Poetic Musings

I've decided to post some poetry I unearthed from the archives. They were written quite a while ago, the most recent being two years back and the oldest, about eight years. Enjoy!

Voice

I don't know you...
I don't know the warmth of your laugh,
the scent of your clothes, the touch of your hands.

I don't know you.

But I do.

I know when you feel lost, when you are alone,
when you are distant,
and when you want
..to be close.

I see your beautiful smile...and your sad eyes.

I know why your life is boring.

I don't know you.
But I like you.

Amount

How do you quantify..

Excuse me, am I on air now?
Oh, the ubiqitous
fire engine siren,
that echoes the wailing of my heart.
Reverberating like winter
whose chilling memory creeps
into
spring
amid the liquid
birdsong of endless youth.

New Beginnings

Starting over loses its novelty
a free spirit but a refugee of
the heart.
Running from fear
of winning,
fear of losing...
Intermittent spouts of Courage
and Hope
Amid emotions
unspoken,
angst too volatile
to share.
Deal with it.
It's all in your mind...
Love is an escape.
A temporal hiatus from the maze of reality.
Friendship a delicate blur
like lemonade
on asphalt.

Commercial Break

I want to celebrate the beauty of life
the rich flavour of freedom
the joy of being whole
of being me
of being loved.
Living in the moment
reveling in the past
savoring the present
and anticipating the future
knowing full well that as this
painting unfolds, the multi-hued
panorama of life's rich tapestry
can only get more and more beautiful.
The Best is yet to come, yes
but the in-between is glorious.
Life is too short for pain
and too sweet for regrets.

Bottoms Up

What happens
when the bottom
falls out
rock bottom
bed rock
bottom of the rock
under the bedrock
the other side
china
it's not so bad
just different
new
somewhat
liberating
because
the only way is
Up.

Daphne Butler's Amazing Work

My friend Daphne Butler takes wildlife art to another level. Vivid color, startling realism and searing light are hallmarks of her abundant paintings. A closer look at her pseudo-photo realistic depictions of animals and people will suggest that your eye is fooling you. She paints from flat two-dimensional photographs but through the expert treatment of her medium, she brings her images to life, mimicking the countless colors the eye sees while looking at a three-dimensional object. The result is that she unfailingly gets us "to see what I see through my paintings, to feel the heat, warmth and light of the African sun." Indeed Daphne is a master Colorist, manipulating sizzling masalas of tantalizing shades until their pulsating hues 'pop,' pushing the imagination far beyond the realms of reality. She explains this phenomenon quite simply; "My paintings don't look like photos- photos don't look like life."

Born in Tanzania to a Norwegian father and a Greek Mother, Daphne has lived in Africa all her life. Her fascination with the equatorial sun stems from the unique aspect it gives everyday figures, the way the light bounces off surfaces and illuminates the subject at different times. She loves to paint the wildlife and people of Africa. Her brush deftly captures the hesitant blush of the Maasai girl as she emerges from the manyatta, afternoon shadows dancing on her face. We see the glistening droplets of water on the coastal fisherman's back, the twinkling eyes of scantily clad Samburu boys playing. Above us, the thorny lime green acacia bough seems ready to bend under the weight of a sleepy leopard, whose contentment echoes that of his cousin in another of her paintings; the household cat taking an afternoon siesta.

Her paintings, though definitely realistic, are happy and serene. She endeavors to capture the positive aspects of African life. The ordinary people of her scenes are depicted in cheerful settings, proof of her view that affluence doesn't automatically bring fulfillment. Her portraits take on an ethnographic slant as she deferently conveys the beauty and dignity of the Maasai. She believes "it is a culture that is fast fading away, so it's important to capture it before it gets assimilated." Her subjects are timeless. "People and animals will always be there. I try to imitate the elements of the real world that will never change."

Her inspiration is nature, because as she puts it, "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and I think the Greatest Artist is the Creator. You cant improve on nature, so why not showcase it?"

(picture: copyright Daphne Butler)

Home

A simple monosyllabic word, yet its definitions are inexhaustible. Over the centuries that word has evoked in man a sense of security, longing, wistfulness, and contentment.

In Kenyan culture, when one says "I'm going home," this normally implies a visit to the place of one's birth, or more recently, with 21st century urbanization, Nairobians view it as going to the place of their parents' birth. For this generation of city-slickers, the traditional concept of a rural upcountry 'home' is foggy and vague at best. To them it's a quaint place they visit perhaps once a year for the holidays. Indeed, this MTV generation of 'Barbies' and Play station- addicts can barely communicate with their grandparents and rural cousins, let alone relate to them.

As for Kenyan expats in other lands, "Home" evokes much more pleasant and idealistic connotations. To many who have lived abroad for several years, "Home" carries blissful thoughts of teenage life in idyll surroundings. They didn't have much, as many would say, but those were simple days, playing Shake and football in the estate, eating Creamy Toffees and Goody-Goodies, drinking Tree Top and Mirinda. Playing Kati, Bladda and Tapo; making your own toys out of hangers and Kimbo tins. The music from back then becomes part and parcel of the nostalgic, happy memories of bygone days.

They know that it is impossible to recreate this snapshot in time - Having been gone for so long, they sometimes feel completely out of touch. "Nairobi has changed so much," they remark, in their cosmopolitan accents. If and when they do come to visit, they realize that it is a place which moved on once they departed. The vacuum they left gradually closed up, and life rolled on.

A plus Kenyans have as a culture, is that they tend to be very resilient and adaptable. So when they emigrate they often assimilate and blend in quickly with their adopted nationality. Yet in spite of their remarkable success in making their new land, 'home,' deep down, they somehow know it is not. That dissonance, or limbo, comes with the privilege of being "a child of two worlds." You never quite fit into either one, although ultimately your former culture gradually fades into the background, as life in the here and now becomes your only reality.

Having lived in the West for five years, my emotions were similar to those of the thousands of Kenyans in the diaspora. Mixed feelings about your identity, your place - your Home. Homesickness is a very real phenomenon - just ask any expatriate or refugee. I spoke to numerous immigrants from around the world. From them I gleaned a valuable lesson about the true definition of home:

I learned that ultimately, home relates to a certain someone, not necessarily someplace. A wise elder put it eloquently,

"Home is where you are most comfortable."

He was not referring to creature comforts of a material nature, but rather, emotional comfort. The essence of Home is to be found in Friends, family, or even just one solitary loved one who truly 'gets' you and makes you feel like you belong with them. Home need not be a literal place - It can be a metaphysical state of being with the one(s) you love. Wherever they are, is comfortable. Wherever they are is home.
Home is being with that person, whether a parent, spouse, uncle, grandmother, fiancé, child...being with the one who truly understands and loves you. With him or her you can travel the world, pack up in a day and not look back, because with them you are always Home.

Tommorow

Early last week, I spoke to a dear friend of mine, a girl whom we shall call Joanne. Joanne is a sweet, sensible, savvy and dynamic woman. She is in her prime, at the peak of her career. Joanne told me that a growth was recently discovered in her ovaries, and the doctors seemed pretty grave as they gave the prognosis. All three specialists whom she saw recommended immediate surgery. What kind of growth was it? Was it malignant? What caused it? They could not say. Finally Joanne found a physician who agreed to do a biopsy before they began any surgery, to try to find out the nature of the growth. The results would take some time to be released. Until then, it was simply a waiting game.

There was not really much I could say to comfort her. I tried to sound upbeat, and, being a die-hard optimist, I kept telling myself that surely it was nothing. I thought about the stress she must have been experiencing as she waited; the unimaginable dread that accompanies such suspense. She must have tried to keep busy, to think positive thoughts, to do research and to read books, looking for answers to questions that do not have any. I thought of some of my beloved friends who had succumbed in their fight with cancer, and I thought of the dear ones who survived and went on to lead normal, healthy lives. I thought about questions such as why bad things happen to good people. I took comfort in our hope for the future, knowing that these things are only temporary.

But mostly, I thought of her. Joanne is a great person and a born leader. A first born, prefect, head girl and full-time volunteer in the Disability sector, she is known and loved by just about everybody whose path she crosses. Feisty and determined with a short, more-to-love frame and a cheesy dimpled grin that turns her twinkly eyes into tiny black slits on her face. She is so young, so vibrant! I prayed for her as she underwent this ordeal, and I could not help but think about how transient life can be. Let's face it - I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, or, unexpectedly get diagnosed with a terminal condition. Couples will discuss at least once during their marriage the loaded question - if I died would you remarry? There are even jokes on that theme, which I find rather hilarious, however morbid the subject.

I thought about what my family would do if tomorrow never came for me. I thought about what people would say at my eulogy, or even just in conversation. It made me ponder about the type of name I would like to leave, the legacy for my daughter, and the memories for my dear ones. What would really be important at that time? Would anyone really care what my bank balance was on that day, or would they rather think about the lives I had touched? My friend Joanne is known for her kindness and hospitality. She always says Thank-You, through a card, a text message, or even a phone-call, no matter how small the favor was. However stressed out or exhausted she may get, I have never seen her lose her cool. Could they say that about me?

Finally I thought about how I used to describe myself as “adventurous and impulsive: someone who likes to eat life with a big spoon!” It's high time I dug out that rusty spoon and took some of those adventures I had always wanted...after all, why wait? Joanne's scare reminded me that life is to be relished today, and happiness is not something to be postponed.

... Oh, and by the way, she called me a couple of days ago – the biopsy is all clear.

Our Spoken Words

“What happens to a dream deferred, ...does it shrivel up and die, like a raisin in the sun?”

So wrote Langston Hughes in his famous poem that spurred the creation of various pieces of prose, music and even theater in that same theme. Langston Hughes, a famous African American poet, produced brilliant works that have been taught in schools and analyzed for years.I had a very brief encounter with this poem, but I found it unforgettable.

There is something about Black writers that resonates with me - perhaps because I studied English Literature during my academic years, which mostly featured Classical British works with very few Blacks represented. Or perhaps also because deep down I feel that we do have a certain kinship. Maya Angelou is an iconic poet, and had I been given the chance to study her works with the same intensity that I studied Shakespeare, It would have rocked my world. Chinua Achebe-can you believe his book "things fall apart" has been around more than forty years? Wole Soyinka - his poem "the Telephone booth" touched me as a teenager, through which he gave a wry, tongue-in-cheek glimpse of the prejudice he endured during his time in England in the sixties.

Now, a new genre of poetry, known as 'Spoken Word' has flourished in recent years. It speaks to me because as an African girl, our traditions, history,culture, songs and poems were all conveyed orally. Most of our vernacular languages did not have an alphabet or a written form until missionaries came and coined such forms, in order to translate the Bible into local languages. A favorite pastime of any rural-raised child, or any person of our parents' generation, is that of the evening story-time by the fire. There, a sage matriarch or patriarch would dazzle both children and adults with lively tales,that were not only memorable, but didactic in nature.

So when I hear Jill Scott, Floetry, Amani, and others speak their peace in front of rapt audiences, I sense a certain connection within. I feel a faint, yet very distinct bond with "my peoples" of the diaspora, with so many stories yet untold, so many poems yet to recite, so many songs to compose. All of them resonate and resound like that raisin in the sun, in celebration of Blackness, of a shared heritage of which we know so little.