwen wè tri\iyang bemid 

men ki pa yon pyramid. 

Pwezi bay lavi. 

Okontre lavi kreye plezi nan pwezi. 

Okomansman, 

se la pawòl 

san dyol. 

Li fè chè 

san po… 

Pwezi wete chapo. 

Li di sa se pwezi. 

Pwezi voye limye 

pou klere bwatet san mwel 

kap tann klochsonnen 

pou yal fè lingdemyel nan syel. 

Ki syel? 

Syel lespwa. 

sa kap tann mwen kanpe doubout. 

Devan yon kanal san bout 

mwen wè pwezi ap pase. 

Ap chante yon melodi 

pou lavi ka souri… 

Pwezi fè mwen wè 

sa mwen pat dwe wè.

The Joy of Poetry 

Harry Ayizan Sanon  © 

Poetry makes me dream 

what I shouldn’t dream. 

Poetry makes me cry 

without one wet eye. 

My heart’s river dries up. 

There’s not a drop for irrigation. 

Poetry gives me courage 

at the moment I’m in a bad way. 

There are those 

who think I’ll lead well. 

Poetry, speaking, sitting, walking, 

crying on every path. 

Poetry makes me walk 

so many kilometers, 

go visit galaxies of planets 

with no use for a comet. 

Poetry takes my hand 

descending into the deep blue sea – 

takes me to the Bermuda triangle, 

but which isn’t a pyramid. 

Poetry creates an imaginary love. 

Only in dreams can you touch it. 

Poetry gives life 

but life creates joy in poetry. 

In the beginning, 

there was the word 

without a mouth. 

It bore fruit 

without skin… 

Poetry took off its hat. 

It said, that’s “poetry”. 

Poetry sheds llight 

to enlighten those troubled minds 

waiting for the clock to strike, 

to make a rainbow in the sky. 

Which sky? 

The sky of hope 

waiting for the death of resurrection. 

Poetry doesn’t make me sit and wait. 

I stand up straight. 

in front of an endless canal 

I see poetry passing by. 

It’s singing a tune 

so life can smile… 

Poetry makes me see 

what I shouldn’t see.

Ri Di Pèp 

Harry Ayizan Sanon  © 

Yon espèm madichon 

tonbe nan kanal lavi 

kreye yon fòs kosmik… 

konfizyon pou tout kwayan. 

Nan yon deklarasyon 

pou privatizasyon 

yon flè atifisyel andòmi. 

2 blok daterisay 

yon avyon bloke. 

Yon astronot ap pale 

de yon vwayaj nouvel 

nan yon rèv motel. 

Yon migren abandone 

distre yon panse powetik, 

nan fè zonbi mann mannan. 

Pou femen dyol listwa 

seremoni pran lari. 

Yon kout ponya tranche 

limye lespwa. 

Yon koulev ti tèt 

chita sou-w fotey 

kote mechanste ilegalite 

se siga gwo mouch 

ak chapo lenperyalis 

kap souse respire bon 

lode ansan san inosan adlesan. 

Kretyen vivan sakrifye elektrifye 

tankou animal ki nan poto. 

Yon mawoule 

ak yon bouret san tèt 

rale Mennen vini san revni 

2 ze twant nan lari de pèp; 

kot trafik paka gouye 

ki dire pou swente. 

Soley la cho blan kou lacho… 

tout moun melanje ap brase. 

Ou paka idantifye bon mas 

ak move mas. 

Lajan monte diset wote. 

Traje reyaksyone nan elikopte 

sou konn ravet kap fèlanavet, 

pye pa touché. 

Sa gen poul fini. 

Nan fè presyon sou konstitisyon; 

fè kanpay chanje lwa 

pou yon nouvo pouvwa 

poutan sa pap dire pou lontan.

People’s Street 

Harry Ayizan Sanon  © 

An accursed seed 

falls in the canal of life 

creating a cosmic force… 

confusion for all the believers. 

In a declaration 

of privatization 

an artificial flower asleep. 

A plane held up 

in taxi. 

An astronaut speaks 

of a new voyage 

in a mortal dream. 

An abandoned migraine 

detracts from poetic thought, 

zombifying the ambrosia of the poor. 

To stifle history 

a ceremony takes to the street. 

A dagger cutting off 

the light of hope. 

A small-headed serpent 

sits on a throne 

where wickedness is 

a big shot’s cigar. 

Illegality is the hat of the 

impervious imperialist 

sucking the breath of sweet incense. 

Innocent teenagers’ blood. 

People sacrifice, electrify 

like an animal tied to a pole. 

A mawoule 

with a headless pushcart. 

Push comes to shove without income. 

2:30 in the afternoon on People’s Street; 

traffic can’t snake by – 

just enough to discharge a few vehicles. 

A sun, white hot.. 

everyone stirring about, mixing up. 

You can’t tell the good from the bad. 

Money piles up. 

Reactionary travels in a helicopter 

like a commuting cockroach, 

feet not touching the ground. 

This has to stop. 

Pressuring about the constitution; 

making companies change their laws 

for a new power, 

even though that won’t last for long.