Skip to main content

For my love

I won't be there
when they lose themselves
to the ecstasy of the muse
and burry themselves
in the passions of politics.

I won't congregate with them
under the dark thursday night
as they fail to see the dangers
lurking on the corners
in their stupor of art

I won't join them
as they scratch the nose
of the roaring lions and leopards
with their skill of writing
in their ignorance of danger

I will be here, dear
composing sweet verses and lines
that will sound as mellodies
to fill you with happiness

I will lie on your lap
and wander into distant worlds
before coming back with beautiful
poetry
in the chambers of my heart

I won't join them dear
for my poetry
is of love (Is for you)
and they say:
they don't need it
for theirs is political.

Instead, I'll be with you
and watch my nation
being sold at a low price
while our love blossoms!

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

What would Jesus do?

The sun was just beginning to burn the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Some weeks before, four fishermen had been fished from their trade by the carpenter’s son to be his disciples. They were now with him. Sitting on the shores of the sea they had always regarded as a home. Their past, forgotten; hope erected in the future. Jesus, for that was the name of the son of the carpenter whom the church had denounced, was busy preaching to his congregation. His voice was small, his frame was little – almost frail. The cloth he had used to wrap his body in was dirty such that in within his congregation you could hear some little whispers of people wondering what made this man believe he was the son of God and not just Joseph, the carpenter. His voice had no charisma. It lacked that magic and fire that John the Baptist (now in prison) had had in those days when he had baptized people in this very same sea, calling them of the wicked generation, calling them to turn away from their sins

The hate that hate produced: the John Chilembwe story

1915 : a middle-aged man in his mid-forties stands amongst a group of his loyal followers. They are about 200. Perhaps, it is a chilly rainy night with the silence of a graveyard surrounding the church. “The white man has sat on us for so long,” declares the tall man with obviously a mild temper. “We need to do something, we need to act. We must send him packing from our land.” Possibly, the men listening to him shake their heads in unison. Others are yet to comprehend what is driving the man of God in front of them for they have known him as a quiet man for a long time. Thus, the story of John Chilembwe’s rebellion begins, in the January of 1915, years long before the wind of freedom and change begins to sweep in the 1960s. Many years before the bells of freedom begin to ring on the African continent. John Chilembwe, writes Robert I. Rotberg in a 2005 Harvard Magazine article, was not a radical man such that nobody could expect him to stage a rebellion. He appeared

The time you meet a stranger who reminds you of a long gone friend

When you meet a stranger with thin lips, a light complexion and a figure like that of the friend who died in 2004, memories overwhelm you. You look at the stranger, sitting next to you in a public transport, with a bewilderment that forces her to smile – not an innocent smile, of course, but one that warns you politely that your stare is making her uncomfortable. And, in turn you give her back a smile. The same smile you could have given your friend were she alive but then you suddenly go back into a space in time. A space you only keep in memory but will never have it again. When you meet a stranger who reminds of a long gone closest friend, you are reminded of how you had come to learn of her death: she had not suffered a lot. She had been sick for two (or is it three?) days, she had complained of chest pains and when they took her to the hospital, the doctors said it was pneumonia and they had just given her some antibiotics. You remember that it was a Wednesday,