afrika
r e - a n i m at i o n
poetry
playbook
10
By Christian Mowarin
I remember the night I returned to your cold I could taste the salt in your tears And taste the clan in your skin Speak the spirit that was calling Wasnt it's what you really want? Now you embrace me And embalm me with grace The soul gossip in the desert In the palm of their hand Christian Mowarin
...Herb faced and hands akimbo The new breed emerges From the sacred cropped coven Sandwiched between home roots Praising with all hands on dusk In the deep heart of the ancient moon Calling the germinative ancestors to Rise For revelation has come to play Christian Mowarin
For my mother,
an oxygen paperback July 2011
, clara
Heart kinematics My heart drifted through The imation as a conquest Though i wasn't longer listening. The vision has entered the barn And the tubers play their act The return of the yam festives Wearing a rough-tanned Lavender coated body armor I stood elegantly next To my shining body volume Looking slightly out of place A near distant perspective Imminent and daring as day My heart missed a beat therein But soon cover the analytics Whose hair has been trimmed to her crown, Loose strands escaping down my shoulders Why are you playing mind games Over my renewed origins Where the trees no longer bow To the accent of udenugwa the ruler Let me live and I will show you My spirit runs as native blood In all the seven reigns
The girl in the rain The rain has seized gallantly To pour librations on the earth Little puddles with their mud friends Drinking away the renderosity Bitter water disagreeing to agree Who to lead the emancipation Before the precarious evaporation Her eyes clearly form the refraction Coarse and shaky black blinks Soliciting for paradise retention But I know they are mere verbs Been making her appear lifeless But the radiosity been so edgy Appearing to be submissive though Those icy blue eyes so unionize Within the in built gilt coverings, The clandestine candlesticks, Expensive and shivering cold A sure bounty of silverado An engagement made so real It begins to dramatize her soul
The ďŹ reies my brothers Swarming round and round They gathered for the village In a millionth mechanical march Having travelled in dazed dimensions Far from the lonely mountains Where the cradle once settled They have come to witness the day To see the affairs of our kind Dressed in nature’s own clothing Red heads with sand beads They rallied for the inevitables For the future and for the look in our eyes Not long their leaders come out To speak to the multitude tangents So we cannot hear him nor feel him The latitutude protection he seek We know not the providers But a day sure so disappointed
They are coming for us Sitting midday in the cocoon Housed pragmatically by myself Noon doomed to be razed The south storm in my mind Waging tremor upon myself Cursing the day the soil made me And the day the village drums unrolled Because a lifeless made it to life Wind flaps raging noise on my ears Tearing indomitable native speckles Emerging with great reasons From the lackadaisical nuisance To a lackluster axial lullaby Tailored to loop ceremoniously In a rustic calabash storm Made worse by plastic monoplane Now they filed in their numbers With no meticulous message Their Passage in ample vectors In undulative amplification of forms A classified comprehension it seems But pseudo set in a semi dotted layout Played silly with puppets and pins
Song of life Life is waiting Life is talking Arise and get it The nurd night light Awaits in an artistic lingo Painted in earth strokes Herb faced and hands akimbo The new breeds emerge From the sacred cropped coven Sandwiched between home roots Praising with all hands on dusk In the deep heart of the ancient moon Calling the germinative ancestors to Rise For revelation has come to play Violet strings of lost souls In vengeance they seek in dance Singing hallucinational melodies Raising their young in backyards Waiting for the ďŹ fth market day When the spirits come to sell Gorogoro ointments that cures The maiming cold and ethnic eczema That returns after a deliberate sojourn Life is waiting Life is talking Arise and get it The nurd night light Awaits in an artistic lingo Painted in earth strokes
We were young I remember In the new moon light In all it's blue shimmers The beautiful monopoly And it tapered shadows The leathery melody And it's fungal fingers The sleepy villagers In their nativity calico We were so young We were so strong And so stretched I remember The stars were bright And shining down on us The light so powerful It's boolean transfixes us The man made hope And how hopeful it becomes Many years gone past Many drums beat past Your eyes fighting Feasting like a no tomorrow We were so young We were so strong And so attached
Everyone hurts Fear makes it avid way Away around the drowning Dawn of a nascent generation Whose metamophoric faith lies In the twist of a naked truth The hurt ushers in trend Made realistic by current And existing pragmatics With the wounds suffering Less and ambiguous ointments Hands congregates in unionism In latent bid to pave the illusion But everyone bites the pain That makes the bane beautiful In a way hurt has found a foundry We try insidiously Miraculously and methodically But fear intrinsically carves An uncut niche that takes its place In the mutative journey to hurt land
The village in your skin I reminisced the season I returned to your cold In a bowl of calabash oil Tanned by the night blanket With a taste of salt in your tears And the feeling of reject Embalmed in your looks I could taste the clan in your skin The brown earth in your color The lounge akin to a comfort Your home made stale skin Like a baobab tree tattoo Tolled away in climatic imbroglio It was calling me in names And nostalgia stigmatic spirit Ins't it what you really want Now you embrace me And envelope me with grace A council with skeletal cover cloth In the valleys where the harmattan Plays the tune with conscience In the palm of their hand Sending seasonal semantics To all the skins in the village So they know where the heart grows
The Gracelands The cold from the strange Rivers of ughali tributaries Filters through the fillets Rubbed against the fence That holds the calm waters The string in sync with the flow You could hear the sweet rhythm Undulating through the aged Winds that blows mind away I remember In the new moon light In all it's blue shimmers The beautiful distance And it tapered shadows The leather melody And it's fungal fingers The sleepy villagers In their nativity dreams We were so young We were so strong And so stretched I remember The stars were bright And Shinning down on us The light so powerful It's Boolean Transfixes us The man made hope And how hopeful it became Many years gone past Many drums beat past Your eyes fighting Feasting like a no tomorrow We were so young We were so strong And so attached
Memoirs of Senegal Like your eyes Misty with mystics Scared to let go Probably reserved For the blues Observed for love Dead for tears The idea is dear The vivid past to the future The sweet memories Of a symphony That is of Senegal I am no where Where I grew I knew this Truth For the freedom within All you've got is French The gentle battle it rages In your heart story A string played free Enchanting and endearing I know you Too well Wellness incurred Cured with eyes closed The sweet spot Where the streets Meets with the heart light Cold melts away The stretch Life springs The sweet memories Of a symphony That is of Senegal
Sins of cynicisms Isimada, the ghost of fear Comes back with his back black Playing terror to the lost dungeons In his hands, the retribution whip Of ancestral curses and roots Made only for rot and races with rash His illumination remotely not aligned As he scans the aura futura The shrine’s reflection intoxicated His fears very cold and unyielding His cynicisms covers his sins And criticisms in dire straits Then came the light new beginnings Spirits of daylight animatics As the hands comes down With such volcanic verses The night fluttering their wings In readiness for a frantic flight From the sporadic sensibilities The horns now sounding eerie Souls soldiers in sober cacophony In pseudo and intrinsic struggles The lineage of the ancestors broken Bright lights hit the shrub covets It's done, well done again
afrika
r e - a n i m at i o n
poetry
playbook
10
By Christian Mowarin