Of Love

Tell me, O Plato, what I should conceive of this,

Bidden as I was to a fluttering feeling ( flattering, perhaps?) that I once felt

Which enslaved, rather than ennobled,

How would I have been lost in the beauty of love

( In the same way as you, while with Aristodemus)?

How, in this encomium of love,

Unlike Orpheus ( bidden to cross Hades alive),

Will I be ready to die for love?

Or like virtuous Alcestis, die at the behest of love?

Wouldn't I, like Achilles who avenged for Patroclus,

in my small turf of love, be the flute-player,

Of love redefined, honourable and virtuous?

Teach me, then, O Plato,

to live the truth that love is the love of the

everlasting possession of the good.

Wouldn't I want to seek immortality

To leave behind glorious tales

Of love, pure and true,

in the breasts of men,

Least to the awe of nature?

C) Salem Lorot /echoes of the hills 2014

Note:

This poem has been influenced by Plato's 'Symposium'. 

I found a very nice quote on love:

"Love is said to be the god who

Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep,

Who stills the winds and bids  the sufferer sleep"

Little Things to Make This World a Better Place

Gandhi. Photo credit: Google.

Pilgrim, the Higher Truth has thus be revealed to me

in a most profound way. I sat reading Gandhi’s Autobiography 

'The Story of My Experiments with Truth'

and inside the covers, I picked one important legacy he left for the world:

Service.

This world, Pilgrim, cries out for service.

Men and women who can do something for others—

not for money’s sake, not for fame’s sake,

but for the fulfillment of their mission on this Earth.

All around me I see these gallant men and women.

You might not find them on billboards and monuments

You see them everyday, some helping an old man

Crossing the road, some helping out an illiterate read a letter.

And when we are long gone, Pilgrim,

It will not matter what we accumulated in our sojourn here

But the little things we did to make this world a better place.

Note:

I have finished reading Mahatma’s Gandhi Autobiography titled ‘The Story of My Experiments with Truth’.  I hesitate to comment much on the book as I need time to digest what Gandhi’s life means to me. Of course, Gandhi is well known for the ‘Satyagraha’ and as satyagrahi ( or would-be’s), we have important lessons to pick there.

Allow me to say this. I have admired a great deal Gandhi’s service to humanity. He eschewed self aggrandizement. He strove for the others. As an advocate, I admired his truthfulness in his legal career, albeit intermittently. If a client was untrue to him, he would not take up the case. I also remember him pointing out an error to the court, which had the potential harm of them losing the case. This, despite the fact that his Senior in the case thought otherwise.

On humility, Gandhi would travel Third Class in trains and experience what those passengers went through ( Until later, much to his regret, when his health failed him and thus could not). Of course there are numerous other examples from his life. But today, it appears that humility is equated to weakness. Pomp, braggadocio, chest-thumping are seen as important ingredients for upward mobility. I have always remembered, much to my consternation, my clients telling me “you are so soft”, the other party needs somebody who will shout and create so much noise and intimidation. Unfortunately, I have never been this person. I always want to state my position and my convictions calmly and deliberately. Fanfare is not for me.

I intend to experiment on some of Gandhi’s experiments. As for now, I would not want to comment further. But there are important lessons I have drawn from the book.

Council of Sages

When I have soaked the endless conversations

Just about any blabber adults will churn out

Accusations and counter-accusations,

Truths, half-truths and outright lies

Words which heal not

Words, like javelin thrown,

Aimed to create heroes and zeroes

When I am drenched in the ramblings

The whys and wherefores

The thou-art-the-problem and thou-art-the-devil

When I have immersed myself in all this

I retreat to my safe haven, a quiet corner,

Get myself a nice book and read

And soon, I am thrust into a different world

The sorrow that sunk me a moment earlier

Is all but a distant, tiny wisp

Around me now, is my “Council of Sages”

With them, I am holding a serious conversation.

My Memory Palace

I will build myself my memory palace
Where, in their loci, I will store all I want to remember.

I would want to store facts, like the savants,
Churn out facts, gobble every other factoids there is.

I would know my memory palace well,
Have an image of where I placed my wristband
On a sloppy Saturday midnight.

And I will not write anything.
I will not keep any notebook or diary.

If you were to ask me, perchance,
The fourth line of Shakespeare's Macbeth,
I will never falter
And if you were to ask me to memorise 100,000 digits back and forth
I will.

I am tired of my forgetfulness
( I forget whether tomorrow is going to be your birthday)
And it hurts, and it costs me

All that I want to build for myself, right now
is a memory palace.
To memorize the Black's Law Dictionary ( just for the heck of it)
And see my mental gymnastics do the trick

I want to claim back my memory
And throw away these extensions to my memory
Like the Greek Orators, I want to speak from within me
To retain in as much as I read

C) Salem Lorot 2013/ echoesofthehills

****
I am reading a book titled 'Moonwalking with Einstein', a book on the art of remembering by Joshua Foer. It is an exciting book that I bought off the streets on one lazy Saturday afternoon. Quite some read.

Echoes of the Hills, Where Thou Art?

I think a quick update on what I have been up to will do. You see, when you have been absent from the blogosphere from 4th of July of this year still now, I owe it to my readers to "show cause why" I have been that scarce.

Largely, I have been preoccupied with the demands of my day job as a legal practitioner dealing with Children matters in the courts. Most of the times I have carried work home to finish them there and I really miss the days when I used to churn out one poem every day.

But, even amidst all this, I am very guilty. Guilty for not writing. Guilty for not penning my poems. And there has always been something hitting me every other time. Something odd. And there has been a vacuum within me. My spirit has been restless and I am glad that I can write this.

Let me see if I will write a poem after this.

I am back, my fans.

Sincerely,
echoesofthehills

GIVE US FOOD OR GIVE US DEATH! GIVE US FOOD OR GIVE US DEATH!

“Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!”

― Patrick Henry

~

It would be safe to assume that all the signs, he never heeded.

Even as the petulant twitch on his nose screamed for him to stop and listen.

The skies, perhaps crabbed too, let the fiery rays and their anger show.

Stupefied, birds flew up above, no tweet could be heard.

It was strange. The usual hubbub of these streets,

Were draped in tight mystery, as if this patch of land was tiptoing

On a landmine.

If only he could have read the air that morning, this tale would have ended differently.

Hell hath no fury like street people scorned. The gathered mass soon was in a procession,

Chanting ‘Haki Yetu’ (Our Rights), and shouting “Give us Food or give us death”.

Where they got the energy, as they were starving, will forever remain a mystery.

If we could hazard, we could say that theirs was the drunken stagger of a speared elephant.

They chained themselves and out of their angry mouths spewed forth crystalline vehemence.

Their muscles tense, their coalesced anger dense, the city was under siege.

The poor people, unafraid, were now ready to taste death.

Police in riot gear had received clear instructions: “Lob tear gas canisters to the ingrates!”

For equal measure, in their guns were live bullets to shoot and kill.

Death was in the air.

But if the police thought the angry mass was afraid of death, they were mistaken.

Or we could rather say, if the poor people thought that the police were afraid of killing them, they were mistaken.

The poor chanted, “GIVE US FOOD OR GIVE US DEATH!”

GIVE US FOOD OR GIVE US DEATH

GIVE US FOOD OR GIVE US DEATH.

3,000 bodies lay sprawled, dead.

And now on these streets is a terse message:

This city is drenched in innocent blood shed.

And out of that blood, a revolution was born.

It was many years ago, but their blood was not in vain.

All the Children of the World, You are Powerful!

“Look at children. Of course they may quarrel, but generally speaking they do not harbor ill feelings as much or as long as adults do. Most adults have the advantage of education over children, but what is the use of an education if they show a big smile while hiding negative feelings deep inside? Children don’t usually act in such a manner. If they feel angry with someone, they express it, and then it is finished. They can still play with that person the following day.”

― Dalai Lama XIV

All the Children of the World,

You are Powerful!

You are Powerful and Beautiful!

You truly know how to live

Not in the past, not into the future

But savouring the present moment

Living now

Look how great your smiles are!

I swear you are truly rich

Even that kind of smile has eluded kings

Children, teach me how you do it

You are amazing little beings,

You Children!

You have energy, your eyes burn with life

You don’t keep sorrow in your hearts

That is why you can smile through tears

Your questions always make me happy

You ask, you want to know

Never ashamed even for a moment

Now, there! Those are great minds

Minds which ask, unafraid

You teach me each day

To be a better person

So, shine all little children

Play, be children

You all are amazing! 

Dear African Child...

[Letter written on 15^th June 2013 to commemorate the Day of the African Child on 16^th June 2013. This day is important in the calendar of all children in Africa. It is a day to let the child talk to us about what problems they face and what solutions they want to see. It is a day to celebrate the African child in all his/her beauty. It is a day where we also walk with our heads bent in shame for the ills that our children face today—early and forced marriages, forced begging, child labour, child sexual exploitation, female genital mutilation, and so on. But it is a day of hope, hope that what we can do today can improve the lives of children in Africa and beyond. Hope that whatever little contribution we can make, we can help transform the lives of children. It is no coincidence, then, that Neil Postman wrote, “Children are the living messages we send to a time we will not see.”  That is how he opens his book, The Disappearance of Childhood, originally published in 1982 by Delacorte Press.]

Today, African Child, I am putting pen to paper. I want to write this as beautifully as I can but as truthfully as it can get because I know that you are a child. You see, as a child, if I am a big mess of myself as an adult, you will not mince your words. You will say that I suck. There! You will say that. So, we spare each other the guarded language and say like it is.

I am not sure if you will read this. When you are lying on pavements and begging on the streets, it makes sense to look for food than such abstract things like education. Many of your friends, the lucky ones I mean, can’t go beyond 8^th grade. Not because they are not keen on education but their parents can’t afford the fees.  Even when they can somehow pay, many are forced to eke out a living on the streets: begging, selling groundnuts, being lured to sex by monied sex pests/pedophiles.

And your streets and your homes are not safe. As early as 7 p.m., you are defiled/raped on your way home. At your homes, we, the adults, can be one of your worst enemies. Because your trust and friendships are genuine, we defile you and tell you that if you whisper a word, we will cut your throats. Being children, the horror of what you go through replays in your minds till some neighbor notices that you are withdrawn or are limping. Forgive us, our African Child.

How then, can we explain to you that this is a caring world, a beautiful world, when some of the worst things can happen to you? What solace, what consolation, what encouraging message can we give to tell you that you are such a wonderful African Child in all glory of Africa, the Africa where beautiful wild animals run? Which flute can we blow into when the wind is turbulent with the chaotic tornado keen on disrupting your childhood? Which guidance can we give, when all of your essence, your purity, your innocence, your vitality, has been sucked out, leaving you a hollow shell?

You need not tell me anything now. I can see the pain and sorrow in your eyes. From where I saw radiance and bubbling happiness, all I can see are dimmed sockets sunken in the miseries of the life we have put you into. Where we all heard the sweet hum of your voice, is a haunting silence, a silence that seeks answers from the universe. Truly, when a child stops playing, the world should be worried.

But if it was the urgency that you wanted, either it was not there or it was taking long to register. Because, if in deed, the ‘red alert’ button had been pressed, then your predicament would have been addressed with the seriousness it deserves. But what have we seen? Gerrymandering. Indecisiveness. Aloofness.

O, Poor African Child! I am surprised sometimes at the aloofness we can have. You see, the greatest tragedy in our society today is not the crashing world markets or the nations’ rivalry. No. The greatest tragedy today is a world which is indifferent to the needs of children. A world which cannot exhibit any emotion, no indignation, no anger, no sense of urgency in anything, more so in matters of children.

So, African Child, as I saw you full of energy, singing, reciting poetry and dancing to commemorate this important day, my heart was paining. This should be the life you are living! Childish, playful, in full splendour. I found it hard to imagine that we, the adults, can be the ones to flush this life out, to let it peter out, to kill your happiness, to snuff out your childhood.

So, African Child, on this day, we ask for forgiveness. That you find it in your heart to forgive us for all that we have done to you in the past and today. We ask for forgiveness for what we have failed to do to better your lives. We ask for forgiveness for trampling on your rights. We ask for forgiveness for not letting you not be a child, placing upon you early responsibilities of adulthood.

Your friend,

echoesofthehill

~

Photos:

Taken at Kwale County. The Day of the African Child was celebrated on 14th, being a school day and which day was convenient to the children unlike the 16th which falls on a Sunday. The celebration was conducted at Matuga Primary School. The first two photos are of the procession band and the third is of a Primary School reciting a poem.

Today I will be true or false*

I am standing before this court

Before a Magistrate, the arbiter in this case,

Behind me are parties in this case

To my left is my client:

A shy, horrified little girl

To my right:

The man who tore into her

Defiling her, sucking her vitality

Leaving her the pale shadow of her former self.

Today, I will be true or false.

I have prepared for this case, the charges are clear,

But to prosecute this case

I need evidence, I need to convince

This court beyond reasonable doubt

Any scintilla of doubt and this criminal is off the hook

Yesterday, I was with this small girl

God knows she has been through much!

At her age, she should be playing with her friends

Not attending courts!

At her age, she should be a child

Not this nightmare she is going through!

The playing field flashes through my mind

I hear children playing

And I see this girl running about too

Something constricts my throat

“Your Honour,” I address the court,

“Look at that child for a moment

Her innocence stolen forever

Her steady frame of mind destabilized forever

There she is in a morbid theatre…”

The Opposing Counsel objects:

“Objection, Your Honour, Counsel is

Pandering to emotions!”

I plough on:

“If I may, if there is something like pandering to

Emotions in this case, my client is there for the full glare

Of the world;

Pray, I need not colour my speech

The horror that my client went through

Is enough to speak of the indignity

Of the vile act, so odious…”

The Magistrate is not writing,

So I change tact

I see this will be one of the most difficult

Cases.

~

Purely fictional, although I am a Children Rights Advocate.
The title is borrowed from one of the speeches, I forget which, in the book "Profiles of Courage" by John. F. Kennedy that I read many years ago.