I like to indulge
in what they call
"delusions of grandeur."
I love to think that maybe
I am an incredible poet
and that people have been amazed
by my mastery of words and how
I translate my pain
Or maybe the twisting vine doodles
that wind their way around every corner
of my every page are unique
and alluringly artistic.
I am beautiful
and no one has discovered me
Or slightly more possibly,
my pain might just be dazzling
and only I
can make my feelings seem interesting
But this is my favorite
of all my fantasies,
the one I save
for when I need hope.
I will grant myself a minute of thinking that I,
out of everyone,
am more important,
(New Amsterdam/The Boy With No Name/Travis)
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; email@example.com)
This year alone world society has lost more that ten great intellectual and political leaders. They have been lost to death in a deeply wounding manner. Human society has indeed been robbed. It is so sad. Three of the leaders have been Nobel laureates and the rest are leaders of intellectual, moral, political and spiritual stature in their respective capacities.
It began without any stampede in early part of the year some where March when Chinua Achebe, a Nigerian and Francis Davis Imbuga a Kenyan, both succumbed to early deaths caused by stroke. Rendering not only the citizens of world of literature, but also African society as well as global intellectual communities to the most desperate bereavement. Thereafter, within short while of the subsequent days, The Venezuelans president and Marxist intellectual, Hugo Chavez also succumbed to death caused by throat cancer. Even though the Pravda, the daily circulating paper of Russia contended that Chavez was poisoned; it is dismissible as only a Russian stand attributed to ideological hangover, because the Pravda also made similar allegations in relation to deaths of Yasser Arafat, Pablo Neruda and Frantz Omar Fanon, but it did not go a head to establish the factuality of this very allegations.
What we know is that human life is in most cases contested for by the three spiritual forces of fortune, fate and death. As decried William Shakespeare in his Romeo and Juliet. This time round in the year 2013, the angel of death has dominantly reigned with its untimely consequences in form of fangled early death of our leaders. Herman Melville will remain classical in his concern in the Moby Dick about death that; O death! O death! Why are you untimely?
Sadder is when the Al shabab terrorists killed the Ghanaian born global literary citizen Kofi Owonor. Kofi Owonor the poet and author of This world my brother was among the people killed in Nairobi during the terrorist attack at the Westgate mall. Of course he had come to Kenya to celebrate in literary festival organised by a society of publishers in Nairobi. This is an eventuality of some month ago. In September 2013, the Irish born literary Nobel prize poet; Heaney Seamus died. He died prematurely when the world society most needed his service to literature and his literary service to human society.
A couple of some weeks ago again the world loosed two prominent artists, political leaders, human rights crusaders and intellectuals. These are none other than Doris May Lessing and Tabuley Rosseuru. Lessing was a white African living in London, literature Nobel laureate and a feminist as well as an anti apartheid crusader. She is known for her firm stand against communist utopia, championing for the courses against dehumanizing human behaviors like racisms , but mostly Lessing is known for her great literary works like ;the grass is singing, Golden Note book, Dann and Mara as well as so many other works. Whereas Tabuley was an African Congolese , a musician , a businessman , once a husband to Africa’s most beautiful songstress Bellia Belle. He was the composer and the vocalist of African Rumba music. His song Bina Mudan which we in Africa always pronounce as Simbukinya was actually an artistic and cultural bombshell. Tabuley has been a politician, who enjoyed a gubernatorial position of the city of Kinshasa for ten years (two terms).
Most disastrous is the currently trial-some moment for the world community as they all commissarriate the death of Nelson Mandela.Mandella died early decemder 2013 at his home in the Johannesburg city of South Africa. The death of Mandela is an open sore to the society. It is a window for social, political, intellectual and family abyss in Africa. It is indeed a sad moment. But what can we do? For it has already happened. We can only swim in the consolation inherent the wisdom of the Babukusu people found in the western part of Kenya that; Mis-brewed wine behooves volunteer carousers. And truly, I have personally joined the world community to commit a poetical kamikaze in volunteering to drink this sour wine of humanity .May god give us and our leaders in their diverse capacities long live. Amen.
if to let live
is all there is
then let me
let me smoke till I can't breathe anymore / choke on the tar / lose the lungs / paint the esophagus an ivory black / draw with that charcoal / sketch my soul / illustrate it /
-let me make art
out of this.
The line...bold red with 7's clearly marked in a line down the lane
The stark contrast of white walls, a large open cavern, and white linoleum
To the brightly blaring colorful targets lined up near and far like stains
Upon the vast emptiness of the soul as it steps up to the line again.
Right foot forward towards the wall and with no difficulty, up
The recurve is smoothly aligned with knuckles flat and simple breaths
Like the sleek feathers upon arrow tail so finely defined, preparing to erupt
In pointed ambition towards the nearer bulls-eye littered with hits, depth
Arrows protrude in clumpings as the process is methodically established
And the goal oriented approach is gently woven within each stance, release,
Success of the hard tip embedding within the soft layers and to be honed
Over time and years of effort, each scar a story unto itself of lives
Lived fully without fear of adventure and embracing the passion of heart
That fires the senses and emboldens the soul upon a quest of mastery.
Not a mastery of others or from others, but consolidated within the darts
Of progress in all arenas of life and through out all ages, life's mysteries.
Three fingers curl gently beneath the arrow tail as finger and thumb
Kiss in a relaxed grazing upon tender cheek as eyes adjust the softly held
Recurve extended in determined focus upon its path with the target numb
Just an area to aim for but no destination within aimed for, skilled
To just aim true and let them fly, the arrows; 4 clumped between
Bulls-eye and the outer skirt, definitive successes for a first-time shooter
The fifth's feathers are an artistic flair like a cake top from center seen
As with one more draw back and liquid release, it strikes again, center.
I struggle to breakout
Of this deadpan Novocain
I find the time to shoot up
Every time a disheveled stranger
Asks me for money
You move on
Because it demands you pay attention
To a real person with a real problem
Here lies life
Living breathing desperation
Hasn’t bathed in weeks
Eaten hot food in days
Or had a home in years
It’s not a poem a play or a documentary
use whatever clay you want
No matter how much artistic expression you pour your soul into
You will never ever achieve
When someone shakes a cup of change and asks you please
And you pull yourself away
Like a mother removing her child from the poison ivy
Or the uncle who drinks
Don’t catch it
Don’t touch it
Don’t catch it
And whatever you do don’t look them in the eye
For fear of leveling the plane
Is it fear, anger, discomfort, disgust, sympathy, understanding, horror, mistrust or heartbreak?
It’s all of the above.
an artistic rendering of a murderous intent
a castle made of incarcerated sound
six hundred monologues and none of them i meant
bright red paint on a dark white ground
Day 1 of a poem a day
God created 'man' in his own image.
Is that why we feel compelled to
Create, invent, make
Things that were never there before?
Is this compulsion a God complex?
Or reflecting the nature of the Devine,
Or perhaps our own Divinity.
Because it's that big, no matter how small.
It's everywhere, in everyone.
Some people think they're not creative.
But creativity isn't just 'art'.
It's creating a building, a positive experience, anything you make.
Some people think they're not artistic.
When they've learned to suppress it.
Taught that it's not 'worthwhile'
Or comparing themselves to others.
It is in us to create.
When you express yourself you will create.
In whatever form that might be.
And it's beautiful... whatever form that might be.
Dali's brush, she has
in her expressive tongue;
his cubist sensibility,
laps up that dense macabre
as if it's cadence par excellence.
They were married in a seaside town that Morrissey forgot to bomb. The groom, spot lit white, held his bride by the waist. Dee, the groom’s younger brother, grasped an empty wine glass warily by the stem, like a dangerous flower.
The band began to play ‘Blue Velvet.’
“Oh.” Dee said, with sudden fairies in his eyes. “I like this song.”
“You do?” I asked.
“Mmm, yes.” He replied, and the fairies were gone. The bride and groom swayed on the dancefloor. “Get me another drink, will you?” He asked, holding out his glass. “And be quick about it before I change my mind.”
I was in Room 12.
The key-card blurred in my hand. Dee was falling over, laughing.
It was the first time I’d ever seen him drunk. As a rule, drinking was just another enemy - and in the same way that he pretended to drag from a cigarette, he would pretend to swig from a vodka bottle. He’d leave parties untouched, passing the alphabet test with colours. His lips would be wet, but he would never get pissed.
I always wanted to get him drunk. For selfish reasons, mostly. He didn’t know how to lose control. His discipline made a mockery of me.
When I was young I thought that willingly ‘misplacing’ yourself was the pinnacle of artistic freedom - that you could not be found until you had been lost. It’s a funny thing – I envied him his self-control and yet I undermined it constantly, because sometimes when the moon was right and the computer monitor shone like a nightlight, he would open his mouth and let me push my tongue in without a fight. I wanted this from him, always. It was such a feeling of conquest; like my germs had won. I didn’t want to be another cigarette, another bottle, I wanted him to put his lips on me and give in, get a lungful, get a mouthful, get a hit. I wanted to scupper all his plans.
He flopped onto the bed of Room 12. He was too drunk to get undressed. I began shrugging off my clothes, rooting through my travel bag for toothpaste.
“What are you doing?”
“Toothpaste. I can’t find my toothpaste.”
I looked over at him. He was smiling, very pissed and as blonde as hell.
"Aren’t you going to come over here and take advantage of me?” He asked, still smiling. He’d unpinned the flowers from his lapel and tucked them behind his ear. I let go of my bag and abandoned the toothpaste hunt.
‘Do you…want me to take advantage of you?”
He laughed without laughing, something that he was talented at.
“I don't know. Do you want to take advantage of me?”
Of course I did, that was a stupid question and he knew it. When I first met him, I wrote in my journal that I had met a very serious angel. Angels can only fly because they take themselves lightly, and so very serious angels are stuck to the earth. That’s how I saw him, stuck to the earth and meant to be flying. I romanticized him of course, like I romanticize everything. And now on the bed, with his hands in his lap like doves sleeping off a magic trick, how could I say no?
“I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re incredibly pissed.”
And I remember the way he smiled and closed his eyes and opened his arms, drunkenly embracing the air where I was meant to be, with the sheets creasing beneath him and his suit creasing too. The flowers behind his ear stayed put like they’d been painted in. I ambled over, half drunk, and I lowered myself onto his body. I kissed him. His mouth opened wide, he pulled me closer. My hands dislodged the flowers. My germs won just like the wine had won. I pinned an angel to the earth, and he was never meant to fly anyway, because for someone so light - he was far too heavy.
This is my requiem my sweet friend
as you were called, I may follow soon
only two hundred years between us
and in my death there will be none
I am so ready to stand by you
I have strived to become
to become your artistic equal
and again we will become one
You have been my inspiration
the reason of my being
you gave me light
when all around me was darkness
So in death I will stand by you
not just as your greatest admirer
but for the love of you
My Dear Friend
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)