Blood and stone (a poem on Fanon and Ghandi)

what

if fanon versed ghandi

on some wind-blown street

as ghandi

lay in a pool of blood

with fanon’s concerned hand

on that bony shoulder

does fanon whisper

‘any means’ are sometimes

needed

as marchers

in determined mood

bear down on fanon

does ghandi, like tutu,

fall on his knees, dramatically, & plead

to his diverse people

not to trample, &

show love?

flesh turns to blood

blood turns to stone

if they met at a roadside diner

would ghandi have broccoli and beans

and fanon bite into steak?

skillfully toting their persuasiveness

(in

sparring conversation)

would fanon emerge

bare chested, staff in hand

would ghandi rush forth

with gunbelt over dhoti?

Frank Meintjies

(this poem is taken from my first book, My Rainbow [2009])