A Tribute

People often ask me why I always prefer to write
Not under my own name, but that of Ency Whyte
And this question often takes me back in time
To childhood moments that are the theme of this rhyme.

My maternal grandfather was he, Norman Charles White
And as a tribute to his legacy, this verse I will recite
So that those questioning minds who read my poetry
Will know the tale of ‘Ency Whyte’ and what it means to me.

Of course, he was my granddad, but also so much more
For he taught me the lessons I would need to know
If I were to carry on with his penchant for writing
And for the English language pursue my liking.

Balmy summer nights are still a vivid memory
And how wondrous, for four young lads, it used to be
As we’d sit on his stomach and regale in tales of a child
Who’d put “ants in dhobi’s pants”, and all pranks wild.

Schooling, for him, was not much joy or fun
And by Grade Eight, with St Bede’s, he was done
But such was his love for grammar, its syntax and structure
That studying and teaching it, gave him much pleasure.

Though long ago, I sill remember one rather informal class
When I learnt how a sentence and its syntax I could parse.
And since then, for me, the English language has been so much fun
That with its intricate nuances I am not yet done.

Poetry he enjoyed and he often loved to recite
The poems that he would at his desk, passionately write
Each occasion, each milestone, each event in his time
Warranted the legacy of a verse, a tale in a rhyme.

Perhaps watching him put his pen to paper
Has allowed me to see how words can caper
And bring a smile to the reader’s lips
As with their twist and turns, he comes to grips.

And when I began to show some serious intent
Of writing and pursuing this inherited poetic bent
I thought of how I could pay tribute to the legacy
Of “N C White”, his ideals, his deeds, and his memory

For with two daughters who had been married
This popular name in Arkonam would, with him, be buried
So I asked myself how I could in my own way salute
And to this influential figure continue to pay tribute.

And so, I strive to do and continue with what he did best
Play with language, with words and put them to the test
And that is why under this pseudonym, today I write
So that I can carry on his legacy with “Ency Whyte.”

On My First Visit To Victoria Falls

The smoke that thunders, they say you are
And when I first saw you from a distance quite far
The tales I’d been told and the stories I had heard
Seemed to match this wonderful sight, word for word.

But, such is the wonder of natural beauty
That no second-hand tale can fulfill its duty
Of portraying the wonder, the respect and awe
That within me, welled, when first I saw

Your curtain of water cascading with such force and power
That one could only admire the spray and revel in its shower
As the trees around sparkled with droplets of perpetual dew
That reflected a sunny sky so full of blue

Not content enough with your brilliance alone
You decide to paint a canvas as beautiful as your own
For that double rainbow, with its sparkling spectrum of light
Is indeed a most majestic and radiant sight

That can move one to such emotions that accompany boyish wonder
When on the Knife-Edge bridge, one can feel your mighty thunder
As pellets of rain unceasingly and perpetually sting
Regardless of whether it is summer, winter, autumn or spring.

Yes, you are a marvellous tribute to the poetry of the earth
Of its immense bounty, its rhythm, its theme and its worth
A song whose melodies will never cease to be
A splendid canvas on which one will always see

The genius of a master, a poet, an artist, a conductor all rolled in one
You, the smoke that thunders under the scorching Zambian sun.