English Literature & Theology

"An African Elegy" by Ben Okri   We are the miracles that God made To taste the bitter fruit of Time. We are precious. And one day our suffering Will turn into the wonders of the earth. There are things that burn me now Which turn golden when I am happy. Do you see the mystery of our pain? That we bear poverty And are able to sing and dream sweet things And that we never curse the air when it is warm Or the fruit when it tastes so good Or the lights that bounce gently on the waters? We bless things even in our pain. We bless them in silence. That is why our music is so sweet. It makes the air remember. There are secret miracles at work That only Time will bring forth. I too have heard the dead singing. And they tell me that This life is good They tell me to live it gently With fire, and always with hope. There is wonder here And there is surprise In everything the unseen moves. The ocean is full of songs. The sky is not an enemy. Destiny is our friend Summary of An African E...

" Love Cycle" by Chinua Achebe   At dawn slowly the sun withdraws his long misty arms of embrace. Happy lovers whose exertions leave no aftertaste nor slush of love’s combustion; Earth perfumed in dewdrop fragrance wakes to whispers of soft-eyed light… Later he will wear out his temper ploughing the vast acres of heaven and take it out of her in burning darts of anger. Long accustomed to such caprice she waits patiently for evening when thoughts of another night will restore his mellowness and her power over him. Chinua Achebe (1930–2013) was one of Africa's most influential writers and is regarded as the father of modern African literature in English. Born in Ogidi, Nigeria, Achebe grew up in an Igbo family and later studied at the University College, Ibadan. Although he is best known for his famous novel Things Fall Apart , he was also an accomplished poet, essayist, and literary critic.  Summary of " Love Cycle" by Chinua Achebe Love Cycle is a beautiful ...

  Kumbilor – Hill in My Country by Jeanine Leane I come back and see a hill barren and cleared of trees. Sectioned by fences like a checkerboard of games won and lost. Only the rocks anchored so deep they cannot be moved remain. A dry creek-bed – thirsty for a long time now. Faded stones no longer shining sharp worn and rounded by time passed.   I close my eyes. Fences disappear. Bare-foot mop-headed children – hatless in the heat of the high sun search for a slumber of koalas, listen for a warbling of magpies laugh louder than a cackle of kookaburras.   The children run. Scramble high on  granite sentinels. ‘This is my wild horse!’  shrieks one. ‘And this is mine!’  yells the other. They ride and ride and ride a thousand miles standing still. Sun blazes on quartz crystal makes amethyst haze.   I scrunch my eyes tighter. There’s my Aunty on the creek flats  walking through parched grass  towards the hill. She cal...

  The Death of the Bird by A. D. Hope For every bird there is this last migration: Once more the cooling year kindles her heart; With a warm passage to the summer station Love pricks the course in lights across the chart. Year after year a speck on the map, divided By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come; Season after season, sure and safely guided, Going away she is also coming home. And being home, memory becomes a passion With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest, Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart’s possession And exiled love mourning within the breast. The sands are green with a mirage of valleys; The palm-tree casts a shadow not its own; Down the long architrave of temple or palace Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone. And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger; That delicate voice, more urgent with despair, Custom and fear constraining her no longer, Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air. A vanishing speck in ...

Silences by E. J. Pratt There is no silence upon the earth or under the earth  like the silence under the sea; No cries announcing birth, No sounds declaring death. There is silence when the milt is laid on the spawn in the weeds and fungus of the rock-clefts; And silence in the growth and struggle for life. The bonitoes pounce upon the mackerel, And are themselves caught by the barracudas, The sharks kill the barracudas And the great molluscs rend the sharks, And all noiselessly - Though swift be the action and final the conflict, The drama is silent.   There is no fury upon the earth like the fury under the sea. For growl and cough and snarl are the tokens of spendthrifts who know not the ultimate economy of rage. Moreover, the pace of the blood is too fast. But under the waves the blood is sluggard and has the same temperature as that of the sea.  There is something pre-reptilian about a silent kill.  Two men may end thei...