I 'met' William Butler Yeats for the first time in a Literature in English class at Gaborone Senior Secondary School. The year was 2006. Poetry and I had known each other before then but it was only on this year that we would fall in love. I remember an exam question that asked that we select a poem to recite and explain in detail, 'The Second Coming' was my poem of choice and it gained me most of my marks. In hindsight, I doubt my young mind really understood what the poem was really about.
When I read it again two weeks ago, the world was not in a good space. I was not in a good space. I was in deep thought about Gaza, about Africa and what had happened to the 200 Nigerian girls. I was in deep thought about the future of Africa and whether we will ever find a way out of colonialism. Mr Gomolemo Motswaledi had just passed away in a car accident and I was deeply concerned about the future of Botswana. I felt as if all was falling apart and this poem was just a perfect description of that.
Two years ago, I had the opportunity of listening to President Thabo Mbeki give an address at the University of Western Cape. He opened his address with this poem, it was then that I began making sense of it. I believe that was the first time I got to fully appreciate this poem, especially in the African context.
Two years ago, I had the opportunity of listening to President Thabo Mbeki give an address at the University of Western Cape. He opened his address with this poem, it was then that I began making sense of it. I believe that was the first time I got to fully appreciate this poem, especially in the African context.
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
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