Cape

When I was a kid, I was always waiting for that freak accident,

the one that would cause the awesome explosion that

would spread gamma rays down my bloodstream; for that

rush, that rage, as my cells fused with this strange element.
 

I could see myself on a hospital bed surrounded

by doctors unable to explain the marvel I am.

I knew I would feel no pain as a needle tried

to pierce my skin, impenetrable as a turtle’s shell,

 

and that soon I’d wake up and see my flabs

turn to abs, my biceps bulge out of my sleeves

and I’d try to walk but end up defying gravity and –

quickly forgetting how terrified of heights I am –
 

slip into that skin-tight costume with the silky cape

that moves and rustles with the wind

as I stand at the top of the Empire State Building

glaring into the clear blue sky, and

 

(momentarily ignoring the beautiful brunette reporter

who was going to fall deeply in love with me

when I revealed my mysterious secret identity to her

and asked her to be my bride)

 

swoop down to the street to that small fat kid

who’d just been dipped in the toilet by his high school bullies

and give him courage to fight back not with violence

but with the aim to change them for the better, and

 

fly him around in my cape and tell him that I’ve got him.

 

Michael Egbe

Michael Egbe went to England from Nigeria when he was twelve. At school, he was a ball of talent and chaos, as likely to write an extraordinary poem as he was to write nothing: to dance the tango as to lose all his art homeworks. He was 17 years old when he wrote this poem, which, together with this brief bio, I found in England - Poems from a school, Picador 2018

Kafka in England

Wohl aber erkennt er jetzt im Dunkel einen Glanz, der unverlöschlich aus der Türe des Gesetzes bricht.

Weder via Belsen, noch als dienstmädchen
Kam der fremde, keineswegs ein flüchtling.
Dennoch wars ein trauriger fall:
Die nationalität war strittig,
Die religion umlispelte peinlichkeit.

«haben sie Kafka gelesen?» fragt Mrs Brittle beim frühstück,
«er ist recht unausweichlich und ziemlich fundamental!»
«haben sie Kafka gelesen?» fragt Mr Tooslick beim tee,
«man versteht dann die welt viel besser -
Doch freilich ist nichts real.»
Miss Diggs sagt: «aber wirklich?
Ist das nicht reaktionär?»
Nur der kleine Geofrey Piltzman
Träumt: «wer?

Ich meine, wer dran verdient,
Sie müssen doch tot sein,
Ich meine die leute in Prag - nun, wer auch immer...»
Doch aus dem tor bricht trotzdem der schimmer...

Franz Baermann Steiner, 1946-1952


Kafka in Inghilterra

Né via Belsen, né come tuttofare
Venne lo straniero, in ogni caso non un rifugiato.
Tuttavia era un caso triste:
La nazionalità era controversa,
La religione provocava sussurri di imbarazzo.

«ha letto Kafka?» domanda Mrs Brittle a colazione,
«è proprio imprescindibile e assai fondamentale!»
«ha letto Kafka?" domanda Mr Tooslick all'ora del tè,
«e poi si capisce molto meglio il mondo -
ma ovviamente è tutto finto.»
Miss Diggs dice: «ma veramente?
Non è reazionario?»
Solo il piccolo Geofrey Piltzman
Sogna: «chi?

Voglio dire, chi ne guadagna,
Devono essere tutti morti,
Voglio dire la gente a Praga - be', chiunque sia...»
Tuttavia dalla porta erompe lo stesso il bagliore...


L'esergo non è dell'autore della poesia, è mio (be', mio: è di Kafka, ma ce l'ho messo io. Del resto, nella poesia c'era un "trovatemi, trovatemi!" grande come una casa).