Don't Kick An Empty Bucket Poem by Sarah Mkhonza
Don't Kick An Empty Bucket
Since you will kick it,
don't kick it hard, for
kick it you will. For they
say we never miss this one.
Accurate as the goal you
score in your dreams, they say.
They will hear it far, the noise,
and know what went wrong.
That bucket is noisy,
make sure your bucket is full.
The noise will annoy the
blacksmith, who meant it for
work that is done with
the hands and not the feet.
Fill it with deeds silent,
for they will make less noise.
Respect yourself and those who
will hear the sounds.
The world is confused when faced
by honor, integrity and truth.
Challenging trio this. Go to
this last kick well shod with
boots made of wool. They
will deal with the din of noise.
Close the holes at the bottom.
You have worked hard. Create
a self made gift to take along.
It will tell those on the way,
you were special. While they
remain with the noise, you will
go with the trinket made in this
short football match where the
bucket replaced the soccer ball
even before you were born.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/5/2025 8:41:42 PM # 1.0.0
This wry, carefully-worked-out metaphor makes me smile. As you walk down the road, you kick a bucket so there will be something to look forward to. When your toe connects satisfyingly with its center of gravity, it skitters several steps ahead, where it awaits the next kick. You wisely choose not to imitate the noise-making chimpanzee that raided Jane Goodall's camp in Gombe. He repeatedly threw a big empty oilcan to the ground, making a clattering noise that drove other chimps away, so he alone could seize Jane's bananas. Instead you choose a bucket that rattles ultrasonically, so that only pedestrians with specially sensitized ears can hear. You do not add to noise pollution. You should be proud of your SELF-MADE GIFT, and I am glad that my ears are tuned to it. Your kicking gives me reassurance in a roundabout, indirect way. I too am doing something analogous to kicking that bucket, and sometimes I feel the futility of it, as if I am headed off into a desert. But seeing your energetic kicking, I feel that the bucket is really moving forward on some kind of road. If my BUCKET will ever be heard by anyone, I hope it will be heard by someone like you, who really appreciates a good bucket and a good kick. You set a good example of paying the hope of gratification forward.// This reminds me of a few lines by my poet-friend Yan Li: WALKING DOWN THE ROAD/ IF YOU DON'T KICK SOMETHING OR OTHER/ YOU START TO LOOK EFFETE./ HE HAS EMBROIDERED THE WORD D-O-O-R ON HIS TROUSER LEG/ - THE DOOR TO A NATION. (That was written in his fiery youth when he actually hoped his surreal expressiveness could help to open up people's thinking. Your bucket kicking is like his door kicking: at least you are opening the space of your own ultrasonic, language-nation.)