#gaborone - Hello Poetry

Pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek, this is who I am. This is my story. It is only coincidence that I sing it to you, but sing, nonetheless, I do. One morning amidst the restlessness of my top-bunk sheets I heard a whispering and thought it might be God it was me. My unconsciousness begging me for nourishment, silently loudly attacking my awareness with questions: it asked why I neglect it. Pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek, is this, too, why your body vibrates when your thoughts are feelings? Because you too have recognized feeling as thought? That that faculty of wonder you hush about as if a ***** secret of forgotten childhood memory is something that is as real as the metaphysical pores of a skin you cannot touch, but know is not some foreign, distant, effacing thing, but is thick, is thick, thick as words creaking like old wood in a library filled with students who read so much ******** to get into college but never venture forth for such skin in the skin of those unconscious voices in the shelves? Selves: we call them books but they breathe. The ideas wriggle in your veins like a worm. They block your blood yet move your soul. The stillness of your speechlessness is some movement in itself. So I suspect of you, pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek. So I suspect of myself. I do not understand how else I could have been born without eyes which we call eyes. I cannot see why else. I cannot. You cannot. There is light over there in that darkness. A glimpse of it- a sliver of silver has shocked you into your paleness. Into my blackness. It is the same difference. A different same. Line break: A mirror tells me things with my eyeless eyes. My brownness ***** me into journeys with tunnels so deep that we call them pupils. In the distance that I gaze into I find myself gazing into a distance I gaze into. Fathom it. Do not. Will not will it will it will not willed. Touching it will wilt it without touching: this is the soul you said does not exist. It is not there. It is. In Indiana. Where's that? asks my blood. In Indiana. Over there? my finger points out the window. No. It is. It is. Not. Suddenly I smell something and it is myself. It is not Indiana or freckles or pale-skin. I ask you where it is. Suddenly you smell something and it is yourself. It is not Gaborone or curly-haired or black. You ask me where I think it is. What the **** do we know?

0

Apr 19, 2016

Apr 19, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC

tawandamulalu

A Walk to the Science Classrooms on a Post-Rainy Autumn Day.

Pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek, this is who I am. This is my story. It is only coincidence that I sing it to you, but sing, nonetheless, I do. One morning amidst the restlessness of my top-bunk sheets I heard a whispering and thought it might be God it was me. My unconsciousness begging me for nourishment, silently loudly attacking my awareness with questions: it asked why I neglect it. Pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek, is this, too, why your body vibrates when your thoughts are feelings? Because you too have recognized feeling as thought? That that faculty of wonder you hush about as if a ***** secret of forgotten childhood memory is something that is as real as the metaphysical pores of a skin you cannot touch, but know is not some foreign, distant, effacing thing, but is thick, is thick, thick as words creaking like old wood in a library filled with students who read so much ******** to get into college but never venture forth for such skin in the skin of those unconscious voices in the shelves? Selves: we call them books but they breathe. The ideas wriggle in your veins like a worm. They block your blood yet move your soul. The stillness of your speechlessness is some movement in itself. So I suspect of you, pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek. So I suspect of myself. I do not understand how else I could have been born without eyes which we call eyes. I cannot see why else. I cannot. You cannot. There is light over there in that darkness. A glimpse of it- a sliver of silver has shocked you into your paleness. Into my blackness. It is the same difference. A different same. Line break: A mirror tells me things with my eyeless eyes. My brownness ***** me into journeys with tunnels so deep that we call them pupils. In the distance that I gaze into I find myself gazing into a distance I gaze into. Fathom it. Do not. Will not will it will it will not willed. Touching it will wilt it without touching: this is the soul you said does not exist. It is not there. It is. In Indiana. Where's that? asks my blood. In Indiana. Over there? my finger points out the window. No. It is. It is. Not. Suddenly I smell something and it is myself. It is not Indiana or freckles or pale-skin. I ask you where it is. Suddenly you smell something and it is yourself. It is not Gaborone or curly-haired or black. You ask me where I think it is. What the **** do we know?

72

Barren, Open, Plain, No water, No life, No rain, A cracked ground, A dry river, An old borehole, Is this my life? What's wrong with me? This drought by itself, Shall **** us all.

0

Nov 17, 2015

Nov 17, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC

BeatricePrior

Drought

Barren, Open, Plain, No water, No life, No rain, A cracked ground, A dry river, An old borehole, Is this my life? What's wrong with me? This drought by itself, Shall **** us all.

13

Quaint Acacia tree forest: ****** unblemished as it was when my grandparents first met here- mountain school. The chapel beside the administration office is locked. But just as holy are the dark coal mountain rocks that sweetly fell from God's hands before Jesus set his feet here. He didn't. This place is lovely nonetheless.

0

Jul 7, 2015

Jul 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC

tawandamulalu

St. Joseph's College.

Quaint Acacia tree forest: ****** unblemished as it was when my grandparents first met here- mountain school. The chapel beside the administration office is locked. But just as holy are the dark coal mountain rocks that sweetly fell from God's hands before Jesus set his feet here. He didn't. This place is lovely nonetheless.

14