Three Poems by Sylvie Kandé Translated by Nancy Naomi Carlson

The Warring Dead I
		
                   For B.T., in memoriam

Rowdy they push against the fence
that swings between our realm and theirs
Army with no shadow or leader
or uniform save for
a ragged pagne a worn-out shroud
they come surging
in thick waves
Some brandish rusted out muskets
with both hands
while others adorned with amulets
sharpen machetes
on jagged rocks from the roadway
In the crowd a boy buckling
under the mercenary weight of a submachine gun
sometimes stops to scratch
his misshapen belly
crawling with horseflies
And while their stuttering griot
sings a lost paean
Let it be said and known 
Only death kills!
here they come looting our rice fields
polluting our wells
and leaving our granaries reeking of musk
They demand the wages of oblivion 
before heading back to the camp
in the sacred wood’s glade








    M
G U L L
    T
    E

No longer knowing on which leg to dance
she takes off as if with regret
with the  puzzled cry of our seabirds
Perhaps offended her soul tacks and turns
flails above the sharp edge of the cliff
and takes a nosedive into the dark water
out of despair out of vengeance too 
And meanwhile we’re running on the coastal path
crying tears the wind wrests from us
Given the boiling abyss down below
and our tacit consent to her flight
with listless anguish we wring our hands



Translator’s note: This poem is an elegy to the 
author’s maternal grandmother.

Departed Night Butterfly of Mine 
           (A sad song)

                    Just like you I was such a rebel
                    So dance your own dance and never forget
                                             Joe Cocker

Tonight the lamp consents
to cremate the butterflies of night
A long crackling
an ancient acridness
signal the reconciled death
of one whose time has come
The light splashes
the long messenger dirge 
unfurling its ink
and slowly its sobs
Outside the drunkard at twilight
riveted to a nearby post 
brays and brays his absurd breviary 
to anyone who’ll listen
The man shouts himself hoarse to no avail
no the haughty skyscrapers
will never care
about the sudden fate
of these golden night butterflies

Departed night butterfly of mine
A cup and plate
were placed beneath his bed 
A few nights were placed
at the end of a few days
and then his body at ease
in the ampleness of cotton cloth
woven in yellow black and mauve
His beautiful brown wings
carefully folded
await the hour of rebirth 
the flight the return 
of seven of his attributes

Down at the bottom of a well 
his eyes getting used to the dark
discern the shimmery silhouettes
of the unborn and elders
dancing
in the hollow sound of silence 
Into his floating casket about to depart
they loaded
their distress and some pagnes 
the decorated staff he loved
a poem and tender gestures 
a little resin and incense
Given a second chance
be sure mother 
I would add a number
for the sake of connection
Thirteen of course for luck
five to celebrate from now on
plus a gossamer thread
for our descendants
a meadow buttercup
and then a mallow rose
Nailed carried flowered
chanted draped blessed
roped refreshed
buried
disappeared 

On the eyespot on his wing 
on his burnt belly
the great weight of wreaths
November a drizzle 
On his silvery verbs
a gravestone nothing more
With frenzied clawing
I wish I could scratch
the soft and bitter dirt
ransack the flowers
unravel the wind
mad with rage I’d rip
the page trying
in tears and in vain
to bury my wound
Who will ever speak 
of the sad fortitude 
of these golden night butterflies
that one fine evening consent
to offer the dryness of their bodies
to the fire beast enraged 
to have waited so long
to consume them

Alas my dear my sweet mother  
he’s dead this night butterfly of mine
On the ground let them pour wine
for the newborn ancestor
for the one who in dreams returns


Translator’s note: This poem is an elegy for the author’s father. 
The “return of seven of his attributes” refers to the idea of 
reincarnation held by many African cultures whereby the departed 
one chooses a child in which to reappear.

Sylvie Kandé’s three poetry collections have all been published by Gallimard, one of the most prestigious publishers in France. Her first volume contains a postface by Édouard Glissant. Her second volume won the 2017 Prix Lucienne Garcia-Vincent and was short-listed for the Prix Mahogany and the Prix des Découvreurs. Gestuaire (2016) was a recipient of the 2017 Prix Louise Labé under the auspices of the Saint John Perse Foundation and was short-listed for the Prix Ethiophile and the Prix Kowalski des lycéens. Kandé earned her doctorate in African history from the Sorbonne and founded the program of Francophone Studies at New York University. She currently serves as a professor in the History & Philosophy department at SUNY Old Westbury. Most recently, she received a SUNY chancellor’s award for excellence in scholarship and creative activities. 

This selection of poems are part of Gestuary, a collection of “gestures” forthcoming from Seagull Books in Spring, 2026, loosely based on Michel Leiris’s Glossary, a collection of glosses.

Nancy Naomi Carlson is a poet, translator, and essayist and won the 2022 Oxford-Weidenfeld Translation Prize from Oxford University. She was shortlisted for the Best Translated Book Award, the Sarah Maguire Translation Prize, and the CLMP Firecracker Poetry Award. Author of sixteen titles (eleven of which are translated books), her work has been reviewed in the New York Times. A recipient of two translation grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and decorated by the French government with the Academic Palms, she’s earned two doctoral degrees and is the Translations Editor for On the Seawall. Her most recent book is When We Only Have the Earth (University of Nebraska Press: African Poetry Book Fund, 2025), a translation of Djiboutian poet Abdourahman A. Waberi. 

28 January 2026