Beloved,
Your world may seem upside down right now but over the years you will come to realise one of two things: that it was alright upside down or that it wasn’t upside down at all. Either way, you’re going to be just fine.
#dearcurrentme
Month: October 2016
Parallelism
Lately, I have taken to giving a brief introduction to my poems. Tonight though, I feel the following poem needs no explanation. It speaks to those who have an understanding of the parallel universe and multiverse; but also understanding that everything is as it should be. That we have no control of the right now but rather on the next moment. I had such an experience on Saturday; where the next moment was determined by the actions taken in the presence. Possible scenarios play in my head right now, alternatives to the action I did take but when all is said and done, it don’t matter. Right now is a new moment; life goes on.
Parallelism
In that other world, the colour of the sky don’t matter;
Each day blends into the next and we don’t notice because we live in the moment;
Your face tastes like the golden brown tones of the sun;
Your smile the gentle raindrops of moon dust;
And I am filled with a laughter that has never known the touch of a broken heart;
Because there is no dis-ease in this place;
No false pretences, no melodies sung with stricken sorrow;
No questioning of each other’s identity and preferences;
We just are, enclosed in the bosom of being without regret;
Intertwined in the tendrils of selflessness;
Lost in the art of breathing;
Riding the mist in careless abandon, we grow wiser;
We speak truth without expectation, no hidden egos, no denying emotions in fear of ridicule;
Rejoicing in knowing that I am you and you are me and we are we;
And it don’t matter that our song is not always the same because it is music to my tapping toes;
Dancing in that other world is like rolling down a hill in glee;
Catching flowers in my hair and covering myself with a grassy scent;
We lay on our backs and catch a glimpse of that other world;
Where nothing seems right and our breath is off key;
But every now and then, oblivious to us, our energies unite;
We cross paths at the supermarket entrance;
Caught up in the rumblings of our own worlds but it don’t matter;
A moment experienced unnoticed, its truth lived in the all-knowing depths of our subconscious.
(c) Yaya unpublished work, October 2016
Do, You.
“Do, You.” is inspired by an ad I once saw, a few times. A couple of school girls are standing in a group but one has her head tilted in a different direction to the others. The ad was about being extra ordinary, which is the type of people that particular company employs. I seem to remember what company it was for but just in case I’ve misinterpreted the ad, I’ll keep it to myself.
This poem is about embracing yourself, allowing yourself to experience things differently; as artists do and being pleasantly surprised. Step away from the status quo and you might find your wings. I’ve done this a couple of times in my life, some moves I’ve regretted but never the satisfaction from having discovered something new, about me.
Whenever the world looks a little bit blury, I tilt my head and see it from a different perspective. That’s all there is to the poem, a call for you to Do, You Boo 🙂
It is probably my last piece until I am done with exams so, enjoy.
Do, You.
Head tilt.
See raindrops form in sky.
Draw child crying for lollipop
or sheep at drinking hole.
See shooting star.
Draw dancing skies
or sun chasing moon.
Head tilt.
See blue in green, paint red.
See rustling grass, write song.
Feel breeze, dance. Hear flowing water, sing.
Head tilt.
Poem leaps from city sounds,
bounces off funeral procession,
plucks corn from fields,
dips feet in lakes and oceans,
laments at lost love,
the poet is alive,
Inspiration is found.
(c) Yaya
Unpublished work, October 2016
Music & Me
Oh but I love music, in all its different forms, colours and taste. It is intertwined with my body, mind and soul. And the following is produced at the climax:
Bach Suite No. 1
The smoke from her cigarette, held sensuously in her left hand, rises to meet the gentle breeze of the night. From her dining room she is transported on the shoulders of palm trees to moonlit streets where she dances abandonedly with a stranger whose intense gaze melts her heart. Lost in the rhythm she is unaware of the rain that covers her in a glowing shroud, caressing her diseased body. She is alive in the moment, swaying her hips, clapping her hands; she is finally living the life she longed for, finally free. Long forgotten is the woman who set aside herself for others, for fear of a hypocritical society; she is exploring the right now through the eyes of her younger self, shelved in the folds of long bucket lists. Today is her flying day and she holds on to the sweet taste of letting go; allowing it to linger until her cigarette dies out. Still smiling, she reaches for the glass on the table and takes the last sip of her poisoned drink, the cello strings pulling at her soul.
(c) Yaya Unpublished work, October 2016
For you
Where do I even begin to explain my latest writing. Another poem sprung up, this time it wrote itself, I merely held the pen. I cannot remember the last time I actually wrote down a poem, except for a piece that started forming in my mind while I was studying. I didn’t get around to stringing the words together though.
For you, the title of the piece you are about to read, spewed out its last line first; with the only change being whether to use ‘wore’ or ‘war’. Had I opted for the latter, I would have been in control but my mind, well, it has its own mind and today I am too exhausted to direct it.
I was going to leave the poem untitled but the words were written for someone. I too am that someone, currently caught up in an emotion so deep, it leaves me puzzled. I feel as if I have suffered loss or experienced something dark but cannot pin point it. I suspect it is all the negativity that has been going on: kids throwing stones, police trigger happy; all in the name of doing what is right or perhaps it is the death of Khwezi, she too embroiled in a wrangle for justice; and maybe, just maybe, I have read too much into my study module on human adaptation; the haunting case studies and the crumbling earth at man’s hands.
Perhaps I chose wore to display the innocence of actions. We all mean well – love not war but at some point we end up bloodied? Perhaps this is the message in For you. It is a sad poem but in it, a reminder that greater good exists, that we are more than our circumstances. I will let you be the judge:
For you
Her soul creakes like old bones as she gathers her shadows, lifting them up from the corners of her mind ‘one day at a time’ she thinks – breathes, takes a step towards the door, light beckoning her from the outside she can hear its laughter rattling in the wind inviting her to be brave, to dance with the leaves whose colours she has forgotten, trapped in a world where her body crashed to the floor and swallowed the coldness of the tiles, blood stains on the dress she wore to party.
(c) Yaya unpublished work, October 2016 blksoulsmile.wordpress.com
And so I wrote
Woke up inspired to write. As usual, the title formed itself in between the paragraphs and the opening line changed, twice. Most important, I posted to the group and so I am now off to engage in any activity that will slow down my overly anxious heart. Is this what it feels like to be a writer…let’s not start that inner debate.
Marshmallow
He is here.
His laugh tastes like a fluffy chocolate dessert that transports your buds to a galaxy of a billion stars where you float on a bed of strawberries, dancing on his tongue and emerging, mesmerised, you linger on the tips of his full lips savouring his every word.
His energy.
It rises like the notes of a beautiful melody; violin strings hanging in the air; pulling your heart strings like a lullaby and I am lured into peaceful, head against his shoulder; drowning in his cinnamon scent of wholeness, goodness, familiarity – home.
The little hairs on the nape of his neck.
When touched lightly, you can trace them to their edges where fingertips brush skin and tip toe down the spine, each bump forming his height and because he towers over me, it takes a while to lap up the sunshine, admiring each curve of his golden skin; sighing in delight.
This is love.
They say the best thing that can happen to you is meeting your soul mate. In a world of seven billion people, I celebrate our moments with songs of gratitude reciting all the psalms, written and unwritten, imprinted in the veins of my heart. Seven billion people and here we are.
We are a marshmallow him and I, the twisted type. I the pink and he the white, slow melting into each other in the embrace of a camp fire, its embers the colour of love. To marry your soul mate is the lingering sweet taste of a horizon where sky kisses sea; mountain kisses earth in an explosion of light and when day kisses night; he marries my best friend, the yellow twist, while I hold her bouquet to my face hoping it stifles my cries.
(c) Yaya
Unpublished work, October 2016
blksoulsmile 