Also by Ben Okri
FICTION
Flowers and Shadows
The Landscapes Within
Incidents at the Shrine
Stars of the New Curfew
The Famished Road
Songs of Enchantment
Astonishing the Gods
Dangerous Love
Infinite Riches
In Arcadia
Starbook
The Comic Destiny (previously Tales of Freedom)
The Age of Magic
The Magic Lamp
The Freedom Artist
Prayer for the Living
ESSAYS
Birds of Heaven
A Way of Being Free
The Mystery Feast
A Time for New Dreams
POETRY
An African Elegy
Mental Fight
Wild
Rise Like Lions (Anthology)
PLAYS
The Outsider
A FIRE IN MY HEAD
Ben Okri
AN APOLLO BOOK
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Ben Okri, 2021
The moral right of Ben Okri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781800243002
ISBN (E): 9781800242999
Head of Zeus Ltd
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5–8 Hardwick Street
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Material in this collection has previously appeared as follows:
‘Finding the Present’ was featured in Eli Strik’s exhibition, ‘In Search of the Present’, at the Espoo Museum of Modern Art (EMMA) in Finland in 2016. ‘A Shakespeare Portrait’ was first published in the Financial Times in 2014. ‘Notre-Dame is Telling Us Something’ was broadcast on BBC Radio 4 on 26 April, 2019. ‘A New Dream of Politics’ was published in the Guardian on 12 October, 2015. ‘closed, still open’ was read by Ben Okri and filmed for the Coronet Theatre on 9 April, 2020. ‘The Unknown Hour’ was published in the New Statesman on 16 December, 2017. ‘everest’ was read aloud by Ben Fogle when he climbed Everest in July 2018, and featured in Ben Fogle’s book, Up: My Life’s Journey to the Top of Everest (2018). ‘convergence’ was read at the Zamyn festival at Tate Modern in 2013. ‘Obama’ was published in the Guardian on 19 January, 2017. ‘a broken song’ appeared in the Guardian on 21 October 1995 under the title ‘For Ken Saro-Wiwa’. ‘The Insider’ was made into a short film of the same title by Mitra Tabrizian in 2018. ‘Amnesty at Forty’ was published in Amnesty global magazine in 2001. ‘history of new forms’ was printed in David Hammons: Give me a moment (2016) which accompanied the exhibition of the same name. ‘revelations of saint time’ featured on the wall of Grace Wells Bonner’s exhibition, ‘A Time For New Dreams’, at the Serpentine Gallery in Spring 2019. ‘cosmosis’ was recorded as a song by Tony Allen, Remi Kabaka, and Damon Albarn in 2020. ‘mother dance’, ‘dance of the new born’, and ‘ballet of the unseen’ accompanied a dance-drama choreographed by Charlotte Jarvis at Dance Base as part of the Edinburgh International Festival in August 2019. ‘shaved head poem’ was published in Adda, the Commonwealth magazine on 18 June, 2020. ‘Diallo’s Testament’ was commissioned by the National Portrait Gallery in 2013. ‘invocation for the shrine 4’ was featured on the wall of Grace Wells Bonner’s exhibition, ‘A Time For New Dreams’, at the Serpentine Gallery in 2019. ‘Grenfell Tower, June 2017’ was published in the Financial Times on 23 June, 2017.
I went out to the hazel wood,
because a fire was in my head.
W. B. Yeats
CONTENTS
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Unknown Hour
Finding the Present
slept badly
liberty
A Shakespeare Portrait
Notre-Dame is Telling Us Something
A New Dream of Politics
closed, still open
The Unknown Hour
Convergence
lines on a drawing
outside the wedding
everest
hamlet
a little song
in a temple in seoul
convergence
Obama
Midday
africa is a reality not seen
a broken song
decolonisation
on race
The Insider
manetho’s books
siwah
boko haram
Amnesty at Forty
revolution
Dusk
a history of new forms
revelations of saint time
cosmosis
mother dance
for mirabella
dance of the new born
ballet of the unseen
shaved head poem
Invocation Hour
the angle
based on a translation
Diallo’s Testament
the rohingyas
breathing the light
invocation for the shrine 4
Grenfell Tower, June 2017
walk in a moonlight wonder
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
Read slowly
Unknown Hour
FINDING THE PRESENT
An extract
The present moment began with fire
And still it burns; it began with water,
And still they drown on the margins of Europe.
It began with air – see how they flee, see
How the bombs fall on houses made of sand,
Dreams made of flesh, the blind drones
Of remote war. But it began with earth,
Where all destinies are one, but many perish
For want of justice or soap or flowers
Instead of fears. Our age is confused:
The world runs ahead while humanity
Falls behind, trampled on by juggernauts
Whose names are the fearsome powers.
Across borders and nations, a new web
Of chains within the greatest horizons
The world has ever known. Water itself
Resists oppression. Press her down too much
And she erupts with unexpected force
Somewhere else. We are all on a great ship
That’s lost its balance, lost its way,
And a huge storm’s gathering beyond
The iron veil of our hearts. Maybe
It’s a storm of revelation. Maybe it’s a storm
Of truth, of which art’s the unknown magus.
The age is changing. The present moment
Is itself constantly revealing. Everything
We see is the mask of time
Concealing its features.
Come with me through the mask,
Into rites of vision and truth.
Come with me to the blue garden.
New time is being made here from
The wandering sleep of dreamers.
Shadows on the cave walls walk to and fro.
Shadows on the city walls come and go.
Shadows in the garden
Shadows in the garden.
Shadows in the
Shadows.
SLEPT BADLY
a love poem
slept badly.
worked all morning.
i love the view from your window:
jewels scattered in the night.
i want to see the view from your heart.
magic connections will abound.
high force set in motion.
in spite of what you think.
high force set in motion,
connecting above and below.
above in the unseen.
below in the unknown.
i drift in and out of your essence.
reading the runes of your soul.
different inside from outside.
learning a new language
of your faraway breathing.
destiny changes with those secret lines
running through all the webs
far beyond the sphere of time.
there the ones who see beyond
our realm see when the true
genesis of touch bears
astounding fruit.
o how to be ready.
when the dove hovers over
unwilling mind
must you yield up the millennial
ideas of sacrifice.
they know there’s no
sacrifice where there’s love.
just a giving and an altar-offering
without a name, without
measure. who can measure
the view from your heart?
i sit at its window
and the enigma
of the wild twilight city
makes sense to me
as the movement of the wind
does over the face of the sea.
watch the links multiply,
till a flower is formed.
can you birth a flower?
can you give birth
to the new self that’s forming
from the enigma,
a clear form mysterious
to behold, beautiful
as the dawn
over those blue mountains?
touching, and giving birth to worlds.
dreaming, and for the real to be in doubt.
loving, and being calm,
so that all becomes clear
like an angel’s evanescent form.
slept badly.
worked all morning.
all i have is a certain gaze of yours.
and the way when leaving
you take all of you with you.
and me at the window,
dreaming.
i want to see the view
from your heart.
LIBERTY
those wings with which
we soar beyond
the mesh of time;
light that blazes
through the darkened
realm of power;
that impulse to tear down
shackles of the soul
bolted there to make us
bend to fear and control.
prometheus’s first cry
and his enduring gift.
meaning of myth
when decoded
as fire and light.
prima materia that changes
black earth of suffering
into the red dragon
of bold overcoming.
last flame of a defeated
people, first rekindler
of their resurrection;
yellow path up
to the crowned mountain,
where destiny, mind-forged,
becomes the green ladder
to the lanterned heavens.
secret song of flowers,
and beauty’s torch.
my father’s injunction,
and my mother’s revelation.
A SHAKESPEARE PORTRAIT
You whose mind awakens
Endless generations
Why is your true face so unknown,
And unknowable?
As if you wished to conceal
Your form that you may reveal
That which flows from your soul
To ours, through the inconstancy
Of words, which bring forth
From changing times
Immortal truths, so that justice,
In secret, may prevail.
A balancing hand runs
Through civilisations.
Something mysterious
Ebbs and flows in the sea
Of lives. You show the grace
Of the sea in your hidden face;
But with your dreams
We all stand as one dreamer
In the tempest and the dust.
To know your work
Is not to guess your face;
To see your face is not
To imagine your work.
Your work is a world,
Your face a mask
Behind which the unknown
Master smiles.
NOTRE-DAME IS TELLING US SOMETHING
Notre-Dame’s telling us something.
How the orioles weep.
Something in our soul is burning.
Those alchemical flames the flesh
Of our mother is devouring.
Turbulence in the streets;
Rotating anger in the air.
Division across the waters;
Swans of peace live in fear.
Above, the earth dwindles
As mercury consumes the teeth
Of the young and chemicals
Plough the guts of children
Before seeds of death are planted.
No prayers anywhere.
Angels fall like tears;
Winding stairs lead nowhere.
And in Europe the bells are ringing
A dark angelus for faith gone
Underground. A dark mass of unbelief
Stalks the stables and the high tables.
Notre-Dame’s telling us something
About the wisdom beyond grief.
We fight over cabbages while
Our spirit perishes in open view.
In alchemy it’s when things burn
That they’re made true and new.
Orioles are weeping
For the dwindling of our souls
And the smallness of the goals
That obscure cathedrals
And good laws and progress
We’ve made from wars
To civil liberties, from the comfort
Of our parish minds to the generosity
Of our linked hands.
O the orioles are weeping
For the wars that will be fought
Because of the simple things not taught
Like the underlying unity
And our fundamental trinity
And how when the way is lost
Good things perish
And we will never know the cost.
But Notre-Dame is telling us something
In its flames and its fallen spire.
We’ve been sinking lower,
Been mesmerised by lies,
Destroying truth,
Instead of rising higher.
Everything that wrenches our hearts
Like signs written in the sky
With invisible hands
Is an inscription to our times
We should read with wise eyes.
Our souls are parched,
Our hearts grow cold.
The young are climate-crisis fighting
Or are in quiet despair perishing
While on the island empire-nostalgia
Secretly and not so secretly obsesses the old.
Ou
r politics keep looking back
To something that never was or has gone
Rather than facing the present
Like the dawn’s nightingale song
Or the dew we all lack.
Notre-Dame is saying something
About the holes into which we’re falling
Seeking power seeking power
Losing meaning falling tower.
The spire touching the sky
Inclined our eyes up high,
Led us upward to our best selves.
Maybe in these fallen times
While dim bells across Europe chime
That broken spire will re-unite our hearts
Beyond the greed of our diverging ways
Back to pilgrim roads, singing days.
They are singing Ave Marias
Outside flaming Notre-Dame.
And across the world we perhaps
Remember how fine we can be
In the symphony of our deeds
And the harmony of our needs.
For whether it be the Buddhas
Of Bamiyan or Grenfell’s grey cladding
Or that home of alchemy and grace
In Paris burning, it’s us who burn too,
And the loss is the unborn child’s,
The beggar in Timbuktu.
All culture’s shared
Beneath the realm
Of sleep and of awakening.
Notre Dame is thundering something.
Awake, O man, awake.
Awake, woman, awake.
The flames are spreading in our sleep.
Flames of the earth.
Flames of future.
Sky-flames
Arctic-flames.
Truth-flames.
Orioles are weeping.
Bells are ringing.
Why are you still sleeping?
A NEW DREAM OF POLITICS
They say there is only one way for politics:
That it looks with cold eyes at the hard world
And shapes it with a ruler’s edge,
Measuring what is possible against
Acclaim, support, and votes.
They say there is only one way to dream
For the people, to give them not what they need
But food for their fears.
We measure the deeds of politicians
By their time in power.
But in wiser times they had another way.
They measured greatness by the gold
Of contentment, by the enduring arts,
The laughter at the hearths,
The length of silence when the bards
Tell of what was done by those who