Poems from Réunion Island

Reunion Island (La Réunion) is a tropical island of about 880,000 inhabitants that carries the status of French Overseas department, which means that it is politically and administratively a part of France, notwithstanding its location more than 6000 miles south in the Indian Ocean. Uninhabited until the seventeenth century when the French East India Company sent settlers, the island became home to French colonists and enslaved peoples, mostly from Madagascar and East Africa, who were forced to work on sugar and coffee plantations. Following the abolition of slavery, a large number of indentured workers arrived, mostly from the South of India, as well as Vietnam and China. Today, Reunion Island is a strongly multicultural society, and while most still identify with a specific community or ethnic group, it is common to intermix and many on the island are proudly métissé (mixed race). The population is generally bilingual in French and Reunionese creole. Although its lively city centers are lined with shops, restaurants and bars that serve the middle and upper classes of the island, the rate of poverty still remains over twice the percentage of the average in France. Despite hardship, Reunion boasts a vibrant and unique cultural life with a level of activity and output that rivals many regions of much greater population.

Here we present English translations of a varied selection of contemporary poems from this island, in collaboration with three Reunionese translators, Aurélia Rakotoaritsima, Benjamin Boyer and Nathanaël Holsteing Dubard. Special thanks are due to Carpanin Marimoutou and Francky Lauret for their support.

 

          Kit Kumiko Toda

Saint Denis, La Réunion, 2025

Carpanin Marimoutou (b.1956) is a poet and academic in French and Creole literature, living and working in Reunion Island. Author of nine collections of poetry and numerous works of criticism, he is a celebrated and influential figure in the francophone world. Some of his poems, such as “Bato fou”, have been put to music by the group Ziskakan. The poems presented here reflect his widely influential deconstruction of colonial attitudes, as well as his resolutely politicised commitment to creole culture and history.

Carpanin Marimoutou

UNTITLED

 

I carry within me the wounded pride of the glowing irons

I carry within me the broken heat of twisted bodies

I carry within me the drowned image of the white-washed senses

I carry within me the defeated being

the defiled waves

the bruising of the migrants

the death-song of the rebels and the

final authority of the wounds

 

from Arracher cinquante mille signes (1980)
Translated by Kit Kumiko Toda

PROMISE TO THE ISLAND

 

I will read you dreams of fire

I will burn the tears of hope

on the trembling veil of your eyes

and I will await the hour of death

 

I will face the waters of anguish

Bent-backed to the drowning suns

I will smoke the amber stars

and I will await the hour of death

 

I will lick the feet of the shadows

slide along the rails of lightning

the lost wave of eyes charred black

and I will await the hour of death

 

so, sweeping up the arrows of your feet

sent back to the blue clouds of my solitude

Pouring pure gold from my hands with each cry

I will die

and the moon will ring

green sand to my first memory

 

from Arracher cinquante mille signes (1980)
Translated by Kit Kumiko Toda

UNTITLED (SECTION 40)

 

You said we shouldn't name this country. That we should keep it an island.

Far away from all, far away from all things and from the howling of the world. From the world's innovations.

From the world's expansion. From the world's creations. From the world's vision.

Never let it take part in the world's tuning and clashing concert.

From colony to summer camp!

You've always dreamed of peaceful, republican colonies.

Here. And here is a country.

Here. You don't care about humans, nor their dreams, nor their lives, nor their nyabou.[1]

Especially not their nyabou.

Here. All you care about are the trees, the flowers, the volcano, this perpetual celebration, the mountains, the

rivers, the fruits, the waterfalls, the cloudless sky, the sea, the eternal summer.

As if no one had planted them, dug them, cultivated them, inhabited them.

As if no one plants them, digs them, cultivates them, inhabits them.

Here. Your playground. Your control tower. Your activity leaders, your cops and your army. Your spendthrift

overlords.

And you say that I ramble, I reminisce and I rehash.

But I'm not afraid to ramble, to reminisce and to rehash.

So I rehash.

And such.

Surfing, sailing, paragliding, rallies, hikes, Grand Raids, beauty queens, top athletes,   

musicians, colors.[2]

Secluded, unspoilt spots, tan lontan, case creoles, flower and spice gardens. And the exquisite elegance of

the colonial estates.[3]

The infinite gentleness of the poor in their small but oh-so-pretty kazatèr.[4]

Grand parting celebrations. Each in his own corner. And let each of them show you their fruits, their flowers,

their plants, their celebrations.

Otherwise, we would just be robbers, ruthless, rapists, incestuous, jealous, obese, easy... but so kind even so.

So helpful.

So satisfied with destiny.

So I ramble, I repeat and I rehash.

And such.

 

from Shemin maniok, Shemin galé (2009)
Translated by Aurélia Rakotoaritsima


[1]  nyabou, niabou – the knowledge, know-how and skills to make something.
[2] The Grand Raid is an ultramarathon trail race held annually on Reunion Island. Known as a challenging competition due to the rugged terrain, extreme elevation changes, and unpredictable weather conditions.
[3] tan lontan – the old times. 
case creoles – traditional creole house, characterized by their distinctive architectural style, colorful facades and wide verandas.
[4] kazatèr— refers to a type of wooden shack commonly found in Reunion Island’s rural areas.

Jacqueline Farreyrol (b.1939) is a singer, actress and ex-senator, who has played a large role in the cultural and political life of Réunion throughout her long and varied career. This song, written and sang in créole, is one of her best known and pays homage to the children who grew up in great poverty in Réunion, particularly in the mid to late twentieth century. The song may be listened to here.

Jacqueline Farreyrol

Z’ENFANT LA MISÈRE [1]

 

Poor children before trudging to school

Wake up at four o’clock

To go get some water and some lumber

To go search for some rabbit food

Poor children have no shoes to wear

on their little feet

The summer sun is hot

Poor children left in the dust

 

[Chorus 1]

Luckily there’s the breeze, to float his little shirt

Luckily there’s the dew, to ease his little feet

In the forest, turtle doves sing him a soothing song

School’s so far, but he’s still on track

 

The poor child, to stay brave, thinks of his mother

She who stayed home to cook for them all

Once it’s done it’ll be time to sow some corn

In his homeland, the poor child ploughs the land

 

[Repeat Chorus 1]

 

The poor child had a long walk, he is so tired

He hears the school bell ringing far away

Knowing that to arrive, there’s a long path ahead

His heart tightens

The poor child goes to bathe in the sea

 

[Chorus 2]

Luckily there’s the breeze, to make his shirt dry

Luckily he can dream, to make his sorrow fly

As he sits on the beach, his heart light as the sky

Without a worry, alone where he’s happy

 

[Repeat Chorus 2]

from Sega Rebours/Z’enfant la misère (1975)
Translated by Nathanaël Holsteing Dubard


[1] Z’enfant la misère – A creole phrase used for children who grew up in poverty.

Jeanne Brézé

Jeanne Brézé (b.1961-2019) was a poet who won acclaim in Réunion and beyond through her viscerally powerful verse. Her poem “La ligne bleue” (the blue line) has been made into a spoken word performance by Hélène Coré and Sophy Rotbard. Brézé, who was open about her trauma from a childhood of neglect and poverty, as well as her acute suffering from “very painful and onerous” mental health issues, turned this pain into the stuff of poetry. The poem below is a striking example of this.

I SPIT MY WOUND

 

I spit yet again today
The misery of the cob house
The burning of the gashed night
By the spirit lamp
The bleeding lighting that gleams
Through the hole of the sheet metal.
I spit
The dirty bath water
In the reeking toilet
The gunny towel
But the pain that drags in my childlike eyes
But the cracking of my scorned heart
But the withering of my belittled honour
And I spit
Arched
The chewed bagasse
The grilled andette [1]
The grease of the dry rice
In the warped metal cup of life
And the poc-poc pops[2]
To the touch of my cry
But the awful rictus of suicide in my dreams
But the frozen atrophy of my damaged flesh
But the little shiver
In my eyes cuts
But the life that flees
Injured
Injured
I cry yet again today
Stroked silently
By the velvet of solitude
Which surrounds my open wound
I weep
But the bengali still weaves its nest[3]
But the sun still burns the cob walls
Z’enfant la misère will live another day.[4]
 

from Je crache ma plaie  (1983)
Translated by Benjamin Boyer 


[1] Xylophagous larva found in decaying tree trunk such as the tamarind in the highlands of Reunion Island. Commonly eaten grilled by Reunionese people. Originally eaten by fleeing slaves who took refuge in the highlands and had to sustain themselves. 
[2] The fruit physalis, also known as goldenberry. 
[3] Species of red bird originally from South Asia and introduced in the 18th century in Reunion Island. 
[4] A creole phrase used for children who grew up in poverty.

Francky Lauret

Francky Lauret (b.1978) is a poet, novelist, playwright and spoken word performer. He was also the first person to be qualified with the agrégation in Créole, the newest category of the prestigious national qualification exams. He promotes Créole culture both in his capacity as an academic in Créole language and literature at the University of Réunion and beyond the classroom in plays, translations and spoken word performances including with the popular Reunionese electro hip-hop band, La Force Indigène.

CONCORDANCE

 

We are conjugated beyond the conjugal

Beyond tense times, in every inflection

Our pronoun is indivisible,

And invisible;

Here, for you, I exhale this breath

Held too long, too secret

 

Oh, these Dead Letters

That we try to reanimate;

They bore and bother us!

In this, here, we feel a life

Of greater beauty

Of words we tremble to write

And to read

 

We write when we don’t see each other

What happiness not to write to you

More often.

You, my pronominal other half,

Verb of my periphrases,

Music of my rhythm.