Writer's Block

Poetry Topic: Writer’s Block

I sit here with my pen

Here I am, a poet, almost

Writer’s block that comes

(Wringing fingers in frustration)

Idea 1. Capture what writer’s block is.

Idea 2. Write about it.

Idea 3. You have killed writer’s block.

Ok, here we go.

I sit here with my pen,

Here I am, a poet almost

Writer’s block that comes

ARGH.

I will write a poem tomorrow.

Shared this frustration with Poet's United.

Ghazal #1 : Desert Muse

I now turn to explore another form of poetry known as ghazal. I gather from my reading that they consist of couplets, ranging from 5-15. The second line of every couplet closes with a refrain. The last couplet will contain the penname of the poet. In my case, I chose Lorot.

These are not poetry class notes and they don’t pretend to be such. You see, sometimes echoes disappear. Trapping them here inside caves helps a great deal. But pilgrimage is all about keeping your ears open to trap your own echoes.

That’s all.

Now, off to the first ghazal in Echoes of the Hills.

 Ps. Note to Self: Structured poetry is like an unruly child. When it fails to co-operate, you feel like to smack it. What a tenacity it requires!

Desert Muse

Photo supplied by Poets United

Nature has a playful part in a sultry desert

Exhibited by the little animals in a flattery desert.

The fingers of want tickle the cerebrum

To pick traces of life in a paltry desert.

Like the squirrel sipping from a Coke bottle

Hope transcended from dust to slurry desert

Amazing to watch the poise and intellect

Emboldened against the worry desert

Lorot, though unlearned of the deserts, says

Be still, the squirrel kept cool in the paltry desert

Shared with Poets United  The Thursday Think Tank #70 - Hunger

Asiyesikia La Mkuu Huvunjika Guu*

For Poets United, The Thursday Think Tank #68 Red

The task was to write a poem inspired by the colour red

Link

Kinsman, there you lie

Split into two

By ilat, the god of thunder

Not a drop of blood

Not a struggle for life

Whatever lies of you, kinsman,

Is bad sight for my eyes

Choking our breaths

Confusing our minds

As you lie there

Your akala shoes strewn

Your snuff bottle by your neck

Your lukup by your side

Your ng’achar a step away

Beside your lifeless body

I find it hard to be a man

But, Kinsman, you had been warned

Of stirring the wrath of ilat

Who defied the gods and lived?

Who poked the eyes of ilat and lived?

As I was told

You were seen in a red shuka by the mukuyu

Who wore red, Kinsman?

But there you were

By the riverside, in a red shuka

Like a child throwing sand on a beehive

Ilat rumbled but you defied

Had you pictured what would be of you

You would have thrown that shuka

Ran and made peace with the gods

Second time there was no rumble

All people heard was a subdued scream

And then this—

Flesh severed into two

Head to toe

Jutting eyes

Lifeless.

You had been warned, Kinsman.

Notes:

Asiyesikia La Mkuu Huvunjika Guu*- This is a Kiswahili saying or 'methali' which warns people to listen to their elders failure to which they will 'break their legs'.

Ilat- The god of thunder among the Pokots.

Shuka- Swahili for bedsheet, night wrap. The Pokots wrap them around their bodies as their clothing.

Akala- Traditional shoes made of Michelin tyres worn by the Pokot nomads.

Ng'achar- Traditional stools worn by the Pokots.

Lukup- Traditional walking sticks used by the Pokots.

Mukuyu- A type of tree.

The Apparition

(For the Poets United's The Thursday Think Tank #61 - She)

My sight of her sticks out—like a sore thumb

The kamdelen-infested eyes, bare-feet

Parched mouth—words of sorrow

Spoken, frail frame of wasted body

Thought I, weighed down by

The sultry air this woman carried:

Where was her elegance of kidong’a?

Which wind would flutter her lorwaa?

From a corner of a shop I watched her

Carrying a malnourished baby

She could have been 14

Yet she could have been 40!

You my Elders, unshackle her

Free her! Untie her!

You my Elders, bring back her innocence!

Bring cheer to her face!

You the owners of traditions

You are busy hunting the egrets

Unaware of the vultures hovering over your heads

One day, Kacheliba Hill will rebel!

Lorot Son of the Hills’ Notes:

Kamdelen- Pokot for dirt in the eyes.

Kidong’a- A pokot traditional dance.

Lorwaa- A Pokot traditional dress.

Serious Grass Business

(Prompt: Poets United Thursday Think Tank #59 Grass )

Let me wear camel-skin pair of shoes

Walk the walk of a herdsman

With far-flung clouds teasing above him

And the mist of hope lost

In a sweltering heat

What will I feel?

If I had an AK-47 on my back

A dozen arrows and the right instinct

Pray, from what will they protect me from

Unless I shot at the heaven’s tap?

He will walk on and on, that herdsman

To the point of listening to his footsteps

And after many days

Behold, he will lead his cows

To a no-man’s-land

Where one minute egrets

Abound and the next vultures prey

Life and death

For many months

This will go on

This little hobby of looking for grass.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Journal of a Pokot Market Boy

(Prompt: Poets United Thursday Think Tank #60 Market Days

Lorwaa-dressed pretty Pokot girls

Men on shuka, cattle bells heard from afar

Mitumba sellers, Rock hotel abuzz

Blaring loudspeakers of crusading pastors

The concealed whistles of lomedos wooing their girls

Car horns, vegetable vendors, shop sellers

It is market day, Kacheliba

It is a one-day affair

On a Sunday.

A week long dazed small town

Comes to life

Once again

Cattle sold in the open

Hot tea served defiant of the midday sun

Feet oiled yet get dusty all the same

Loafers strolling aimlessly with prodding sticks

Clever goats partaking of maize vendors’ ‘wares’

Bicycle riders with missing bells

Careful buyers bargaining for hours

Patient vendors sweating in the sun

Sugarcane packed under ses tree

Thirsty bestraddlers of the market

Crouching on their knee-caps to drink from kisima

O, Kacheliba Market Sunday!

C) Lorot Salem 2011

When…

When we let our thoughts soar with the eagles

When we envision a horse gallop on a lake

When we can scrape at misery and hurl it

When we can still our thoughts

When we can paint darkness

When we can paint lightness

When we can fathom the unfathomable

When we can bring characters to life

When we can create suspense

When we can speak our deepest thoughts

When we can reveal our silliest follies

When we can rise above mediocrity

When we can learn of virtues

When we can see a rainbow in the skies

When we can see ourselves in another’s eyes

Only then will we be free.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

For a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #55 Freedom

Answer Me, Dear Writer

You who create words, tell me

What is the use of the space bar in your keyboard?

When you hit that key almost with irritating certainty

Don’t you realize that you create destitutes?

Why should you stir division and call it elegance?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

For a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #57 Loneliness

Inside a Night-Time Poetry Journal

As the cow-bells draw near

The golden sunset rays arcing

Darkness fast approaching

Old men trudge past hurriedly

Women with sacks on their backs walk fast

Soon, the fireplace is lit

The smoke-filled hut resurrects

Children play with moths

As mothers adeptly cook ugali

While milking cows at the cowshed

Laughter abounds

Of the cleverness of the hare

Or the gullibility of the elephant

And as the merry floats into the night

It mixes with the howl of the winds

Perhaps as a befitting valedictory

To the wonder of the African night

C) Lorot Salem 2011

From a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #58 Nightime

Sword

"Wherever your spirit be, Sword, let it stay close

As oft many a troubled one never perch

But let yours find home...a home in our hearts

Tony and I, and others"

Sword, we christened him

Tony and I, near Westgate Shopping Mall

A small, black-furred canine of a German Shepherd

Tony ruffled him, teased him even

And to protect his turf, little Sword barked

And advanced timidly to Tony

Chiwawa would have been proud

My love for Sword registered immediately

Never cared about the Japanese Spitz or the Bulldog

Or the Terrier

I remember how Sword could pose for photos

We could stand there and wait for the click

May be I could hear Sword interrupt,

“C’mon, buddy, click that thing…been wagging

My tail for far too long..”

One morning, Sword poo-pooed in the office

Well, in a small carton box

As we cleaned up, Sword would look on

All innocent, all repentant

May be saying,

“Folks, that was just a small poo,

Cheer up, that was not a honey-badger’s fart!”

Two months later, Sword dies

Tony and I take him to a post-mortem

We bury him together with his collar

All I am left with are his photos

And wonderful memories of him.

All pictures copyright by the author

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Marabou Storks, A Bench and a Mystery

Photo supplied by Poets United

Beside Uhuru Highway, lies a bench

Unsat by strangers in the city

Many a traveler could sit on it

And feasted his eyes on clever hawkers

Selling their merchandise

Or the occasional lovebirds

Chewing on grass

Or adept pedestrians mocking death

But no, people don’t sit on the chair

It is not uncommon for

Marabou Storks

To let C₅H₄N₃O₃

Splash on your face

To your shame!

The City Hall Fathers

Have it on their records

That the bench is in “good condition”

Save for the adventures

Of the Marabou

If you ask me, this is what

Tourists pay to witness first hand!

C) Lorot Salem 2011

From a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #51 Timeout 

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

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

How To Create A Mad Man

You stood there, Kinsman,

in the caves of Mount Kadam

In search of miraa

Propelled by instant wealth

If you chanced upon Mercury

So you walked endless miles

Entered caves, weaved through darkness

Unbeknownst to you

Drawing closer to the spirits that rule Kadam

You were irking them, putting your life

To their path of vengeance

You defied the counsel of the old

Never to set foot into the caves

For echoes of dead men could be heard

But you despised them

No you walk around in the village market

Laughing like the dead---naked

Had you listened to them

Had you not set forth to Kadam

May be your story could have been different.

C) Lorot Salem

For the prompt of Poets United The Thursday Think Tank - #46 Monsters

W.Y.B Yeats

Image credit: google:wikipedia

1.      

I am telling you this in high confidence—

W.Y.B Yeats is related to me

His great great grandfather

Is a distant cousin to my clan

I don’t want attention—

Reason why I kept mum about this

C) Lorot Salem 2011

For a prompt by Poets United Thursday Think Tank #45 Secrets

A is for Abstruse

Image courtesy of  google:legaljuice.com

It escapes me how it all started

I mean, these big words I carry around

The first time I used fundamental

I was expressing a point on the weather

Fundamental weather, I said

That was back in the day—in Class Six to be exact

This affair didn’t start yesterday

Of that we need to be clear:

I once combined four synonyms in a row

Tucked romantically in a love flow

I even had the audacity to squeeze in

Caranx lugubris ( A black jack, I learnt later)

Smack in the middle of a love sentence

(Forgive me, O dear reader, the ghosts in our closets!)

I read books not for knowledge’s sake

But to lift heavy words which cranes couldn’t pull

And somehow utilized them in some

Class discussion on the alkanes and alkynes

If they fit, I worried not

And now in my old age, in exasperation

I could shout iambic pentameter

To a rowdy youth in the streets

Of course he would be offended

What with a scowl creasing my face

Littered in my shack house

Will be torn Collegiate Dictionary, Thesaurus

A Paperback on World’s Most Difficult Words

And in equal measure scattered papers

All evidence of who I am

Latin defines me

I make pronouncing a caelo usque ad centrum

Sound like chicken fodder

Latin begot some of us

We make language spin

Speaking of which,

What a prenominal-herculian-ardous-whopper-of-a-poem

Has this old-geezer written?

C) Lorot Salem 2011

For  a prompt from Poets United Thursday Think Tank # Your First

Remember This, My Daughter

For a Prompt from Poet's United Thursday Think Tank #42 Love

                                                  [image from google: atbrownies.blogspot.com]

My daughter, do you want me to tell you

How I met your father? How it all begun?

Blow off that smoke first, this hut is stuffy

Not doing good to my already teary eyes

( Daughter complies. I told you romance taglines

Have a way with the heart, huh?)

T’was one Sunday afternoon in the marketplace

My daughter,

When your father saw me

I was dressed in my lorwaa, swaying this way that way

In free Kacheliba wind, trapping breaths of men in my aura

My legs oiled with ghee, my hair burnt with hot broken pot

My neck straight like an arrow, my eyes dimmed with “innocence”

I had heard about your father

He had tore a live leopard into two

And still had the nerve to skin it

Word had it that he was once stepped on by an elephant

And in his manliness, he only winced

Such acts of bravery, my daughter,

Drew me to your father

But for the heck of it, I played the hunted antelope!

But wait till your father stood before me

His tear-a-leopard-bravado all gone

His wince-instead-of-crying all faded

Him standing there, just a man

As if he is before a shrine fiddling with two competing wishes!

Now see him, your father,

Standing before me, breath stuck high up his bronchus

And me, sizing him up, feigning impatience

See me tilt my eyebrows and ask ‘what brings you here?’

See your father fumble with so simple a question

Talking about the latest floods of River Suam

How the sun is burning so, blah blah blah…

Now see me growing impatient

Snapping, simulating anger

Tilt your microscope to my heart

The laugh I give for your father

The love I secretly habour for him

My daughter, but of feigning I didn’t for long

Try as I did ( I told you he tore a leopard?

Not accurate: he tore into my heart too, although in a softer way)

We secretly met in posho mills, on river paths, in the sorghum fields

How blood rushed to my head, how those hands felt warm

How tranquil we felt just the two of us lying on sand at night

How deaf we were to the laugh of hyenas and cowbells of lost bulls

Your father could joke to me that the witch I had gone to

Did a perfect job

And I could joke to him about the “sun is burning so”, blah bah blah

( At this point, he could tug at my necklace and “choke” me)

My daughter, I only loved your father

I swore by the graveside of my grandfather to love him alone

And these breasts you suckled bear me witness

If there is love other than that, my good daughter,

I don’t know

And when your father came for aloto

They gave forty cows, forty goats, four beehives of honey

And four containers of kumiket

Because I was the jewel that I was worth

How beautiful I felt, my daughter

Milking the cow in my homestead

Stealing glances at my man taking sour milk

How beautiful, carrying the seed of my man

In my womb, eating anthills in my homestead

How beautiful I felt if I dared unmarried women

To lift up my lorwaa, to mock a curse

Because I was the wife of so-and-so

And as the years grow, my good daughter

Seeing you grow to be a woman

Your blood rushing just like me

You also feigning impatience

You also deaf to the laugh of hyenas

Remember this, my daughter, you live

In a war zone with flying bullets

With no rules to decorum

It is upon you to exercise judgment

Not to be in the crossfire.

C) Lorot Salem 2011

Lorwaa—a  Short, Sexy Pokot traditional dress.

River Suam- a river in Kacheliba, Pokot North District, Kenya.

Posho Mill- a flour mill.

Aloto- a Pokot marriage negotiation usually done the whole night. The bridewealth is usually negotiated upon the whole night and a consensus reached in the wee hours of the morning or shortly before dawn or morning.

Kumiket- a Pokot traditional liquor made of honey. It is usually drank on special occasions especially during marriage celebrations, when some rites of passage are being conducted et al.