I'm in one of those moods...

Ever felt like you were suspended in space? You're neither here nor there; neither happy nor sad, but knowing that there's something tugging at your heart. Well folks, I'm in one of those moods today. I know I should perhaps sit and brood, but I'm too restless to do so.

Whatever.

Anyways, here's a poem I wrote some time ago (I seem to have suddenly experienced a block in the past few years). As is usual with me, I'm sharing it with you (yes, you).

Oh, one more thing: big ups to the Queen. You're one heck of a writer!



Untitled.

The song I sing is a song of love

Bequeathed to me by an immigrant dove

With a broken wing and a song to sing

Many tales to tell, many bells to ring.

The dove did a solitary candle light

Within myself, did start a fight

Blinded by each ray of hope

Yet wishing still in the dark to grope

To hold on to a broken heart

Afraid to be born anew, to start

A journey long since left behind

A weakened spirit, a fragile mind.

15/12/2004.

Something for the incoherent one...

I know. Been gone for some time. Don't know who or what to blame. Work maybe, or just plain laziness. Anyways, since Incoherent made me feel like I had something upstairs (by her encouraging comments), I'm putting this up especially for her. Oh, and one more thing Incoherent - be sure that the love's mutual. :)

Have you ever felt yourself rebel against someone or something, only to find that that very thing you fought against was actually YOU? That, I have found out is the story of my life. This poem is a personal one, and I just feel like I should share it with you guys, starting with Incoherent. Enjoy...

You and Me.

I tell myself I hate who you are,

That I will never go that far,

That I love my life and liberty;

Yet I see yourself in me:

The life you lived

The day you saw

And so much more.

Is how it was before?

I am tempted to push and fight.

I know my stance; it is my right.

Yet I turn and say to you,

“I hate the things that you do.”

Still I myself must be true –

I am not much different from you

We must learn to take our paths,

Free from hatred, free from fear,

For if you don’t it will tear

You apart;

To the brink of madness bring you near.

Yet I see it is true,

You were me, and I am you.

Now I understand who you are.

You are the wrong that I must right,

The bitterness I must fight,

The hatred I must shun,

The love I must beget.

You are you, I am me,

You were me, I am you.

at the end of it all...we are what we are

This week, I don't plan to go into some long discourse (primarily because I have nothing to talk about, AND I'm too lazy to even think). So, to keep my blog going, I'm posting this poem I wrote sometime ago.

I hope you enjoy it:


The sons of men
In Abassi’s eyes
Lay naked
Under the noonday skies
Though they covered be
Through a mastered craft
That we do not see
For we have believed
And we now forget
What we really are
In Abassi’s eyes
We are sons of men

exodus of a mind in captivity

Huddled beneath the crushing weight of a thousand angry words, the little boy couldn't but hate himself. Somehow he didn't blame the world - couldn't, shouldn't really - for its anger at him. There was only one person to hate, and that was his maker.

why, o, why did He deem it fit to create him this way? Why did He create him at all? Was it just for the fun of it; having grown weary from the worship of a million years, He now wanted something to taunt at? A new toy?

Why?

He wished he could change himself. Maybe he would start with his hair, or maybe his hard-done skin. Maybe he would learn to speak differently, or even put on another skin.

They told him he was evil, and he believed. He was told that he existed in darkness, and this he received. What was his crime; his disease; his curse?

Nothing. Hurdled beneath the crushing weight of a thousand words, he suddenly realised there was nothing in the world wrong with him. Suddenly, he couldn't but love himself. If the world hated him, then, he decided, they were a victim of their own ignorance, a self-loath which they had yet to know. He thanked his maker, and standing proud and tall, he proclaimed for all the world to hear...

I am African.

I was made from the loam of the horned land,

Shaped as I am by the Lord’s hand.

From my curly hair to my rounded nose;

And my thickly lips to my princely pose,

I was made African.

I was made, and so I am

As dark as Mazi Agwu’s farm;

And I’ll not claim my soul is white,

For it is as dark as my sprite;

I was made African.

My blood is the Niger River,

My vein, the roots of the yellow guava;

My spinal cord is the Iroko,

The colour of my blood is indigo;

I was made African.

I was cooked in the open fire,

I was made with much desire.

There is no dross in me, I’m pure;

I’m all you are and so much more.

I am African.