Saturday, April 23, 2005

myth mystic means

There have been many account attributed to the myth of mystic parables, some has been explained by scholars who studied them, but others has never been. In my native town, for example things that happened in the past is still happening today, one of the most intriguing and unusual revelation occurred in 2004, by the other side of the country; within the armpit of the beautiful hill surrounding the pastoral realm of the still water, here we learned of the many rituals held out to us by the tentacles of outstretched corpses, the sightings brought talk of spirit and ghost, facts that cant be explained by logical means…it is the revelation I am trying to capture in my poetry. One of my poems the “frontiers of fear” published in weekly trust newspaper last year perfectly surmises it.


My studies of the tribal ceremonies remind me of the unity of personality I had as a child, the radiance in play is something I am trying to get back with the poetry I write- “ The stench of poverty bestowed on me urges me inroad to seek it feel but the anger stopped the voice in me the fury rapping me of my speech Words through the grinding hinge of a door echoeing the footpath in the memory tends to doubt the sincerity of the study as a collection of image that rekindles pity

ritual space

The interest I have with the woman ritual space, is linked with a bond I have with a name, the creativity and sins the branded me worthy to be born the “son’, The women who needed to live with their own value and belief system, and raise their children free as they were raised, to be in their own world and not give a damn of what the new age thought of them, such as we witnessed in ritual ceremonies in most African tribes

The Words and Serpent

“The words and serpent creeps
In the pleasure nest of hell
Graphing the outlines that clips the beaded waist

And the oracle chants and prays
As the rapped women screams
And the freedman cried out blood as the pen-pleasure bottom soften

As the bile aims at me the pulse beats to the drum
And in shame I felt me stir with lust

Falling deep in the ritual space”

Withholding the Truth

Withholding the truth left us for weak
Against the hassles that shackled our voices
Just what I held against the missionary
Stressing Christ submission to humiliations
Conditioning my race to accept their chains-
Said I wasn't the only 'race' of `slaves'
Talk about `Joseph' being sold
More so by his own `white'
Quote a chapter of `timothy' at me
Cast its doubt in the chaos of your mind
Something to do with `massa' over `slaves'
And bid the chain clang out shut
Through the window of doubt
Against the greatest sham of all ages
Of land which hold no echoes of other land
And all the crops we raised with a breaking back
Where the wheat, corn and cotton grow
Beyond the `Mississippi' river
Were the nigger hustlers
Was just having a temporary custody of you
Coz you were just under the prote...

Monday, April 18, 2005



Tribal Poetry
and words of life

Dealt with past
dealt with strife

Open doors,
unlock hearts

Welcome hands
brilliant arts.

Welcome to the new world. It has it's roots in the old world.

Nourishment comes from the sun.

Lucky we have more than one."

-Scott Lindsley

Sunday, April 17, 2005

A Moment in Silence

A moment in silence

Blind to all thought
Protected by its own silence
as though by a shield-
you shook your head

Shrugged and waved
Your arms to encompass
everything around us-

There was no sigh of interruption
Though my world was as silent as ever-
I watched you as your finger work
And thought how fat your hands were

Through the silence
Didn’t know there’d be words in deed-
Suddenly one word I never thought
I could hear
a silence i never though could voice
creeps into my consciousness
in a world were I now'see voices'...

Arms and fingers run
Forming simple shapes
Like branches on a live breathing tree
So lively that they seems to chatter
Like small impatient tongues
with a will to speak...

I was always afraid
To tell you with movement
Or even words about the silence
I was born with but feared
Knowing I have not been
as others were
I have not seen
as others saw
I remember
the need
created you withthe silence

I summoned you from
the desire
placed a trench
on the floor of my loneliness
deep as the wound in Jesus palm

Worrying you couldn’t come
Shaping word, wording my life
to taste for once

Just once the words upon your lips

alone in the quiet
I'd read you lips by moonlight
the redness and all
or by the light in my heart
its every shape..

as I look at you
I think of this -

think of how it feels
to love someone

someone beyond...

my quite little lonely world.
and knowing it is true
I have everything to fear
and the words -
I could not say..

nailed on my cross