Monday 30 May 2011

So Little Done, So Much To Do



When I said that my twenty four hours
Aren’t enough nowadays and wouldn’t mind
A couple of hours added unto me
Some doubted my time management skills
They missed my point.

You see, there is so much in all this
I need to explore statutes, legal dicta
And legal authorities
I have to watch the telly to find out what is
Transpiring all over the world
I have to meet beautiful souls and hear their voices

I need to walk to the forest
And watch the Little bee eater, bustard
And hornbill in ther full glory
I want to hear the  warble of nightingales
I want to hear the chitter of raccoons
Or even the cock-a’doodle-doo of the rooster

I need more time to read all the poetry blogs
I need to read all the best books
I need to have time to change the world
I need time to follow my path
And when I am at my deathbed
Like Cecil Rhodes I will say
“So little done, so much to do”.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

From a prompt by Carry on Tuesday #107 


Task was to use the last words said by Cecil Rhodes, "So little done, so much to do".



Friday 27 May 2011

Towards a Definition of A Song



They hear mechanized sounds
From broken guitar strings
And old, decrepit pianos
At better times, they mix discordant
Tired sounds from their sound softwares
And they call this music

What music?
I want to hear their voices
Whether they be guttural or saccharine
I want to see their mouths round
Belting a tune from within their depths
I want to hear their voices
Without the noise of machines

Sing me a song live
Don’t lip sync
I want the quietness of the moment
Then hear your voice rising up
Up, up
In one song that will remain
Long after you have sang
Then I want to hear the serenity again
This I call music

C) Lorot Salem 2011

 From prompt in Poetic Asides With Robert Lee Brewer # 133 on "Priorities"



Of Clouds: The False Rain Maker

Image supplied by Theme Thursday


My Son, Son of the Bull,
Clouds are our ancestors too
They tell us so many things
In wisdom, in careful measured words

If you see the clouds
Azure, as innocent as a calf
In a pen, don’t be deceived
In my time I have seen them quickly gather
And pour like shards of glass on my bald
And when I am drenched scatter
Away and let sun shine
Letting people wonder who,
In his madness, poured me bucketfuls of water

Then there are those dark clouds
Hanging atop Kacheliba Hill
Dark, furious, deathly
As if they will flood the hill itself
To add effect, the clouds rumble
And throw in a few flashes here
It sends everyone in panic
Soon, drying maize in the homestead
Is rushed to the hut
Wet clothes hurriedly picked from thorn trees
Children pinched to stay in the hut
And then, in wicked sense of humour,
The clouds clear away
Laughing all the way
But perhaps in guilt
They let a few drizzles here
Hardly to clear the dust

So son, Son of the Bull,
Of the knowledge of the clouds I cannot
Pretend to have
I once heard a Rain Maker in the village beyond
Who, with the experience, mistook cirrus clouds
For cumulo-nimbus clouds
Then who am I, a mere pair of half-shut eyes
To interpret the divine nature of the clouds?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

From a prompt Theme Thursday # Clouds



My He-mages

Image credit: google



Lodged in my cranium
Are a thousand sketches
Images,maps, drawings
Cluttered on the floor of my mind
Blown by the wind of time
Nonetheless there notwithstanding

In my mind are drawn
Longitudes and latitudes, pixels of photos
Circumferences, radii
Not exactly scientific
But not hazy enough
I can tell Pakistan from Bangladesh
I can detect the face of a serial killer
I can tell the face of a hard knock from
One about to commit suicide
I can tell a fake Picasso’s paint
I know the Breakfast of a Blind Man
For for four solid hours I looked at it
To see the blind man in my mind’s eye
To visualize what oil did to canvas
To produce a work of art

See, I can remember all this
Because unlike insipid raw data
These images are embossed on my mind
They are a part of me
With them, I replay clips
Daily
The horror I saw on a scared face
The tilted eyebrows
The twitching lips of a liar
Matter of fact, I don’t remember them
For I didn’t forget them anyway

C) Lorot Salem 2011



Chocolate Sensation




Photo supplied by Poets United


Kinsman, when I came to the City of Lights
I chanced upon something:
Not the sour milk we ate with ugali
Not the offals we roasted during Sikukuu
Not the bone soup we drank

Kinsman, in the City of Lights
My tongue tasted something
A thing you taste and you think,
“Are these foods of my ancestors?”

I admit it I hadn’t seen such a thing before
It was food wrapped in a colourful wrapping
And as I tore it up, the brown gripped my eyes
It was like a dark species of boiled sweet potatoes
It hardly filled my hands
Then I held it like this
Slowly, slowly into my tongue
And as my canine bit it off
The sweet taste danced in my mouth
Sensually, erotically
Kinsman, I closed my eyes
To let me savour such sweetness

Despite their insistence, I bit off
The bar, one canine biteful after another
Soon, the bar was off
The wrapping was in my hands
Decorum aside, I wiped the last traces off
To feel the last moments of chocolate sensation.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Notes:

Ugali- Kiswahili word for an African meal made out of maize or sorghum flour.

Sikukuu- Kiswahili word for ceremony.

From a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank # 50 Chocolate


Wednesday 25 May 2011

Lorot Son of the Hills' Apology

I am having a crazy schedule nowadays. My apologies for that. Something triggered me today to remember something I wrote sometimes back in my other blog, Lorot Son of the Hills. Now, here's my own version of a defence I put up for 'corrupting' the sons and daughters of the hills. I had been 'condemned' to die and  I had to put up one hell of a defence. I had read up Socrates' Apology and this that I have written mirrors my own imagined set of facts.

In my defence, I write:
My Lords, poets are a gift from God. They are the music of the world. They are the reason of the world. For poets dissect into the human soul to expose the malignant tumours which men don’t see and which ordinary eyes ignore. Poets are the paintbrushes that stroke the future in so vivid terms that they are close to us even when they are in the distant future. And you don’t see many poets. True poets speak to the society, they bear the message. And they are hated all around them. Many are killed. Many are hunted down and tortured and eventually die slowly.
At the end of my defence, I finish thus:

If I be condemned to die, I request a small favour from you. Let my children be never taught poetry. Let them be never told about the tales of the hills. Let them be denied all the links they had with their father. Let them not be corrupted by my teachings, let them not be the consumers of distorted truth and sentimentality. Let my grave not be marked. Let me die in oblivion. No tears should be shed. No regrets should be borne. Let my children steer clear from the corrupt nature of their father lest they be accused of ‘corrupting’ other youths. Let my poetry die and the tales of the hills be forgotten and shunned. Let it not be remembered. Let me be ridiculed and mocked by you my accusers and never should you, 10 years, 20 years, 50 years, 100 years from now ever change your minds about now for I am a bad person, a poison to the society. I stand accused and condemned before you men and I am ready to die. Grant my wish. See you in the Hereafter, sons and daughters of the hills. I am done. I am peaceful. Let justice be met.

You could read the whole defence here.

Your poet,
Lorot Son of the Hills

Sunday 22 May 2011

If God Was One Of Us



What if God was one of us
Sleeping under a tree shade, chewing on tobacco
Head balanced on a three-legged stool
What would we think of Him?

What if He came to borrow salt
At the doorsteps of our huts
And on second-thoughts
Also asked for a pepper
What would we say of Him?

If God sat with us
In Mwenge House
Watching English Premier League
Will he sit pensively or throw up his arms?
Will he do a Post-Match analysis?

What if he disguised Himself
As a thief
Would we do him a Mob Justice
And burn him with a tyre?

What if God was a noisy neighbor
Would we challenge him to a verbal match
Breathing fire?

Supposing God appeared on Local Telly
And said, “God here speaking,
I have checked in town,
Am fielding ten questions from you”

Naturally, one cynic would call
Saying, “Tell that to the birds
Your gimmicks won’t suffice”
Another would say,” Strange,
Question though, could you
Be running for presidency?”
Irked, another would retort,
“No way, our laws won’t permit that!”
An SMS would read, “God, do something
About your servants preaching seeds than repentance”

If God was one of us
Am afraid we would despise Him!

C) Lorot Salem 2011


From a prompt from Carry on Tuesday # 106

Task: To use a line or lines from Joan Osbourne's song 'One of Us'.

What if god was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home

Use all or part of it within your poem or prose





Sunday 15 May 2011

I Have a Dream: Lorot's Version


I have always been inspired by Martin Luther King Jnr. Especially his “I Have a Dream Speech”. Whereas I apologize for dragging my ten-pence piece in a speech that has outlived him, my dear reader, please accept this amateurish attempt.



I, Lorot Son of the Hills, have a dream
I have a dream...I have a dream
I have a dream that one day
The long night of buried dreams
Would usher in a new dawn of revived dreams

I have a dream that one day
Intellectual fraud would end
And society would be made simpler
By Truth and love for humanity


I have a dream that one day
On the plains of Kacheliba, on the rocky terrains of
Kiwawa and Kasei and the treacherous gullies of Mtembur
On the lakeshores of Lake Victoria to the Tana Wetlands
To the dry patches of Marsabit and Wajir and El-wak
I have a dream that one day
Like the rain, all the people of Kenya
Would be drizzled by the cooling drops of National Cake

I have a dream that one day
When I go to Government offices
I would not be judged by the tatters of my cloth
But by the even fabric of my heart

I have a dream that one day
Leaders would be chosen
Not by the fatness of their bank accounts
Nor by the bellicose they spew forth
Nor by the imaginary enemies they fight
But by their Idea-o-meter
And the pulse of their dreams

I have a dream
I have a dream that one day
Gaza Strip, West Bank, Lebanon
Would be mentioned for right reasons
Like the buzz site of bees
Or some cultural heritage sites
Or some serious exporters of peace

I have a dream
That one day I won’t see smoke
Clogging my nostrils
That I can smell again of nectar

And of earth
I have a dream that these words
Would have a life of their own
Ringing true from the unwashed face
Of a sleepless woman in Alale
To the creased face of a teen
In New York
To the turbaned head of an Afghan boy
To the weary brows of an oil rig worker
To the uncertain eyes of a child in Africa
To the abandoned brides on aisles
To the sunken ships, to the mangled buses,
To the crashed planes, to failed rockets
To the unknown soul
Speaking of his misery
Giving him hope
Re-telling his life

I have a dream
I have a dream that this dream
Would be part of the bigger dream
Of each one of us
In this wonderful world


C) Lorot Salem 2011

Thursday 12 May 2011

Poet(ess) Convention



Adopted and opened for signature, ratification and accession
Entry into force 1 April 2012

Preamble

The Poets Parties to the present Convention,

TAKING DUE ACCOUNT of the unparalleled efforts of Poets and Poetesses throughout history in their artistic creations to mankind;

CONSIDERING that the gallant efforts of the Poets and Poetesses have either been recognized less or not recognized at all in nearly all spheres of life;

RECOGNIZING  that the province of poetry has always been either met with lack of understanding, sheer cynicism or other human obstacles placed on the path of poetry;

APPRECIATING that a poet or a poetess just like any writer sometimes undergoes a period of mind block occasioned by many and varied factors thereby necessitating for  preventive  measures such as prompt sites, picture inspirations, memes and such other tools;

TAKING COGNISANCE of the custodial role that poets and poetesses hold for mankind’s progress and the causes to be pursued to address the ills and find solutions;

Have agreed as follows,

Article 1

For the purposes of this Convention, a “poet” or a “poetess” means a person capable of forming words into a poem in its different forms and styles. This definition extends to those who also imagine themselves to be one even though the only poem they have written dates back to their formative years; a “prompt site” means a website dedicated to issue prompt to poets and poetesses to keep them writing; it also includes all other materials capable of triggering the imagination of a poet or a poetess; a “poe-bloggers” means those poets or poetesses who post their poems on a blog or a website.

Article 2
It is permissible under this Convention to exercise creativity in weird times and places. Whereas the Convention does not guarantee compensation for the adverse effects of such, poets and poetesses can wake up at 1 a.m or write poems while bungeeing or in hot air balloons. This is taking into consideration that the art of poetry comes at unsual times and places.

Article 3
This Convention actually permits plagiariasm! As long as a poem is not desecrated, altered, changed into any other form without giving credit to the author.

Article 4
For the sake of humanity and mutual affection, it is hereby prohibited for a poet or a poetess to willingly and recklessly use such arcane and obtuse language to conceal their meanings and to leave English Poetry Professors guessing the intention of such a poet or a poetess. In addition, those writing poems that are so understandable as to bring the honourable art of poetry into disrepute would be barred from continuing writing.

Article 5
Considering the great role that Mr. Linky widgets play in Prompt Sites, Poets Parties to this Convention would be committing a punishable offence if they linked their poems more than five times in the same Linky Widget. This will be taken with the seriousness it deserves so as to end the intimidation to easy-going poets and poetesses.

Article 6
The present Convention shall enter into force on the next National Poetry Month.

Article 7
The original of the present Convention, of which the Arabic, Chinese, English, French, Russian and Spanish texts are equally authentic, shall be deposited with Lorot’s Poetry blog. In witness thereof the undersigned plenipotentiaries, being duly authorized thereto by their respective minds, have signed the present Convention.




{You could plagiarize! As long as it is within Article 3.}





Monday 9 May 2011

Month of May


Month of May gets me so uneasy
You see, as a child you are woken up
Even before Jesus
To go till the farm
Weed finger-sized maize
Loam soil gets stuck on hoe
You keep removing it
Millet porridge for some reason
Is not there by 11 a.m

As you dig, dad keeps saying
“You see that thorn tree T-H-E-R-E?”
“we must weed till there”
Thorn tree is VERY far
 (trust my judgment )
You dig, you dig, you dig
Then sometimes in Mid May
Rain plays silly games
And all weeding becomes sun fodder!

Come next May
The same weeding
Dad says, “This is our year
Let us cultivate more”
You weed, weed, weed
Rain plays silly games—again
Dad says, “This was very close
Next year we try to plant early”

Well, dad gets right sometimes
Rain doesn’t disappoint
But you stay at the farm
Screaming and banging metals
All day to chase birds
Then one Sunday,
ON THAT DAY,
Monkeys
Get ideas and invade the farm
We get  one sack
Dad says, “ Very very close this year
We need to do something with the
Monkeys”
So we invade the small Shabaha hill
With Kenya Wildlife Service wardens
And scare the hell out of those monkeys

Come next May
We weed, we weed, we weed
We harvest well
Dad says, “ See son, we got it right
This year”
But when dad takes it to sell
The Government says, “Look, there’s a surplus,
A market glut”
Surplus in Turkana as they eat wild berries
Dad is annoyed, frustrated
I remember the weeding
Dad asks them, “ How kind of you, you remind me
Of those monkeys”
Well-intentioned, no doubt, sarcasm
If you may say,
But Government says he insults them
So they grab dad, throw him in jail
For abusing them
Dad gets out

Come next may
Dad is still farming
He says, “That was very very close
If not for the surplus”
That is if the rain, birds
And monkeys don’t play silly games—
Again.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

I Sing For You “Yoo”



(I dedicate this poem to my lovely mum, Mrs. Paulina Maya Choram, and all mothers on Mother’s Day 08/05/2011)

Yoo, away from the village
Everyone is calling this day
“Mother’s Day”
I have seen it everywhere—
On TVs, in papers, on Facebook
Which will surprise you

And everyone here, Yoo,
Is decorating her mother
With a status update
Or making that occasional call
Or buying a rose
Or getting a gift

Yoo, as for me
I will serenade you with a song
To sing of your gentleness
To sing of your smile
To sing of your hope

What gift so lasting
Can outlast words written?
Yoo, what gesture so vivid
Can surpass my imagination and love?
Yoo, how do I celebrate you
Along other mothers if not by a song?

Yoo, the mention of your name
Is as sweet as bone marrow
Your love is as steady as the stones of
A fireplace
And your smile, yoo,
Is as warm as a cow’s stomach

Riziki haivutwi na kamba”, you told me
Mama ni mama hata awe kiwete”, you reminded me
Usiibe wala usinyang’anye”, you warned me
Enda usome usichekecheke na watoto wa watu”, you advised me

If only this world was contented like you
If only people talked much less like you
If only they lived at Shabaha
To learn humility and simple things of life
If only we had more mothers like you
Not so much because you are a saint
But because you live with hope
And your mistakes make you human
Yet you still inspire, minting virtues
You don’t parade these before mortals
You don’t brag, you don’t complain

Three things I ask of
Tororot, God of the Rising Sun:
One, that He keeps you long
That you may eat in the shade
Two, that He keeps me
That I water that tree
Three, that that tree
Feeds many others

Notes:

Yoo- Pokot name for a mother.

Riziki haivutwi na kamba- A Kiswahili saying meaning that you should not depend on the fortune of others and that you should work to earn your living.

Mama ni mama hata awe kiwete- Kiswahili for ‘ your mother is your mother even if she is lame, or rather in politically correct term, physically challenged.

Usiibe wala usinyang’anye- Kiswahili for ‘neither steal nor forcibly take’.

Enda usome usichekecheke na watoto wa watu- Kiswahili for ‘go and read, don’t laugh with people’s children’.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Friday 6 May 2011

Toe-nometrics



Students, welcome to our toe-nometrics class
In last class we said that there are
Two types of toes:
Bully ones and bullied ones
If you can remember
We said that bullies
Break from the mould
They seek attention
And the bullied
Are conformist
Not even smelly socks
Ruffle them

Today, we move a step
Further—
Q= Toe A (βo) + Toe B (β1) + €
( You! You at the back, stop frowning
That is just a formula!)
Get your variables
Calculate for me
Then draw a toe-nometric graph
Before the next class tomorrow
Any question?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

For a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank # 47 Toes

Nairobi People, Where Are You Running To?


Image credit: google: corner.youth.cn

You Nairobi people amaze me
You are always running!

In the morning, even before cows
Get out of cowsheds, you hit the streets
A frantic pace, a small run here, a dash there
Tell me Nairobi people, where are you running to?

And when I see you eat
You keep looking at your watches
Chewing more than you can swallow
Holding a newspaper here, checking the phone there
Watching 1 O’clock news and gossiping over the counter
Done, you clutch your briefcases and dash
Please answer me, where are you running to?

Nairobi people, your city stands tall
Fixed to the same spot, aloof, lethargic
Yet you who occupy it disturb her serenity
And meditative pose with the stampede
Of your feet and your hurry
Your vehicles drive deadly speeds
Your tongues speak fast,
Tell me Nairobi people, why the hurry?
How will good ideas perch on your heads
If they are not stationary, if they gallop and trot?
Stop the chase, wake up and see the sunrise
Feel your heart beat, sit under a shade
Feel that moment, close your eyes
Be still, let urgency scuttle past you
Sit back, be renewed
Time to slow things, feel the rhythm
Watch the sunset, hear the cowbells
Feel the warmth of the fireplace,
Never run, just walk, observe

If only you Nairobi people did this
You would have seen the beauty
Of a bird’s dropping on a statue
Or the skilled beggars on abandoned alleys
Playing songs from bad radio speakers
Or old couple adeptly crossing busy highway
Or moving lips of people in their monologues
Or Bus Preachers with raptured voiceboxes
Preaching the message of Eternal Hellfire
And you ask, well, please don’t shout…

If you were patient, Nairobi people,
You would have seen the hawker
Selling cockroach insecticides
Yet  immediately sell umbrellas
At the fall of the first rain drop!
Or notice the irony of a church
Adjacent to a bar business
Or measure the country’s economic growth
Using a smile-o-meter pa-smile- capita
Not those arcane Economics functions!

If you weren’t in a hurry
You would see that occasional academic
Standing beside the road, trying to order his theories
Grappling with Einsten’s Theory of Relativity
The Schroedinger equation and such stuff
You would see him scratch his head and ruffle his coat
His eyes fixed on some pothole or space

But you wouldn’t notice such things,
Nairobi people, you are always running
And am afraid you left life’s lessons behind!


C) Lorot Salem 2011


Shared in Thursday Poets Rally 43 ( May 05-May 11, 2011)


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