No Secret Where Elephants Walk

POETR Y & IMAGES t AFRICA

CAROL AND ARNIE KANTER

No Secret Where Elephants Walk
POETR Y & IMAGES t AFRICA

CAROL AND ARNIE KANTER

© 2010 by Carol Kanter and Arnold Kanter. All rights reserved.

Published by P & I Press

1226 Judson Ave.
Evanston, IL 60202
info@whereelephantswalk.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying
and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-0-615-32889-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009911930

Printed in China

Cover Photo: Sable, Kenya

Acknowledgments:

“Cleansing the Kill”—Earth’s Daughters, “Splinters & Fragments,” Issue #72, 2008.

“Mourning Ritual”—Common Ground Review, Vol. 9, No. 4, Spring/Summer, 2007.

Versions of the following appeared in a chapbook, “Out of Southern Africa,” 2005, published by Finishing Line Press:

“Absence on the Magkudigkudi Salt Pans”

“Amphibious”
“Art of Dress-Up”
“Assailable Warthog”
“Cape Buffalo”
“Meerkats of the Kalahari”
“No secret where elephants walk.”
“Ostrich Attraction”
“Pride”
“Rapprochement”
“Scary Veldt”
“Statuesque”
“Still Life with Giraffe Head”
“Termite Monarchies”
 Introduction

Taking photographs and writing poems have both challenged us and allowed us to extend the pleasures
of our journeys, keeping them vivid in our memories. These pursuits have also allowed us to share our
travel experiences more fully with family and friends.

We are fortunate to have traveled widely together, but have always worked on our chosen artistic
pursuits independently. When we considered a friend’s suggestion that we publish a book that combines
our poetry and photography, we were surprised to find how often our two different “takes” fit together.
In retrospect, this is not so surprising. We were, after all, on the same trips. And forty-five years of
marriage probably helps, too.

Though each poem relates to the photograph it accompanies, it does not necessarily reflect exactly what
the photo captures. Rather, we offer our separate reactions to what we saw and experienced, in some
cases similar and, in others, quite different. In only a few instances were poems written specifically to
accompany photos in this collection.

In this volume we combine the poetry and images from three trips to Africa—South Africa, Botswana
and Zambia in 2003; Kenya and Uganda in 2004; and Kenya and Tanzania in 2008. All three helped
us to discover more about our world, and our selves. We are pleased to invite you to share these trips
with us, and hope that this book may inspire some of you to prolong and enhance the enjoyment of your
own travels through the exercise of your particular artistic talents.

Carol and Arnie Kanter

Evanston, Illinois
April, 2010

1
 Répondez, S’il Vous Plaît

Come sample Africa to feast—

through camera lens and scrim of mind—
on veldts, lakes, deserts south and east
Meet people, cheetah, wildebeest
and should a view or line release
some thoughts beyond, then on those dine
Come sample Africa to feast
through camera lens and scrim of mind

2
 In Camp

Groomed, this oasis, and hard-won

but not cordoned off from, say, the larger cats.
Animals are free to venture in
but tend to spurn unnatural habitats.
Birds, of course, take full advantage, come
routinely minutes after dawn. They own
the early mist, troll for breakfast crumbs
(caramel rolls they much prefer to scones).

Despite birdsong, silence wraps the scene,

and swaddled in the chill that lingers here
stray ideas, wild waking dreams
congeal, vibrant in dew’s silver mirror—
mosaics, say, of cats who gaze on kings—
while a-tremble, daylight crouches in the wings.

4
 Adolescent

On break from tussles with his twin

beneath the bush
where their mother left them

where they rolled around, mouthed

each other’s necks and—on their backs
in dappled shade—pawed air.

Suspended, the home-school lessons

on how to slink into tall grass
crouch silent, eyes wide.

Already he has learned how

under cover of dark
to ambush small prey

rehearsal for the larger game

he will hunt and kill
once he grows into his giant paws.

He will claw-mark trees

and lay down urine claims, intent
that all respect his bailiwick.

Turning his spotted back

on child’s play—
not to say, on joy—

he will stalk his range alone.

7
 A Snapshot Stage

Her teenage boyfriend has adorned her

with these heavy strings of beads

signs of his infatuation, his temporary claim

which she keeps on even when she sleeps.

Theirs, a practice coupling, a rite of passage

for trials at giving and getting

at bonding, loyalty, obedience

to customs set by the community at large.

They knew, from the get-go, her family

promised her to some tribal elder

who will take her for a wife, remove her

to his own village circle.

She will go circumcised, unencumbered

by her necklaces, to a mud hut

she must build for herself, for her children—

rarely to see parents or beau again.

8
 The Ubiquitous Impala

On its buttocks, the McDonald sign—

not gold, but a black arched “M”—
brands this antelope
“fast food” served far and wide, fair game for all.

Wolfed down in quantities by the big cats

by jackals, by wild dogs,
how can it escape
prime mention on world-watch endangered lists?

Within two winter weeks

does turn out a full new crop of fawn
and when the weaker, slower,
luckless young fall prey, the others carry on

brown eyes brimful of will to live

to multiply.
On orange alert—heads high
ears and nose a-twitch—off they streak

at the earliest whiff of danger,

all in one direction, a strong arc wind
rippling tan and cream
through tall, dry grass that opens, closes up

susurrant as water that erases

where gentle life has passed
while in its wake lilies
rock upon their scalloped pads.

10
 Safari

View the veldt’s large mammals in their natural habitat

the ones most people boast about, but please don’t stop at that.
Take interest in the smaller ones, of some you’ve never heard
like the umpteen kinds of antelope. And DO NOT MISS THE BIRDS.

13
 On Wealth

Self-named cowherds of the world, they walk

for miles on legs reed thin and kudu long.
They learned from youth to dance in Maasai style
with sandaled feet that spring Air-Jordan strong,

well-nourished by the cows they tend and count

like living gold, cows they milk and bleed
with just-so frequency in set amounts,
cows they thank and praise by wearing beads,

elaborate strings that ripple white and red.

But a man must pay her father precious cattle
each time he settles on a girl to wed—
how many wives true measure of his mettle.

So, streaking the veldt like crimson-breasted birds

sons, swathed in blood-red prints, attend the herds.

14
 No Secret Where Elephants Walk

They strip bark, though the wind whistles

trample underbrush, uproot warnings through the large round
bushes in wide swaths, topple symmetric hole
enormous trees. in the matriarch’s flapping earlobe

To deal with such destruction, its tune the triumphal march

officials in Zimbabwe from Aida,
cull whole families the part where women dance
leaving none to mourn, none with tambourines
to remember.
the crescendo part where all
But South Africa lets nature hail the parade
take its course, of real-live horses
so elephants graze and elephants decked out
the vast reaches of Kruger Park with conquerors.
approachable and unafraid

16
17
 Statuesque

Unnamed In one calm line the pre-

in the “Big Five” possessing four
he stands a cut above stride—right legs,
in silhouette left legs, right—glide
against blue sky with such slow grace
the choreography
arrayed conceals
in brown reticulate
from knobby head their deadly kick.
with stubby, They sashay
tufted, no-trophy horns within the lions’ range
to bad-rap cloven to stare them down
hooves. as if they mean to say
“We see you so forget
He eats the highest your kill-by-stealth routine.”
tender leaves
only elephants Off the zebras trot
can reach to share. while the cats, long-
tongued, yawn
Without herd or land, their innocence.
he solos free
of “our” and “mine.” Such peace walks
But when he sees two lions may not rate a noble prize.
wake, sit up and sniff But when you add these
zebras grazing near him— to their size, surely
too low to see so far— giraffe merit mention
he and three cohorts form in the “Big Five.”
an ad hoc posse
to arrest the carnivores And if you cannot pick
before they act. which other animal to nix?
Just bump up the list
to a “Big Six.”

18
19
At Home in the Manyatta

Life is simple
if not exactly easy

Each woman has her roles

a number before the title Wife
beauty etched by sun, wind, work
onto face and hands and feet

Matters of subsistence leave choice

behind in burnt-orange dust

As for happiness—
no guaranteed pursuit—
tamp it into one small gourd
and carry it around.

21
 On Shielding Offspring:
The New “Tommy” Gazelle

Still wet. Fur

plastered to his body.
So drained by birth
he can hardly blink. He tries

to stand on twig legs.

Totters. Falls.
How can four limbs
carry him in one direction?

He sees his shadow mother

move away.
Two drunken minutes speed by.
He zigzags after her.

She sidles off, not letting on

how hunger prowls
lest—warned too young—
he flash-freeze in fear.

But across the plain

she has spotted a jackal—
tail down, head low—running
through the jowl-high grass.

23
Little egrets grow in stature

perched on the small abandoned boat

drinking in late sun rays, a trio
of nonchalance

as though who cares if wayward fish

dart beneath the rippled surface
tempting them and fate?

Earlier they snagged their limit

ate their fill and never learned to play
catch-and-release.

Like most creatures of the wild

they do not kill or torture just for fun
but pose unaware

how they feather fine a scene—

clean white against the flaking paint
as it bleeds onto the lake.

25
 Robben Island

On the hour, tourists ferry

to this prison where Nelson Mandela
served 18 of 27 hard-lost years
for politics of race.

Inmates with less familiar names—

survivors of tortures
that maimed body, mind, soul—
now lead tours here.

In a loud bass monotone

the guide recites
matters of fact, horrors
that wrack, shame

and so shock listeners

they fail to burn the details
into memory—
though his large hands slice the air

for emphasis—
except for that one raw Truth
which he regrets
cannot bear Reconciliation:

his endless wait for that date—

set months ahead—
when promised his father would visit
and how, as dusk crawled in,

the iron warden tolled,

“Today your father was killed.”

26
 The Scary Veldt

The safari promises “The Big Five” could do a human in, not to mention
those most sought by hunters for their heads, the hippo and the crocodile, known
their skins, their tusks, their horns and for the sport to drown whoever dares to venture near.

of killing something large and dangerous. Indeed, I have no urge to swim with these.
We go to glimpse the wild, unrefined. But I must constantly remind myself
I go convinced we will emit safe vibes when the others come within an easy reach

so must keep telling myself that fear itself that I am not to hug that shaggy mane,
is not the only thing to fear while here— stroke those silken spots, or horns of bone
that the lions lazing tawny in the sun, or hair, this roughly wrinkled, pink-tipped trunk.

the mommy leopard licking clean her cub, I recall my younger daughter’s fond good-bye:
the cape buffalo who suffer ox peckers “Mom, if you get eaten by a lion,
to perch on them and pick off parasites, I’ll be really pissed.” I fail

the rhino and the elephant with skin to fear creatures so theatrical.
impervious to slights, who lead the lives But do not think me brave. I quake when buzzed
of vegetarians—all, they say, by the unseen mosquito out for blood.

29
 Mahale Chimp

Allow me to introduce myself.

Darwin’s the name.
Or so they’ve called me for twenty-seven years.

But I cannot return the favor, call them by name.

You see, it’s hard for me to tell
humans apart.

They all wear hats. And khaki—neck to ankle—

maybe to protect from flies and thorns
since they have no fur.

Light green masks cover

the lower halves of their faces and catch
coughs and sneezes, their mumbled mumbo jumbo.

They emit no screams like ours

as they traipse through the forest after us—
even when we brush right by, even if we take a swat.

The only variation in their species so far as I can see

is the shape and size of the black box
each holds and points at me.

30
 Hippo Haiku

Enormous. Bulbous. with dire threats and duels

Bloated, they loll in mud baths that scythe deep scars on thick hides
trying to keep cool. of the defeated,

Small ears, googly eyes the victorious.

keep their aqueous pods alert. Cheek by jowl they pack rivers,
They sink...surface...sink... dominance the prize

But at night they prove humans also seek.

amphibious, scale steep banks So we rank as Number One
leave rivers, go graze. hippo predator

Back in the water prime wildlife poachers

they luxuriate, excrete who flash threats abroad, at home
dung the catfish eat. lest boredom mire us.

Now and then they yawn

flash massive fangs in challenge
fend boredom off

32
 The Pride

The only male luxuriates

in regal ruff as though born king
of this non-jungle.
One big momma lifts her head
just long enough to yawn,
flash teeth and loll her tongue.

Two others watch us watch

their five cubs scamper, wrestle, roll,
mouth each other.
Without maternal grunts one stands,
performs her yoga stretch—

head low, rear high,

front legs straight, paws way out in front—
then, nonchalant as any mom
with kids at play in her fenced yard,
one pads our way,
her balance tail a tufted pendulum.

She settles down beside our jeep

in any fool’s arm-reach
(but for the rules)
and then her sister repeats her moves
as if she means to double-team.

They lie in perfect parallel,

heads cocked high,
seeming to focus on some far-off plain
or time, each amber eye
a globe that holds their age-old
right to reign.

35
 Recital

Make what you will of the cricket solo

loud against his fellow strings’ white noise.
It pierces my tent like an alarm
some jokester set and hid
beneath a young acacia ripe with thorns.

Incessant, a one-per-second metronome—

soft tremolo dead-center
of its two-note beat—
as though some Oistrakh out there
plies his sure wing bow to lure a lady love.

And though each measure sounds the same

his nuanced fiddle’s braggadocio turns
to pleas and nags,
complaints how late she is,
at last feigns grief—lest she never come.

I did not fly all the way to Tanzania

for this Chicago crickets’ long-lost cousin
to disable sleep
so resort to earplugs
to block out his exhaustive din.

But, alas, I also block out

from behind friends’ zipped-up tent nearby
yelps as a lion takes a zebra down
and revels of hyena, come to steal the kill,
laughing, laughing, laughing.

37
 In the Townships

The sun beats down.

No breeze.
Movement seems asleep.

But inside a nearby barn

a local man teaches village children
to sing and dance.

Most, he has virtually adopted,

their parents dead or sick from AIDS.
In any case too poor.

He gives them food, schoolbooks,

this roof, this floor.
Make-shift drums, stomping boots.

Age five to seventeen perform

skills sharp as machetes.
Their energy electric.

Such artistry would enrich the world

if it could escape these confines,
jump the shallow ditch

where muddy water trickles

by the main footpath—scant overflow
from the one town pump.

Could this troop erupt from here

before the sun sears them
into lethargy?

38
39
 Assailable Warthog
Had he been on the hoof
not wedged near the top of a tree at night
we might have recognized
his peculiar looks
memorized from wildlife books:
His head a spade for beating foes,
for digging up the roots he eats;
his neck so short
he must kneel to be able
to reach his cropped-reed dinner table,
and while he eats, head down,
his high-set, bulging eyes keep watch,
porcine ears perk up;
four on-guard tusks “U” out—
larger than hers, and an extra two,
though she alone fights back
to save her piglets from attacks,
then hoists her stringy tail
like an Olympic torch gone dark
to pass, an usher through the tallest grass.
40
Hard knots, or “warts,”—
again he sports a second pair
and grows them larger—may guard
key places on their skulls
but these do nothing for their faces.
Spot-lit, displaced, up in that tree,
ash gray, glint-red, half-
eaten, he still bleeds
with the leopard who stashed him
caught in mid-deed.
We squint
to make out the nose,
the front feet
of the homely, late warthog
posing as meat.
 Gorilla Trekking
Our tiny plane jounces low, lands at the lip of
The Bwindi Impenetrable Forest.
We mean to burrow in.
Here troop four families
of mountain gorillas—largely at peace.
Years ago Dian Fossey’s story of these great apes
and how they grew to trust her
plunged me hip-deep
into a yearning to be her, to face
fantastic kin through the long-lost mist of time.
The region’s governments—on and off unstable
as volcanic peaks—impose strict rules:
Buy permits in advance.
Each day six track each family to watch
one brief hour.
Official papers and receipts clump together
six of us to climb on faith
that we will find and see the family “H”
whose full local name stretches beyond hopeless.
The trek: four hours straight uphill—
one armed guard ahead,
one behind. Both stay mute. They mean
to keep us safe from human guerillas.
Uganda thrives on tourist trade.
Trackers have gone ahead
start where they left the H’s yesterday,
find the beds they made last night, go from there.
42
These giant beings do not sleep in caves
or dig out dens. On the forest floor each builds
a saucer nest of twigs, leaves and vines
as if some mammoth flightless bird,
more ungainly than the ostrich.
Fur instead of feathers
protects against the cold, the rain—gentle
as a mate’s love-grooming
or thunderous as an alpha male’s breast-beating.
We reach fresh nests, trek on
through the slick, the suction of rain forest mud.
Vines lasso ankles, feet.
Thorns grab socks, pants, sleeves.
We tear away, jolt ahead.
At last we peer through dense greens to see
furry babies clamber and swing,
juveniles bare teeth, practice wrestling,
the lone male—his wide back sashed right across
with silver but taking second place to none—
choose and pick and peel and taste
one sprig at a time.
Through his leather mask of nonchalance
amber eyes fix on what his thick fingers plucked
as he sweeps a baby back into safe bush.
We watch speechless lest human talk disturb.
But somewhere on this climb my wish
to be Ms. Fossey sloughed away.
Risk malaria?
Day after day slogging
through rough Impenetrable Forest?
Life, after all, is raw enough.
43
44
Could they be more unlike?

Small versus large is hardly

the half of it.
Soft, pure white
set off against corrugated gray.

Sharp, sturdy beak

to pluck out insect delicacies.
Supple trunk
to gather in whole trees for meals.

Denizen of water, ground and air

often breaking into song.
Trudger of the veldt
rarely trumpeting.

They flock or herd

with others of their kind
yet share this land, unthreatened
each by each.

45
 Return Flight to Entebbe

The same pilot. A different sky. Clouds

the downy white of egrets but rimmed dark gray
drink sunlight as though to quench a thirst and cast
empty Rorschach vessels on the land today.
By contrast, nothing but our tiny plane
threw its moving shadow on the earth before.
Imperceptibly the month has changed.
We could not track the wider world whose shores

pass in and out of sun and shade. Odd

to be so out of touch, so insulated
from whatever the latest hurricanes have wrought
what ethnic wars keep raging in the name of gods
what cryptic lessons—feared or much awaited—
brandish ink-dipped quills, itching to be taught.

46
47
 The Cape Buffalo

Like an old black-robed barrister

he parts his gray wig smack
down the middle,
pastes it low on his wide brow,
flips it up fancy at the sides.

But he stands ready to hook horns

with whoever questions
his authority
in fields where he holds sway.

He lumbers forward,
head slumped below his shoulders,
humbled by his chosen work
of chewing over matters
to usher in a more just world.

48
 Zero-Sum Game

Black marks run down a cheetah’s face

like tears from the inner corners of her eyes
to dull sun glare.

They help her scan the rather distant herd,

spot a baby Tommy, focus
as her slow, brief stalk gives way
to high-speed chase, grab, stranglehold.

Often she interrupts her meal, sits tall

to scan for others—vultures
or hyena, say—who may be out to steal
this kill before she eats her fill.

She ignores Tommy’s mother

on the near side of the now more distant herd.
Staring. Frozen. At a loss.

51
 Dry
Eighteen elephants in caravan.
Height as varied as Mt. Kenya’s jagged peaks.
Ears flap wide to catch a puff of cool
like flags that ripple in the softest breeze.
The plain is flat and vast, sun glare
magnified and choked by dust.
Ochre as far as the eye can see
where Lake Amboseli mirrors blue after the rains.
But now the elephants walk for miles to drink.
The matriarch ignores
the watery shimmer of the heat mirage
well this side of the horizon.
She cannot be fooled. She herds from the rear
and sets the pace at slow.
She watches the distant Maasai watering their cows,
stalls until they move away.
I look between her long curved tusks into old eyes.
I need her to know my first great friend
might have been her grandmother.
How Miss Jim lumbers through my dreams.
She nods her head, returns my steady gaze.
She ambles her family forward,
grown daughters flanking their calves.
the whole wedge led by seven macho bulls.
“We have no wish to fight but come prepared.
We shall protect our young.”
52
It is as if they travel on higher moral ground.
Now and then some human may intrude.
Wealth of ivory. Or, let’s Save the Trees.
To limit foliage decimation,
some countries cull whole families fearing
any left might rage, somehow retaliate—
or, perish the awe-filled thought, might grieve.
No amount of rain restores the acacia forest.
Sorely needed, rain is late this year.
Their patient trunks swing like the pendulums
of grandfather clocks.
A mute and languid choreography.
They sniff for storms
for traces of ozone that herald the lake’s return.
From each large gentle footstep
a cloud of dust rises
vague and loose as the holograms
a séance lifts by faith: Nature will provide.
The youngest calf stretches up her trunk
between her mother’s rear legs for a long drink.
The family gain the waterhole, wade in, luxuriate
then start the long walk back for food.
At sunset gold light rims white clouds—halos
the Maasai call The Lakes of Heaven.
They promise rain. But not today.
Not even tomorrow.
 Crossing the Mara

Zebra balk along both shores.

Hard-wired to swim this route they seem confused—
Toward which bank should they head?

They scream to each other across the muddy water.

Their calls radiate distress.

Five wade in, paddle like there’s no tomorrow,

reach the far shore.
A dozen more, thinking better of it, do the reverse
and come back the other way.

Do most imagine greener grass on the other side?

They know what dangers lurk.

In shallows downstream, crocodile guard

a water-logged striped rump
that floats its warning like an overturned canoe.

54
55
And what is worth your while?
Nets fray and rip with constant use
from thrashing fish
from snagging rocks, debris and hooks
from the sheer weight of success.

Imagine the vigilance.

They require daily care

to spread, clean out whatever got stuck
and when hopelessly entangled
excise the clogged up mesh.

Imagine the pluck.

Then to repair—
Clove hitch floats and weights
pulled loose. Thread your net needle.
Sew tears and worn out spots.

Just imagine the patience.

57
 Jezzep

He was four years old in Head Start

when his teacher planned a field trip to a zoo.
She almost said he could not go—
through no fault of his own—
because his schizoid lack of self-control
pricked her fears he would get lost.
But she assigned an extra adult
to keep track of him.

And I did my job, stayed close at hand

when, oblivious of all else,
he yelled into a cage, “Hi, Lion, Hi, Lion, Hi”
or toward a tire swing above his head,
“Hi, Monkey, Hi, Monkey.”
He waited for Lion and Monkey to reply,
while I chalked up this mindset
to Pathology.

So what does it say about my mental health

that here on safari I feel this urge
to greet each animal?
Oh, let me reassure you
I do not expect replies from Lion
or from Monkey.
Although, were I to be completely candid,
Elephant is another matter.

58
 The White Rhino

He is still young, an orphan brought here

for this park’s protection.
Built like a new-armored tank
he tracks our jeep

unaware that humans hunt his kind

for their “horns” of matted hair
some use as aphrodisiacs
or to cool a raging fever down.

But in this place he could grow into

his over-sized, three-toed feet
to join the rest of his endangered species.
So he galumphs along

while our driver speeds up, swerves

tries to shake him as he runs alongside or
trots behind. I think, Herbivore.
Anyway, he seems upbeat and unafraid.

Head high, ears perked,

perhaps his lonesome self wants company
and our tank-like shape prompts him to ask,
Are you my mommy?

60
62
 Termite Monarchies

Each successive queen bids architects:

Construct additions. The drones, her plasterers
inveterate, then gnaw up plants and mold
to elaborate her unique castle, condo
spread, or steepled shrine—fossil-hard
and porous gray, ivied or nude,
perhaps festooned with tent-web spider gauze.

Here and there, and there again they rise

monuments to enterprise that stud
the earth and tack the topsoil down. And when
a queendom dies, its custom home remains—
shelter for some creature mongoose-sized,
a landmark on this road-less tract to aid
the wistful visitor who someday will come back.

63
 To Be a Good Bush Guide
First you must own seamless people skills.
Call every client by name.
Have patience without seeming to need it—
while you identify waterbuck
for the fifth time during the same game drive.
Maintain a sense of humor—
chuckle at stale jokes, tell fresh ones
seeming not to notice whose are funnier.
Serve picnics as if the queen had come to tea.
Exude confidence so everyone feels safe.
It goes without saying that you must be fluent
in your clients’ language—which is not your own—
so you can share what you see and know.
Spot birds and animals, of course—
often from great distances—
and give species, sex, age, habits, calls.
64
Be adept at mimicking birdsong
so you can prompt that call again
as you open a guidebook to the exact page
which offers portraits of this bird.
Offer up insects, plants. Who eats what.
Which are poisonous.
What leaves, roots the Maasai use for each disease.
Have detailed mental maps of the territory—
however vast—know when in cross-country pursuit
of lion, how to get back to Go.
Drive as though weaned on stock-car derbies
where tracks have no pit stops, no help at hand.
With patient good humor, serve sundowners
and ooze confidence while you fix the jeep
that breaks down out in the wilds.
65
 Mourning Ritual

Maasai men grow long hair

dye it burnt red as iron-laden earth
braid and loop it into manes
and top it off
with strands of colored beads.

But when a family member dies

a man shaves off his mane
to show the world
he suffers loss.

After weeks
fuzz forms, in months
kinks appear, but it takes years
for hair to grow out long.

He combs through memories

awaits the slow pomade
of time. But his hair—
its pristine texture—
will never be the same again.

67
 A Different View

As a child what grabbed me most in New York City

was not Broadway, Miss Liberty, the Empire State
but that faithful shrine to Natural History,
its window of flamingos flown in straight
from untamed Africa to paint their blue,
blue lake with stripes and dots of pinkish rose.
They gather here, this snake-necked, leggy crew
to mate, to nest, to fish, to drink…to pose.

I wish to see this splash of real-life birds

and ask our trip be planned to check them out.
Perhaps the travel agent missed my words
misjudged or failed to learn migration routes.
But flying between camps I look down on a whim
at this blue, blue lake. And thick pink hugs its rim.

68
 Kilai

is hard to understand. He tries; we fail,

must ask him to repeat three times and may
not get it then. We wish—to no avail—
we had Swahili words to put in play.

All said, his English may not be to blame.

And the bigger problem is we recognize
so few of Kenya’s birds, the trees he names.
Ten types of acacia I cannot memorize.

The names of trees back home are none too clear.

And New World birds I learned in second grade
seem distant kin to those he labels here.
But Kilai points to crowned crane gathered in a glade

to do their evening slow dance before they nest

their calls clear as Bolero to ears from the West.

70
Elephants are so much easier to know.
But Mike can identify each zebra by its stripes—
Dash-Dot; Dot-Y; H; L-Underlined.
He reads the hieroglyphs at their rear hip joints
where three black slants of lines converge—from behind,
from round belly, and up the leg—to make a pattern
unique as any fingerprint.
But at the next camp, Grevy’s zebras graze,
their stripes all running parallel. No hint

their stripes might meet to form a tell-tale rune.

What new alphabet would Mike devise
so he could know each Grevy? He might code
ear notches, how white-to-cream their undersides,
tails’ swish-swish beats. Or simply read the names
oxpecker beaks have etched along their manes.

73
 Vantage

The cheetah sits tall atop a termite mound,

her ribs curved ridges beneath her silken fur.
She scans the surrounding plain, her cub
unperturbed nearby.

A herd of Tommy gazelle appears at the edge of sight.

She begins her approach—measured,
tightly wound.
The cub troops after her.

Fixing on the youngest, smallest, she marks him

as prey, creeps in close
then takes off with such dazzling speed
her cub cannot keep pace

falls behind, slows

waits
sure his mother will return.
She has brought back food like this before.

And much as you abhor violence, you root for her.

This is, after all, the way of the wild.
But had you been watching the gazelle first-off,
you might be cheering less.

74
 Field Work

Time and again the Maasai guide, or another unfamiliar being to bale up
bare-eyed, spots animals a long way off like that final straw inside my camel brain.

names each dot Nearby late sun glares off the dry gold grass,
and then goes on to say what it is about— cover for a small tan dik-dik—

eating, sleeping, sitting, yawning, stock still but for his nose—
twitching tail or ear— and a golden leopard slinking low.

while with binoculars I scan the distant hill My eyes burn and tear, tired
not doubting him but under strain from so much squinting

to pick out against the gray-brown cliff into bright sun and dust-whipped wind
the brown-gray shape he calls while the dik-dik scents

not just generic antelope but eland, an eye-high broken reed tip
Thompson or Grant’s gazelle, impala, with a teardrop

topi, hartebeest, kudu, waterbuck, as if to draw a limit on the leopard’s tract

sitatunga, gerenuk, klipspringer, oryx, and mark this patch of veldt as his.

76
Man and chimp share 98% of their genes.

Alofu, Alpha Male before Pim took charge,

now ranks as Number Two but hopes
to reign again someday.

I stand to the side on the forest path

but film him as he passes and swats my leg.
Not that I could gauge his affect.

Did he make contact simply to say howdy-do?

Did he object to my viewing him up close
in his deposed state?

Or was he trying to say, Who are you to share

my path, my forest, my mountain, my world?
And I know just how he feels—

if truth be told—I resent the presence here

of different chimping groups.
I do not always play so well with others,

and usually opt out of games.

So I fail to recognize Alofu’s swat for what it is—
Gotcha, you’re It.

79
 Wrapped in Meaning

Steady gaze, crossed arms signal

a self-protective Welcome.

Unaware of Abel’s fate, he herds

the village cows
shares the task with others—
men and older boys

The community depends on them.

But more than that.
They see themselves as caretakers
of the cattle of the world.

No urge to argue about this view.

He knows who he is.

80
81
 Samburu Village

Windowless and snug, huts

let out smoke
through one small hole in thatch.
Little sunlight enters.

Children spend their days outside

learn to care for animals
for each other.
Girls haul wood and water.

Nothing mass produced

no stores.
Only toys or games
they make themselves.

Two nine-year-old boys play catch

with balls of scrunched up plastic bags,
covered with cloth, tied tight
with string.

A toddler crawls on the dusty ground

pushing his truck,
a salvaged plastic bottle balanced
on four rickety wood wheels.

Youngsters listen to elders

drum and sing, watch them dance
then imitate as children do.
As children anywhere would do.

82
Absence, On the Magkudigkudi Salt Pans

A kind of lunar scape. A gray-white expanse

whose waters used to lap to where the earth bows down
but dried up, draining off all color, sound
leaving only salt in a thick crust.

Above this plain, on the cloudless stretch of sky,

not even temporary vapor trails
sketch thin lines between two arbitrary
points—one end tacked down, the other on the move

like the slow rill of recorded time—and once

the sun goes down, perfect darkness waits
to hear each separate star click on.

84
 Meerkats of the Kalahari Desert

Morning trumpets Each mans a sand-hill

reveille outpost—pointy
down hole after hole coal-button snout
where the small ground force whipping side to side
encamps, to rouse to side to whiff
the company— the wind and scout
thirteen strong— for vermin with deep-
from hidden trenches. set, black-masked eyes—

One by skinny, until some All-Clear

furry one, moves the troop
up they pop in single file
to sit erect on yellow alert,
hanging front paws tails aloft like flags
limp, waist high, to rally around
as if tucking thumbs and go hunt down
in gun belts. red scorpions.

87
 The Lion Honeymoon

He pursues; turning
on him, baring teeth, she roars,
I have a headache!

She plops down near him

eyes wide, ears flicking off flies
rear angled away.

When she is ready

he hopes she will let him know.
Meanwhile, he’ll lay low

though she tries patience

and how much longer must he
act solicitous?

88
 The Hippos Demur

They grunt and snort

as they perk their pig ears
and raise heavy-lidded eyes
out of the river
meaning to spy on whosoever
spies on them
and before the camera clicks
or even brings them
into focus
they sink beneath the water
without a ripple
to hint—
such ingrates as they are
not to care
who admires them or how—
where they have gone
where they might reappear
where to point
the useless camera.
Perhaps they see
photographers
armed with aim-shoot gear
as coming here to steal
their souls.

91
 Flamingoes At Long Last

There are flamingoes on the private lake where we are staying.

But I insist we drive two bumpy hours to Lake Nakuru
where thousands gather, a grass-roots throng.

All because a museum diorama captivated me when I was ten

I need to see firsthand that endless panoply of pink.
What can live up to so much expectation?

Lesser Flamingoes flash pinker than their Greater whiter cousins

until the midday Kenyan sun bleaches out Hope’s color.
Then it hits me—the diorama promised sunset

to rosy up the birds. Further, it failed to own up to the stench

of salt water edged not only by flamingo rafts
but by a battalion of white pelicans

and the odd Marabou stork who strolls past lone cape buffalo—
mavericks knee-deep in lake mud, out of sorts,
waiting for some tide to turn.

93
 November 2008

We have escaped the final weeks of the campaign—

promises and slurs, voters’ heightened passions
TV ads, gross expenditures
pollsters’ day-by-day predictions.

Meanwhile, here in the land of his father

everyone pulls for Obama to win.
Earlier this year Kenya’s election stirred so much unrest—
well, killings, in fact, as both sides claimed fraud—
that tourists cancelled their safari plans.

Even after the two candidates’ tribes reach compromise

and leaders stand together—at least for now—
travelers steer clear.

Would we have dared this Rift Valley had we known

that other tribes—Samburu and Turkana—
have escalated a two-year war to raid each other’s cattle
their spears exchanged for guns?

We go home in time to cast our hopeful votes

assured that lawyers will volunteer at polls this time
to monitor against fraud
and that the losing candidate’s supporters may threaten
to move to Canada but will not take up arms.

94
 To Fight or Not To Fight

We watch two elephants go head to head—

lock tusks and push
trying to gain the high ground.
My husband says, It seems a game.
It lacks intensity.

Granted, we are too far away to hear

the clash of ivory spears or trumpetings
of rage or fear or ownership.

Our friend does not challenge,

Outrageous. This battle is for real.
Rather he observes,
That implies you’ve had vast experience
with elephant fights.
Quick, his reply, Yes, I used to referee ‘em.

My take-away—Avoid going head to head

but fight as poets write, a-slant.

97
 On Grasslands

The heavy rains fell short last spring

Cheated out of usual reserves
grazers have no Plan B.

Sated, the hyenas leave

rib cages of zebra and wildebeest
for wind to whistle through

on its way to stirring up dust devils

at odd points, near and far,
as if that Force might birth Form
from particles.

Here, even in rainy seasons

new-formed beings cycle into prey…
carcass…carrion…then bones

that crumble back to dust.

But ribs and mini-whirlwinds whisper
how everything depends on water.

99
 Papyrus

Its tassels tickle the sunbeams,

make whispered click-clicks
as though speaking Taa,

that endangered tongue

of nearby Kalahari Bushmen
who know this land, its offered wealth,

the science of trapping game—

how to tie and place a loop of rope
to capture a springbok by one hind leg—

the art of making fire—

how to speed-twirl a pointed stick
in wood shavings piled in the hot sun.

What need have they to harvest papyrus

for scrolls like ancient Egyptians
north in the Nile Delta?

These plants rise ten feet into clean air

along banks of the Okavango Delta—
that mysterious wetland sprawl

surrounded by desert—this eden

where green little bee-eaters weave
like winged weft among the warp of reeds.

100
 Rapprochement

Not eight weeks old,

the spotted kitty pads from the depths

of the hollow tree trunk

some elephant once stripped and felled.

Lying guard at the lair’s open end,

his mother licks him ear-to-tail.

She lets him nurse, play-box her nose,

then walk all over her.

Dare he stray, she twists her neck,

lifts her head to glare him back.

Inside his log, he finds a window

just his size, eaten out by dry rot,

an open invitation.
He sneaks through,

a flap of tongue popped from his mouth

the curious, naughty pink of bubble gum.

A short trip. He knows

he ought not, that if his mother caught on

she would rasp her chary “No.”

So wary to explore
he goes instead to check on her.

103
 Still Life with Giraffe

Did whoever propped my skull upright on this veldt

guess my dying wish to warn the world
about the hungry, ruthless jaws of lions?

Picked clean of every softness—skin

tufts of hair, muscle, sinew, eye, my brain—
hollowed out, bereft and left alone,
I wear a new long narrow crack that splits

my left and right profiles, jagging from below

my horns to the ragged void my chin once filled.
Past fear, I pose reposed, though still regret
I have no time to bleach pure O’Keeffe white
before the night hyenas come.

A pack will polish off my head and leave

bone-white spoor behind, like ashes of their dead.

104
105
 Kori Bustard

Taller than Turkey—

white tail fan held smart above
brown herringbone back—

he crowns himself Stud.

Even his partial display
adds new starch to “Strut”.

Mute, with mincing steps,

he gives off the heady scent
of Entitlement

as if born to lure
any female of right mind
and all he need do

is fluff up his stuff

while male weaver birds must vie
for mates by building

elaborate nests
their intendeds test and vet
and when found wanting

wooers must re-weave.

None of that for this bustard.
So he struts all day in vain

ladies disinclined.
He impugns their sanity—
Who can fathom dames?

106
107
 Amphibious

She waddles up
onto the river bank,
her skin taut
as an overblown balloon—
plastic, shiny
a wet pink black,

one plump piglet pattering behind,

another, puddle-sized,
stuck by her paunch
(so cute I picture
how he might paddle
in my bathtub back home).

But though her bloat may slow her some,

my mind reruns how
her large bubble eyes ride
the night river,
a double periscope
that disappears when she gears open

her cavern mouth

where, pointing north,
two wide-spaced dentin bayonets glint
equipping her to do the mother thing—
turn fierce to guard her young
whatever comes.

108
 Lake Victoria Village

The village hunkers on the shore “America.” “George Washington first

of Lake Victoria, water alive president.” “One, two, three...”
with Nile perch. We smile, they grin.

A school of lively Luo children in bright We tour the meager Peace Corps station—
and scanty clothes splash into the water part clinic, part recreation center
to meet Eugene’s small boat. for orphans and the elderly.

They know him. He lives here, too, And when Eugene returns us to his boat
more often fisherman than guide. the children help him push off
He has brought them visitors before. and wave us on. Nearby

Children grab our hands, our sleeves, birds—black, white, black-and-white—

shepherd us past lean-to homes and stalls drawn by clamor from young nests
along unpaved passageways swoop in and out a rocky isle

that run muddy from the overflow where porous cliffs—part nursery,
of barrels, bins and nets part playground—grant surer sanctuary
that hold fish waiting while they too fish this lake.

to be sorted, salted, shipped off for sale.

Our escorts practice
their proud English words

111
112
 Beneficiaries of the Landscape Architects
Termites may as well be in cahoots
with the large and straight-horned lekking topi stag,
to whom they lend their mounds as pedestals.
In the current drought, an amber-colored shag
carpets every rounded white ant hill
to form a base where topi take on the guise
of statues, alone, in facing pairs, or side by side.
They plant their front hooves on the highest rise,
stretch rear legs—in stockings long and yellow—
lower down one side to strike a pose
they hold as if already sculpted there
in the real-life style Remington once chose.
But for the smudges that mark their hips with gray,
they come pre-mounted, in a burnished bronze display.
113
And termites may as well be in cahoots
with the sleek and supple cheetah who picks a mound
as today’s lookout for predators and prey,
and the perfect couch to lollygag around.
Her spotted body sprawls with the contour of the hill,
as she lifts her long tail’s tip, then lets it rest.
Her cub, mock-dressed like a scrappy honey badger
in fluffy gray-white wrap, scampers to the crest
while his mother looks away. Her black tear-streaks
mute sun glare as she scans for food. She stops
her head’s slow swivel course to stare, stroll down,
trot off, then bolt from her cub. She returns to drop
the young gazelle she caught and dangles by its throat.
They gorge. On a new mound she licks clean their coats.
 Grooming

The lecture on head lice Chimps have no such qualms.

at your child’s grammar school
had listeners scratching scalps
as if the auditorium
were suddenly infested.
Epidemic the spread.
Still, an embarrassment
that nurse’s call asking you
to come fetch Annabelle—
Also an irritation and a bother
to find and apply
proper toxic shampoo,
wash all the household linens
in hot water,
allow no play dates
while you nit-pick for days
until her head passes inspection
and she can return to class.
No one gasps
in embarrassed shock
at what crawls in their fur.
They need no special soaps
own neither wool caps
nor linens to scald pristine.
Their insect guests offer up
chances for a parent, pal
or mate to groom,
convey the chimp equivalent
of Te Amo
and reap a snack besides.

114
 Turn About

Mount Kenya hunkers down at the equator

like a many-towered castle a moat might ring
to daunt riffraff and medieval foes
so they won’t breach the fabled home where king
and queen receive those youths who climb to woo
the grand-prize princess fancied in her décolleté.
But she spurns the crested standards that they bear.
About titles, riches, land, she has grown blasé.

She travels south to find the highest mount

in Africa, shaped more like a house
of worship than a castle, its spireless dome
most often lost in clouds. She would be spouse
to Kilimanjaro, who reigns where she may not go,
past purple slopes, beyond perpetual snow.

117
 It’s All in the Timing

My husband timed this trip—

no guarantees—
to catch the wildebeest migration
their wide and wooly train
that fords and chokes this river
packed flank by beard
hour after hour.
They say last week
the dusty, brindle-coated grazers
crossed right here
though many hundreds
still mill about these plains.

So I will not get to,

have to watch
wily crocodiles snatch and drown
the small, the old, the lame.
I had planned to steel myself
against memories
of two wildebeest I once saw
prance like shaggy satyrs
who had learned dressage somehow.
They danced the gold-mine joy
of Pan’s goat-child.
Not bestial. Hardly even wild.

118
119
 Locals

They do not trek gorillas.

Nothing in it for them.
But in a small clearing in the thick of their Bwindi Forest
below the long climb to where the mountain silverbacks hang out
a posse of local men surround a crackly fire
that heats a cauldron. From its stopcock a dented pipe
slants down to a large drum which collects liquid—
distilled juice of nearby banana trees.
This moonshine can prompt
grown men to grin
and set their women grimacing.

120
122
 Ostrich Attraction

Unlikely being. flaps his flightless plumes so hard

Ungainly for a bird.
Too heavy
for his black wings
to let him fly.
Yet handsome in a way.
He paces along the front fence
of the farmyard, ignoring
his harem at the rear
decked out in come-on
ostrich gray.
He stares through the wire
with long-lashed almond eyes,
Egyptian wide,
at my bouquet of offered grasses,
at my hand, or me.
they stir up dust
and raise him onto tiptoe
where he manages a curtsy,
sinking down
into his body’s flounce
as if in ballerina drag, courting
the standing O, hot
for something more from me
than grass.
He would seduce me
to spring him from captivity
so he may pick one mate
then help her herd—and no excuse!—
twelve helter-skelter baby birds.

Taller than the average man,

he turns his lordly head
on its stretched-up, scrawny neck
faces full front
and without warning

123
 Cleansing the Kill
Fringes of the vultures’ dark wings flutter
like prayer shawls raised in tribute for a passing soul.
Claws spread, they land and hop the last few yards

to reach the open carcass where they swarm and squabble

for choice feed, wage a tug of war
over zebra entrails—taut between hooked beaks—
and sate themselves
while a pair of marabou stork
patrol the site like undertakers at the wake
of an unknown soldier who, with his troop, had earned
his many stripes dodging tooth-and-nail attacks.
His bones begin to shine.
Those bare-faced stork—
tall, white-bellied, frock coats habit-black—
then shoulder through the throng; long tweezer bills
pick bits of flesh and blood to swill last rites.

124
125
 Ooooooooh!

The five-year-old surveys her crayons and asks,

“What’s your favorite color, Grandma?”
A simple enough question.
After all, she knows hers: Pink, of course.

Until recently I might have waffled,

“Well, blues and greens.”
“But which?” she would have pushed.
And I might have wondered why I had to choose.

But no longer do we need to take this dip

into murky waters of philosophy.
“Turquoise,” I say, “especially if it shimmers.”
I know this now

thanks to the tiny sunbird on that bush outside

my hotel room, whose shiny green-blue
head and neck caught dawn light
and tossed it to me through the window...

and thanks to the common superb starling—

so unlike our drab black species—
whose uncommon glossy back of deep blue-green
kept startling me...

and thanks to the flying dung beetle

whose carapace of metallic teal
even today manages to steal my stingy admiration
no matter what he eats.

126
 The Art of Dress-Up

The stocky white horse

turns down the job to carry
Quixote,
hoping to tilt alone
against the evils of his veldt.

He dons one central horn,

a spiraled lance,
but strong winds whoosh
beneath his strapped-on wings
and swoop him off

as Pegasus
into the northern sky.
The rest of his white herd bray
a ballad of bravery
then wisely aim less high.

But to mourn,
each brush-cuts its mane
paints its body, head and legs
with stripes
of funereal black

and in between faint lines

of shadow brown.
like tracks
stars burn across the sky
for the lucky viewer to catch.

Bunched in a herd, their stripes

confuse where one body ends,
the next starts, to spur on
the illusory muse
if not to poetry to Op Art.

128
130
 Family Planning

The Samburu goatherd has strapped a stiff leather flap

onto the belly of the only Billy goat
just north of his penis.

Now he cannot service the many nannies of his flock.

He must wait. They all must wait.
For promised rain.

When there will be enough new grass so no kid starves.

This tribe’s long limbs grow strong and lithe, stay lean
on their finite, if not meager, food supply
of milk and blood.

But does this goatherd—or any other village elder—

take such precautions servicing
his several wives?

Still nursing their two-year-olds, mothers may delay fertility.

Each woman hauls firewood, burns clean her gourds to hold

her family’s liquid sustenance unspoiled
for one whole day.

Her mud-and-wattle hut—with its dark, soft-blanket nook—

sits across the manyatta circle from other wives’.
In this community, no signs of jealousy.

After all, women here have enough to do, enough to care for.

131
 The Saddle-Billed Stork: A Parable

His miniature bright yellow saddle

does not sit astride
his back of black and white,
but between his eyes where his long bill starts
stop-light red, interrupted
by a wide black band.

Of striking height, he wades

pulling one thin angled leg, then the other, high
above the swamp while poking,
poking in the water with his open beak.

Late morning, he snags a catfish lunch.

Nearby, a slim gray heron
cranes his neck skyward where a fish eagle
has spied the catch and
dive-bombs in,
so flustering the stork he drops
the fish.

Head held high,

the eagle stands on it,
shoots the stork a look that says,

I am Eagle, you are not.

And imperious as its American bald cousin,

flies its loot off in a one-claw vise.

132
133
 Kenya Fishing Village

On the northeast rim

of Victoria’s freshwater expanse
it perches
wary of the unrest that rocks Uganda
just west across the lake

In this village Peace Corps helps

supply fresh water

Add this to a sufficiency

of food—bananas, vegetables as well as fish—
of clothes—serviceable and clean—
of shelter—corrugated metal shields
from winter wind
from rains each summer afternoon

Peace Corps runs a small clinic

classes for orphans and for widows

Enviable how villagers have no need

to punch or even check a clock
The sun’s prophetic tick across the sky
tells when to knock off work
kick off shoes
commune

Still, there is need.

There is still need.

And to us from the West

Enough is a radical concept.

135
 Grace Personified

Forget the swan. Think Leopard.

Coat so elegant he would long ago have been endangered

by hunters were he less shy, less nocturnal.
As it is, high-end designers covet his skin, knock it off repeatedly.

But faux pelts fall short

cannot create such unique patterns, those rosettes
that adorn his lithe body like the whorls in a human fingerprint.

See him glide in dusky camouflage through gold-tipped grass,

huge supple shoulders at work like silent metronomes
that measure out grace notes beneath that coat.

Effortless he leaps onto an inviting tree limb

steps forward lightly, all four paws in one thin line.
No gymnast executes more seamless moves on balance beam.

Now watch how from his high branch he sticks that dismount.

137
 Please Come Again

Dusk creeps in on lion paws

to crouch beneath the plunge of night
that blankets sunset’s greenish gauze
Impala, zebra, warthog pause
glad floodlights here are banned by law
to spare dark eyes and not freeze flight
Dusk creeps in on lion paws
to lunge beneath the crouch of night

139
 In Appreciation

Early in 2009, our friend Marilyn Susman suggested that we put together a book that combines Arnie’s
photographs and Carol’s poems. She set us to mulling and, from that mulling, this book evolved.

One World, our friend Michael Lewis’ book of beautiful photographs that he took in fifty countries, served
as an inspiration to us. Beyond that, Mike generously shared his encouragement and experiences, which
kept us focused and saved us countless hours and headaches.

Our daughter Wendy Snell took a great deal of time to read the poems carefully and to offer insightful,
sensitive and helpful comments.

The comments and critiques of poet friends Maureen Flannery, Mel Furman, Deborah Rosen, and Arlyn
Miller, helped shape and improve this work.

Dave Jordano, our professional photographer friend, generously provided his guidance and expertise in
improving the photographs.

The advice, encouragement and good humor of our friends Steve and Sharon Fiffer provided moral support
(and good counsel) for us in this project.

Other friends took the time and interest to give this work what Adrienne termed “loving scrutiny”—Adrienne
and Syd Lieberman, Bonnie and Marty Oberman, Bob Bennett and Harriet Tropp, Beth and David Hart,
Michael and Valerie Lewis, and our favorite book-ish group (affectionately know as “The Group”) Naomi
and Dan Feldman, Noreen and Gil Cornfield, Alison Edwards and Henri Frischer. Their loving scrutiny
improved this book greatly.

Our designer, Pat Prather, and printer representative, Eric Taylor, were responsive and professional in guid-
ing production of this book.

Finally, Michael Oberman—forever our best man—overwhelmed us by offering to undertake fulfillment of

book orders through his company, Omeda, and its dedicated staff.

Carol and Arnie Kanter

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 Carol Kanter
Carol’s first published poem appeared in Iowa Woman (Spr/Sum, 1995). She
won first prize in Poets and Patrons’ 1995 International Narrative Poetry Contest
and subsequently has had poems published by Ariel, Blue Unicorn, ByLine,
Explorations, Hammers, The Chester Jones Foundation, Kaleidoscope Ink, The
Madison Review, The Mid-America Poetry Review, Pudding Magazine, The
People’s Press, Rambunctious Review, River Oak Review, Sendero, Sweet Annie
Press, Thema, Universities West Press, and a number of anthologies. Korone
named her the Illinois Winner of its 2001 writing project. Atlanta Review gave
her an International Merit Award in poetry in 1998, 2003, and 2005. Finishing Line Press published
her first chapbook, “Out of Southern Africa,” in 2005, and her second, “Chronicle of Dog,” in 2006.

Carol Kanter is a psychotherapist in private practice. She has a B.A. in biology, an M.A. in clinical
social work, and a Ph.D. in Counseling Psychology. Her book And Baby Makes Three (Apocryphile
Press, 2007) explores the emotional transition to parenthood.

Arnie Kanter
Arnie is a writer and photographer and, in former lives, a lawyer and
consultant.

His books include: The Secret Memoranda of Stanley J. Fairweather; Kanter

on Hiring; Improving Your Summer Associate Program; The Lawyer Hiring
Handbook; The Handbook of Law Firm Mismanagement; The Handbook of Law
Firm Mismanagement for the 21st Century; Advanced Law Firm Mismanagement;
The Ins and Outs of Law Firm Mismanagement; Was That a Tax Lawyer Who Just
Flew Over?; The Essential Book of Interviewing; The Lawyer’s Big Book of Fun (with Jodi Kanter); The
Teacher’s Big Book of Fun (with Wendy Kanter); Is God a Cubs Fan?; Is God Still a Cubs Fan?

No Secret Where Elephants Walk is Arnie’s first book of photographs.

Arnie holds a B.A. from Brandeis University, a J.D. from Northwestern University School of Law, and an
LL.M. from The London School of Economics.

Carol and Arnie live in Evanston, Illinois, and are the parents of two daughters and the grandparents
of three granddaughters and, by the time this goes to press, a grandson.

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 Photographs
P.3 Cheetah with Thomson’s Gazelle, Kenya P.71 Crowned Cranes, Kenya
P.5 Richard’s Camp, Kenya P.72 Grevy’s Zebra, with Oxpecker, Kenya
P.6 Leopard, Kenya P.75 Cheetah, with Tommy kill and cub, Kenya
P.9 Young woman dancer, Kenya P.77 Sable, Botswana
P.11 Giraffe with Impalas, Kenya P.78 Chimp resting, Mahale, Tanzania
P.12 (clockwise) Superb Starlings, Pied Kingfisher,Secretary P.81 Young Samburu man with cattle, Kenya
Bird, Lilac-breasted Roller, Kenya P.83 Samburu children, Kenya
P.13. Yellow-billed Stork, Malachite Kingfisher, Kenya P.85 Salt Pan, Kalahari Desert, Botswana
P.15 Warrior-dancers, Kenya P.86 Meerkats, Kalahari Desert, Botswana
P.17 Elephant trunk and tusks, Kenya P.89 Lion couple, Kenya
P.19 Giraffe, Kenya P.90 Hippo, Tanzania
P.20 Samburu woman in her manyatta, Kenya P.92 Flamingoes in flight, Lake Naivasha, Kenya
P.22 Thomson’s Gazelle with newborn, Kenya P.95 Guides for Obama, Kenya
P.24 Egrets on old boat, Lake Victoria, Kenya P.96 Elephants, Kenya
P.27 Prison cell, Robben Island, South Africa P.98 Giraffe drinking, Botswana
P.28 Lion drinking, Kenya P.101 Papyrus in marsh, Botswana
P.31 Chimp, Mahale, Tanzania P.102 Leopard cub with mother, South Africa
P.33 Hippos in mud, Tanzania P.105 Giraffe skull, Botswana
P.34 Lion cubs, South Africa P.107 Kori Bustard, Kenya
P.36 Hyena, Kenya P.109 Hippo yawning, Tanzania
P.39 Man asleep in Soweto, South Africa P.110 Children and boat, village on Lake Victoria, Kenya
P.41 Leopard eating Warthog, South Africa P.112 Cheetah and cub on termite mound, Kenya
P.43 Silverback Gorilla, Uganda P.113 Topi lekking on termite mound, Kenya
P.44 Elephant and Egret in swamp, Kenya P.115 Chimp picking nits, Tanzania
P.47 Okavango Delta, with plane shadow, Botswana P.116 Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania
P.49 Cape Buffalo with Oxpecker, Kenya P.119 Wildebeest, Kenya
P.50 Cheetah eating Thomson’s Gazelle, Kenya P.121 Locals on the road, Uganda
P.53 Elephant herd, Kenya P.122 Ostrich with his brood, Kenya
P.55 Zebras crossing Mara River, Kenya P.125 Vultures with Zebra, Kenya
P.56 Young man mending net, Kenya P.127 Blue-headed Agama, Kenya
P.59 Chimp, Mahale, Tanzania P.129 Zebras, South Africa
P.61 White Rhino feet, Kenya P.130 Young wife inside manyatta hut, Kenya
P.62 Termite mound, South Africa P.13 Saddle-billed Stork, Kenya
P.65 Guide searching for game, Kenya P.134 Market, village on Lake Victoria, Kenya
P.66 Barbershop in the townships, South Africa P.136 Leopard in tree at night, South Africa
P.69 Flamingoes, Lake Nakuru, Kenya P.138 Zebras at sunset, Kenya

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