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Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


By
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle
Samantha Dias Dec 2011
“Looking for a walking buddy”
The invitation looms as I scroll through pages of personal ads
Filled with sensitive insight, too intimate for idle voyeurs browsing.

The computer’s hypnotic glow, dousing my cheeks in pale light, coaxes me to search
To rummage through human advertisements and peruse desperate expositions
Behavior quite unlike the pastimes that others might imagine me participating in
Behavior quite unlike the nightly activities I usually partake in
Such as sleeping

Won’t I give up this useless quest for nothing in particular,
And surrender my body to the ruthless aches creeping into my muscles and joints?
I’ll wait for assurance that my grazing has meaning–
I’ll linger to assign significance to this arbitrary curiosity, even into the early morning
Eventually, I’ll resolve to the conclusion that there is somewhere an assembly of people squinting in thought, trying to justify this same bizarre inquisition

We the people, hunched over luminous monitors, “looking for something more”
We who have specific and lewd requests for the opposite ***
We nosing congregation, mysteriously drawn to the Strictly Platonic section of the personals
Should try our luck with a walking buddy
And wander away.
Sara Dec 2012
Pink eyed words whisper slow.

Lazy layers of smoke curl around her expositions--
marbled collarbones protruding from the recluse
of a crippled child called

Hot ash sprinkled across her duvet,
she feels too heavy
under the dark velvet of the night sky.

Fingertips trace stories across wrists,
catching the rivets of her imperfections with
bitten down nails.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2015
Newbie to this lathe
Don't wince at expositions
See lame gits as dust
Devin Ortiz May 2021
Books are fuel to the imagination.

Works of fiction pour into my mind,
hours at a time.

I feel the power rise,
as I climb through expositions.

Looking down,
I see the world in the palm of my hand.

Looking up,
I see my face amongst the clouds.

On this high I craft my own words,
some spoken and others in ink.

And as I fall,
I ponder the time until my return.
David Barr Feb 2016
Our bilingual illiteracy and contemporary expression of vintage infancy remind me of developmentally mature eccentricities within a complex haven of interpersonal dynamics.
Just like a carnival hall of mirrors, our perceptual disturbances succumb to elaborate revelations and dreadful expositions of what we presume to be articulate prose.
Although the socio-political roots of a seductive striptease may shatter the silence of our audible and urban ecosystems, we can now access realms which connect to the severance of divided collusion.
Our galaxy has established her infinite story, in the same manner as a wrought iron gate interferes with the evidence within our contemporary society.
It is just like an alternate universe.
Hal Loyd Denton Oct 2012
Rusty Hinges

The wood showed its age and its time of neglect it creaked open slowly onto the courtyard the
Individual standing there was you or me the time varies from hours days and years our circumstances
Are different but they do flow with a commonality as one being human so many life experiences happen
To us all but controversial identifiable problems make them Taylor made for us as individual and at there
End they are retold with tread that has a universal constant that can mean many things to a lot of
People that in one degree or another applies to us but in the arena of life and its lustful expositions we
Turn and are in tough straits loss slights disappointments fall across our paths as shadows and in them
Are portents of more unknown difficulty no one gives much thought to the quick and vanishing problem
Unless it holds after the fact considerations that will be a continued problematic ongoing occurrence
These are the ones that we will fight a running battle with they tax our resources emotional or financial
Possibly both are effected nerves and stress makes for quiet an ordeal never to treat something in a
Light manner but that is the very success and exit that all desire the quote its darkest just before the
Dawn is in fact infallible truth but take it a step further with purposeful pause call to a halt all the anxiety
The voices silent or audible picture clearly the situation as best as you can see it and as hard and
Unanswerable as it surly is at that moment your need is to garrison your mind behind high walls
Making any thoughts that would enter at least they will be high unattainable thoughts not just
The little thoughts that have no power they only undermine and play to your fears in this haven begin
To undergird and reinforce stress points that are easily identified make the grandest leap of all deface
The diabolical disjointed confusion that has arrested your mind so terribly and scoffs you with the
Central means of attack confusion scatters your will your God given abilities to combat the war like
Ways that are found in life decisions need to made in clear eyed settings that are not similar to a
Volcanic upheaval but the scene should be a table and chair the floor smooth with sensibility the walls
Hung with diplomas and other unquestioned achievements that vouch of steady prolonged success
No matter the undertaking the chair the place and focal point of a fount that bares on and in it a grand
Ancient hall lined with shelves and shelves of books the gathered power of many minds implements and
Symbols that show in deep detail by their very appearance those that have entered here were men of
Gifts and striking abilities that they now gladly share they set around the table awaiting your questions
With answers that disarmed all foes not one loss was found and all this rest on one hinge and that is
Faith rusty of truth but by humble supplication and expectation you polish it to its formidable formable
Brilliance and Excellence burning away all shadows leaving in brightest detail the answers you seek
Nothing comes to your life without attending gifts attached the greater the struggle means in accurate
Measurement of how much growth you can expect
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
Frog 2
Hey, how’s that in the water?
I saw you dive in
and the water spread out a little;
you disappeared a while
and now I see you translucent
but you seem happy
as carefree
as when we were tadpoles;
tell me how it is…



Frog 1
*You silly frog;
all the description
and text I can give you
all words and expositions will not suffice:
just jump in and see for yourself
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
Rusty Hinges

The wood showed its age and its time of neglect it creaked open slowly onto the courtyard the
Individual standing there was you or me the time varies from hours days and years our circumstances
Are different but they do flow with a commonality as one being human so many life experiences happen
To us all but controversial identifiable problems make them Taylor made for us as individual and at there
End they are retold with tread that has a universal constant that can mean many things to a lot of
People that in one degree or another applies to us but in the arena of life and its lustful expositions we
Turn and are in tough straits loss slights disappointments fall across our paths as shadows and in them
Are portents of more unknown difficulty no one gives much thought to the quick and vanishing problem
Unless it holds after the fact considerations that will be a continued problematic ongoing occurrence
These are the ones that we will fight a running battle with they tax our resources emotional or financial
Possibly both are effected nerves and stress makes for quiet an ordeal never to treat something in a
Light manner but that is the very success and exit that all desire the quote its darkest just before the
Dawn is in fact infallible truth but take it a step further with purposeful pause call to a halt all the anxiety
The voices silent or audible picture clearly the situation as best as you can see it and as hard and
Unanswerable as it surly is at that moment your need is to garrison your mind behind high walls
Making any thoughts that would enter at least they will be high unattainable thoughts not just
The little thoughts that have no power they only undermine and play to your fears in this haven begin
To undergird and reinforce stress points that are easily identified make the grandest leap of all deface
The diabolical disjointed confusion that has arrested your mind so terribly and scoffs you with the
Central means of attack confusion scatters your will your God given abilities to combat the war like
Ways that are found in life decisions need to made in clear eyed settings that are not similar to a
Volcanic upheaval but the scene should be a table and chair the floor smooth with sensibility the walls
Hung with diplomas and other unquestioned achievements that vouch of steady prolonged success
No matter the undertaking the chair the place and focal point of a fount that bares on and in it a grand
Ancient hall lined with shelves and shelves of books the gathered power of many minds implements and
Symbols that show in deep detail by their very appearance those that have entered here were men of
Gifts and striking abilities that they now gladly share they set around the table awaiting your questions
With answers that disarmed all foes not one loss was found and all this rest on one hinge and that is
Faith rusty of truth but by humble supplication and expectation you polish it to its formidable formable
Brilliance and Excellence burning away all shadows leaving in brightest detail the answers you seek
Nothing comes to your life without attending gifts attached the greater the struggle means in accurate
Measurement of how much growth you can expect
Raphael Cheong Jan 2015
Regarding this sin that I do not speak about
Yet is silence a granted blessing?
Silence works both ways for us
Putting faith together
And breaking noise apart
For seventeen years I lived mum
But on the eighteenth one summer drum
Rang the sound of an epiphany
And jubilation came in voice singing
Love is still love after all

Regarding this sin that throws people off
Yet why is that so?
Why is it easier to look up for divinity
Than it is to look past differences
For difference is not sin
Are you bathed in flames for being
Different from your kin?

Regarding this sin some lives have been lost
And anonymity gives ****** a helping hand
But most flawed are those who pretend
To be a sheep in a lion’s den
To don the crown of power and speak
On the behalf of their conqueror
Yet no thorns to the head they suffered
And for them it is easier
To be vile than to pass vows
Funny how difference
Can be similar in so many ways

Regarding this sin are we not all human?
And conflations have been made about this
And poetry spun with lexis that runs
The course of skeletal rivers
Lungs that breathe in purple air
Eyes that tear at the sight of hatred
Lips that just want to be loved
And skin that warms at every touch
But senses do not prevail
Against the laws that trap these sinners
And heaven knows that schadenfreude has been attained
At their expense
For we omit them almost entirely
Till the moment they are drowning
But us quiet sobbing sinners
Shall exist in different ways

Regarding this sin what more is there to be said of it if we have run the course of debate but yet nothing ever changes?
Perhaps expositions such as these to start
We must be less afraid to speak
Less afraid to show the love we choose
But then again

Did we?

Regarding this sin you have so labelled
Are you fit to give us names?
All our dog-gone days are over
We were not the first to be made
And neither
Shall we be the first to be torn down
Running gets tiresome when you
Are constantly playing a game of hide
And seeking to be found
But patience is the toughest waiting game
And
With faith beyond reasonable doubt we know

Love is still love after all
Tommy Johnson May 2014
Oh, migrant solemnity
Take away this moment of horror
From us who wear wool socks
Who present expansive expositions
Within seven seconds
Who replicate Roman gluttony
VIPs of the vomitorium
And **** room
Remove this curse
From which we suffer
A morning of obligation
Expel our fright
Of the morning
Clear away the white light
Millions of beams
Of metamerism
Us
Them
We and our igneous
Lapardian bed
Our feet, callowness
And our shed
Composed murmurs
Delicate sternness
Will reject them
We were once facetious
Had condescending ways
They'd believe us
And remained stranded on unmapped cays
We have yet to gain
The downpour
The desert desires
But have been cast and thrown
Unforgiven and disowned
Enslavement resides in hungry empty pockets
With politics and corporation cracking the whip
In this oligarchy, capitalist catastrophe
Backed by a national
Dry spell
We're laying face up
On the floor of the ocean
Floating to the top
Of a wine glass
We've done what we could
What have you done to us
Here we go
Cold
Stíofáinín Apr 2019
When you cease to suffer I will still be here
I have loved,
And lost
And it holds me in contempt
Delightful vandal,
You were all I ever dreamt
A fool who beholds behind tinted glass
******, to forever see you were only three hundred times better than me
And I, between my own devlis in a deep blue sea
So it began
What will be will be
Sweet ruin, how shall I compare
More than a man, but less than fair
Received in wonder a light to make this flower bloom
You were the sun I gracefully sat under
A thousand sweet mysteries I whispered in reverence
Just to lay there, where the rays burnt my skin
Once, I felt life begin
I kissed you
Lips that mirrored my own
Muted with time
How long have I waited in my own cursed reason
Oh how I hate it
To love is to fear, and fear I did
Trembling in an ache
Committing to it's will
In heated pursuit, vexed by loved
My lust was like a child
I blushed underneath your pale light and overfed your starved appetite
A wide eyed child who walked through the flames of your fire
Burnt my own feet for this shame and desire
If thou wilt never look upon me again, thy shan't ever look upon another...
Our language is broken
My painful eyes are now wide open
Watching your shame
We're we not one in the same?
My tears will quench this ache inside and the breeze will always blow them dry

Even as an empty thing of flesh and bone you were still beautiful, and not of stone
..... I am forever beneath the sun
Autece Soul Sep 2016
I wake up from a deep period of dormancy
Still in the state of inactive
I'm tired
My mind
Tormented
My head
Promises of something pleasing
I want to go back to bed
Slumber a harmonious dream promised to me
By the crashing waves and the deep blue sea
Playing arms reach away from my inner speakers
Soothing
Is what I was alleged to believe
While balancing the periodic grind of various complexities
Algorithms
Righteousness
And integrity
Calm
Is what is being interpret when the sound of falling water
Collides with the mud floor to clear my soul
Of corrupted expositions
External negativity to drive the insane to sanity for eternity
I raise my head away from my pillow
Eyes wide facing the clouded abyss
Depression begins to reign as my eyes become burdensome
Tiredness has not conquered these irises
As my last catching thoughts before I awoke
Keep me from such a trance
What is in your head?
The question of the day asked by inquisitive beings
It's nothing good I promise
Knowing will not aid you more than it is tormenting me
My face trickles with alacrity and overflowing love
A mask
A degradation
Causing such excruciating pain
Everlasting
My scars
Deep-seated wounds that seem to never want to disappear
Like a haunting figurine hovering over me oh so gently
What is it’s intentions?
It’s purpose
No response
To eradicate me?
It's succeeding
To manipulate me?
Such as how I have done
Perfected the deconstruction of others’ mind
Forever becoming a puppet to my own dark twisted fantasy
Entrapping those of desired tongues who seek my insight
Not of my experience but of what is being pertain in my reflections
For I am endlessly adrift in my own head
With my imagination
My dreams
They besiege me
Terrify me
Wake me up in the midst of the night
With no air in my lungs
With no liquid substance in my eyes
Drying them
Turning red
Not from tears that would gracefully roll down my rugged cheek
From an illusion my mind has formed to feel as it is my reality
A reality distorted as my walking is on air away from ground
I half sleep and fall into a trance of brightly vivid colors
And disturbed figurines
Marionettes who accompany me through a hued path
Where time becomes stagnant
Motionless yet an evolving shifted world
I saunter through the path until I gradually dissolve
As my head
Promises me of something pleasing
But my mind
Is tormented
Returning to a state of inactive
My eyes
Finally tired
As I return to a deep period of dormancy
Going back to bed
Awaiting for my next abrupt awakening
Chandra S Dec 2019
At one.forty-five, anti meridiem
I blink, half-sit-half-lie and squirm
in a cartel of intricate inquiry.

He must be hurting inordinately
to wish me death and calamity.

Who and where is he?
How and why does he?

Simple five-word questions
seeking conclusive resolutions
for well over a millennium.

Frazzled and woefully sapped
from this anarchic, chaotic task
I turn for the promising refuge
of my orderly book-rack.



Over and over again,
I read the masterly treatise
and really try to take it as a guide.



The book has foresight.

It says there is no death

which my friend has wittingly wished me
in his anguished wrath.


Life is eternal, infinite.

Only the spirit changes over
to some other wardrobe
or maybe transitions
to another dimension
purgatory or paradise.



We never really die and likewise
the loved and the not so loved
also survive.



But life often defies explanations
not to mention all expert expositions.

I feel sadly feeble and disillusioned
to see

an orphan having the nose
hard against the grindstone

a spouse lonely and forlorn
fighting it out all alone

a disconsolate father
devastated by the departure
of a youthful son......
or a blooming daughter.

a dashing soldier
who somberly carries the cadaver
....the cold inert clay of a dead comrade

a pining sibling.........
a friend irredeemably lost.........
the poor dead without
and ****** with the ***......
a zealot who lost the plot
or martyrs who bravely fought.....



The book says they are all here
and we still find them nowhere
at least not as companions
in our worldly sojourn.

The author exhorts -
those who are gone still see us
feel us.

And I smile wryly, a little ruefully
at the still living, stranded passengers
in one too many crowded lanes
on this gross, physical plane
devoid of all succor even from a ghost

slippery yet subtle.

If only there was a real life Whoopi †
we all would be as lucky as the demure Demi
and Patrick Swayze would do the reel drill
in real time indubitably.


Alas!!!
celluloid existence is pure imagination
.....just neat fiction.

And the impeccable book.....
though elegant
seems utterly untrue.



I therefore can not take heart
from the prophesied fact
that the dead are not really dead

not ever, or at least not yet....

Yes, they may be right beside
but unless we cross over to the other side
or they someday decide to travel back in time

the living will always be somewhat dead somewhere
and the dead will always be somewhat alive somewhere

accidentally meeting.....
sometimes......

from across the great divide
in a nebulous twilight

but mostly waiting, waiting....
for the wait to end

and to be terminally united
either fully alive
or completely dead.


† Reference made to the 1990 film 'Ghost'. More information at:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghost(1990film)
Inspired by a death-wish and some profanities that someone sent for me. I am really sad to imagine the amount of hurt someone must feel so as to pass it on so extravagantly.In any case, it set me thinking about numerous matters.
Leonhard Nov 2017
when did everything
get so serious?

seems like half a breath ago
we played and smoked
we talked and fought
untouchable.

but the expositions over,
now the conflict begins
as we're heading up
our arc of suspense.

as our self worth starts dropping
through constant comparison
of our backstage
with their performance,

we start getting beaten
and we start thinking that
we deserve to get beaten.

as our cheating and lying
turns from harmful mistakes
to just another part in a
cyclic self destructive
downward spiral,

we begin making the
unthinkably miserable
happen impossibly frequently.

so witness live:
the loss of another generation
to self violence
mental health
and despair.
katie jo Apr 2015
I've heard numerous tales of the apocalypse,
each one depicting scenes
of crowds embodying all that is violence
and blood marking the territory
of the beast known as hopelessness.
They'll send chills through your body
as they detail corpses with unsatisfiable cravings
and rows upon rows of windows
with only dust and vacancy behind.

But in all the accounts of the cacophony,
never will you hear about
how softly the door clicked behind him.

When the screams are chronicled,
never once do they mention
the ones ensnared by my pillow
or even the ones that festered and died
within my very throat.
Expositions of the end of the world
will always fail to broach the benumbing air
that invaded this house that day
and the absolute silence
save for the hitching of my breath.
And while these stories may include
the monstrous shudders of the earth itself,
the trembling of my hands will always be more prominent.
Vessels  and Wine menus of the archaic formulas seemed from the new Universe that was approaching them vertiginously, concelebrating the unitary form of the union of the pilasters of the Opistódomos with Hellas , which was constituted as an inter-dimensional state, for two strategists universal and immortal that provided the beginning of a new Christic language, based on the relationship of the unified polis but with an infinite calendar perspective. The courage to start an end with a beginning full of excitement and celebration where clearly the dances would be from beginning to end to treasure the influences of endless complacency, and that would hold commemorative celebrations of station processes, being established fiercely in the treasuries of Metroon ; as a duplicated and bilocated agoras on Patmos, besieging all the documents of the glorious past of Mythology towards the new preservation of Submitology, where the people of heroes and anti-heroes of all the Pleiades come to life from the Vernarth transcript, as a multidimensional memorial archive housing in all the concerns of eternity written, and preserved tangible and intangible that would transport them to the annals of a sanctuary that would agree with the repositories of everything that was and will be of this Myth annex beyond a fantastic reality, going back to the Hellenisms that they will compose next to the Beit Hamikdash Temple, as a sacred mansion where the ceiling and the floor would rest in total communion. The dimensions will be given in the own open foot that will standardize the buttresses that would make up the access chambers to the privileged place of Rea, with dimensions that could be displayed in the confines of the inflection of Orion, naturally illuminating the vault of Greece in the head of the Agora and from there to Theoskéspasti, to then be triangulated with the Doric and Ionic colonnades specifying the Vernarth chamber, which will have its quantum progression and multidimensional link throughout the Archaic Hellas to all of Judea that will re-sanctify the possibilities that the heroes will parade eternally for the waters and lands that are proper to inertia, where Athena and Nike will make the pots with mead in the rejection of more miracles that will flow from Galilee to Patmos. The etymology would be of Hellenic customary avant-garde, evidencing realities where every day the peasants sharpened their sickles, as a feast that celebrated the first-rate courts with the first-grade olive oil with the Almazara or oil press that will bring the fruits of the table. The flapping of the pelicans would tie laudable sounds from the Thuellai worshiping the phonograms that were emitted from the Metroon, attracting the classical periods of the conformation of Greece when it was only Chaos and Seas in conflict. From this mythological proposition, everything was a reality where the lack of custom proved as a cultural character, it was the vertical cultural basting coined in the gloss of the signifier, rather than the meaning, leading everything to these festivities of edibles and drinkable towards the Panhellenic that it would bring new vigor of expansive territorial function, towards Macedonia and Delphi as a holiday that could celestially have more than twelve lunar months.

Meanwhile Vernarth was hugging a rattle more than two meters high and one in diameter, this resonance implied the inaugural sound of the Symposium of the Athletic Agon that together with the Almazara would run rials of oilseeds, to anoint the attendees as all Sacred of the jubilee of the Opistódomos and the Hamikdash, towards the new Submitological Era Duoversal between the events that will delight everything that concerns accompanying the pairings of liquids and solids in this competitive challenge, so that the mythical hero becomes the credible hero stationed in the ninth laurels that would make up the foundation and inauguration of the games, after the victory of those who never threw the victor's crown. The votive offerings and monuments joined the agonal journey that referred from the perspective of a soul that wanted to compete with its existential soul, and then reluctantly redirected itself through the unusual temples that seemed to vanish amid the crowds, making this festive ritual the greatest expression. of all the votive festivals in Patmia. In practice, the meals would once again be rewards for the support of the sky by the Matakis, as a snowy reflection in the pouch that does not display any icon other than a numismatist that sniffs the pieces of bronze that were surrounded by the other derivatives of the terminal of saturation of Zeus, seeming to identify that Matzoh would fall from the sky, and Manah that will highlight the laurel artifice when the conceptual of the sages give the beginning of the activities with a meta-praxis that will stand out from the full stomachs, and the bladders supplemented with oenological colors, eradicating physical competitions for those of the allegory of Dionysian pleasure that suggests a human and mythological hybridism, Submitological-supernatural. Everyone became restless and ran along the golden trails of the iridescent nimbus creating capacities to unfold the time of Kairos and at the same time re-inaugurating the feat of noble bread and the skills of collecting the green fords, where Persephone refrained from an illegitimate pressure by leaving the intellectual bulwarks for the destiny of the force that subtracts the will, but if it defines the feminine character that caresses the tongues of the soulless and they call us with the features of competing prostrate to a Goddess who worships the eternal shine of the wheat field that refers, and what makes the ibidem in the conferences of a hero who smacks the features of all the sculptures that will follow the cause of reason of the allegorical agoras and the competition where the meek will only toast when nobody sees them face inhibition itself of what is and is not.

What the languages uttered became shouted to sit near the inns and tables with dairy products and wines from which they all stood up with a cantiga in unison, ***** in the joy of being called to the Hellenic invitation to compete, to make dynamics and refer to physical skills assiduously to the constellations that made them awaken the intellectuals. The attributes of each one were a trigger to celebrate and laugh before the divinity of the new Age, along with the solemnity of Himation. This lasted twenty-eight days exchanging the full moons that would bring the shooting stars with boiled genetics that were forged from the Souvlaki prototype, and flashes that would take them to the symposium where the feasts were dimensions that surpassed the entire width of the galaxies, to praise and cheer the crowded Pleiad of assistants fully compete in the intelligentsia, before the various rituals and spells that were prepared with the consecration of the Symposium that would bring together Alpha and Omega, as a Semitic language that filtered through the iridescence nets that manifested from the Nimbus where they remained the vaporous entity of the Mashiach.

Vernarth imbibed, above all, a segment of space that allowed him to look without being distracted towards the height of the Nimbus, creating in the tract of languages that they wandered between Aramaic, Greek, and Hebrew, after that the extra-biblical witness Marzeah would designate in the liturgy of celebration of the Symposium, always noting that the allusive rhetorical conversations at the side of the Symposium meeting, understanding that they would become a brotherhood of tasters of the ethyl elixir, which would flow from the iridescent tract between seven iridescence that would translate into bittersweet solid foods and rolls with thyme from Kalymnos. The ingestion in two portions was lived from arm to arm in the jars of hand, reciprocal in the distractions that Vernarth made looking at the Nimbus, and offered him with his Khaire, promoting distraction and jumping over the dark clouds that were tinged with purple tones of the ethyl elixir, creating dance forms that revived the altruism of euphonic auditions that divined that the world could be all Wine and Matzoh, which was lavished on those who would not be excluded from the drinking of the sky that flowed as food from the fermented Hydor, alongside some concave stones with toasted chickpeas, fresh fruit, and Lepanto beans. Saint John blessed food considering that Eurydice, Circe, Medea, Hecate, and Walekiria would be incorporated into the festive Andron, although the feminine essence should be reserved for other stages of the solemn festival. The expositions of contentment were to have the vessels permanently facing the sky of the Nimbus, because from there holistic ethyl liquids would constantly fall that would shine with their deferred colors, sensitizing what the ear wanted to hear more than their collisions of Epichisis and Enócoes to pour and serve. in geometric ciboriums from Laconia. Vernarth would walk around the Profitis with Askos full of the essence of the Mashiach wine, which served them with the seven cosmic thoughts, thus frequenting the distractions for those who did not skimp on Apollo's delirium of dipsomania, distracted in Vernarth with the dancers of music by Hetera. Vernarth filled the glasses of all those who carried Guttus and Lecitos who relaxed and brought their Cretan flavors in the chirps of their pharynxes coming out from their mouths with verses that seemed the same as those of the Heterias, which the soldiers of the phalanx influenced the Small groups in a circle to applaud the gift and virtue of celebrating with improvised cheers, which in the bedrooms invited even the dissuasive shadows of their own evil that wanted to seep into the symposium. The afternoon was reinvented from the agora and the proscenium that attended for all from all the borders that would bring the storms of the ethyl nimbus, inviting new tides from the Aegean that would add to re-condense in the parasites that swarmed deserts with the rhythm of one night in all the borders and optics of the world, being able to be seen clearly and precisely to be reissued. The comedy of Dyonisius was present with all his court of Syracuse, and Dionisio was reiterated with Thespis and his supports that spelled ruffian verses between bitten, one being King the other being a God, sticking to his origin as a demigod in the feminine inheritance of a mortal, to come to serve in Cantharos to Dyonisius, where they roar in his mortal consciousness. The parasites bustled through the floodgates of intoxication that could be textualized and verbalized in the shrinking of colic, or perhaps boldly sitting on a tripod to imitate the Sybillas if they were to be supported by the effluvium of Alcyoneus, covering with snakes that they would carry potions in the wine glasses when representing the banquets that would falsify to be scenes of a feast, with the criterion of an over-relief.
Opistódomos Symposium
This is a show off off-broadway
Filled with prose and cause
Complicated expositions
Stranger than fiction ever was

I've auditioned a cast of characters
And never made the lead
Odd for that on these footboards
Are where they were conceived

I know this part by heart
Hell, I wrote the lines
Seeking my Euridice, my Juliet
Cursed to never find

I have no faith in critics
They rarely get the point
And in all the marvelous performances
I am still not "right"

It's gone dark inside my theater now
The cast and audience have all gone
The curtains took their final bow
I'll seek you from the balconies

I've kept the ghostlight on
KorbydAngyle May 2022
The thoughts of a world... so disparate yet un staunched, for even from disease, disuse
It brings together all of us... no matter who
Lasting the day thorium lithium ****** the lot is truly a cat's sampled tongue on the lambs fur woven cot
Screetching yet perking the morning air, perching not to perish, as blackbirds languish in the scant thin air
Ardent stolid dressed for the ****, soldiers found plates, stained by bonfire smatterings of smokey air
Yet in the brash contrasts when life closes down expositions and forces festering thoughts one halcyon of it remains... that of hope
So with Leprechaun gold in the pockets, of time the daydream of a better future, still unstructured no pentameter or rhyme
Yet each creature throughout aviary schemes and broken with doubt sketches wisps platinum from a scry showing fires crossed,
skybound defiance , and rest
With the cache of changing seasons as gold in the pocket and the crisp bite of each night's cyclic affair brings us together, one in the same
Tanmay Kapil Nov 15
The metaphysical reasons have forced I,
to embark on a perilous journey.

Tis why? the question I ask myself;
repeatedly in fact, to others surprise,
for they cannot fathom the reason of such;
quite expected, I think, though it shouldn't be left to mistrust;

The question quite simple, in language and clarity;
has an ephemeral reasoning,
"The audacity! I say, to think of ourselves,
as beings imbued with the power of gods!
Yet they wouldn't care; they'd simply dismiss,
eschew reason, in their folly amiss."

But they wouldn't understand, they wouldn't care,
they would only mistprise to forswear.
They're fools, says my mother;
her reasoning, quite appeasing, over all others'.

I do think at times, quite deeply in fact
that the funny little beings of this world react,
to the little logical reasoning opposed to their beliefs
who is to tell them'
that their little reasoning fails;
in all their expositions.

The merry little world,
with all its merry residents
the oppressors of the regime, are truly them in fact,
the reasoning I present is simple, laced with tracts,
and history is germane to the lawlessness of the rules,
the dictionaries, so very hard to overrule.
This poem serves as a encouragement to those who wish to explore, and nurture, their inner thoughts, thoughts which might, at times, seem to oppose those established in the world. It serves as a torch for those who wish to to learn and delve into the metaphysics, to fulfill their thirst for knowledge and insatiable desire to derive reason.

The Journey Within © 2024 by Tanmay Kapil is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0

— The End —