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Poetry with an african geometry Christian Mowarin
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By Christian Mowarin
a f r i k ar e - a n i m at i o n
poetry playbook 10
I remember the night
I returned to your cold
I could taste the salt in your tears
And taste the clan in your skin
Speak the spirit that was calling
Wasnt it's what you really want?
Now you embrace me
And embalm me with grace
The soul gossip in the desert
In the palm of their hand
Christian Mowarin
...Herb faced and hands akimbo
The new breed emerges
From the sacred cropped coven
Sandwiched between home roots
Praising with all hands on dusk
In the deep heart of the ancient moon
Calling the germinative ancestors to
Rise For revelation has come to play
Christian Mowarin
For my mother,
an oxygen paperback
July 2011
, clara
Heart kinematics
My heart drifted through
The imation as a conquest
Though i wasn't longer listening.
The vision has entered the barn
And the tubers play their act
The return of the yam festives
Wearing a rough-tanned
Lavender coated body armor
I stood elegantly next
To my shining body volume
Looking slightly out of place
A near distant perspective
Imminent and daring as day
My heart missed a beat therein
But soon cover the analytics
Whose hair has been trimmed to her crown,
Loose strands escaping down my shoulders
Why are you playing mind games
Over my renewed origins
Where the trees no longer bow
To the accent of udenugwa the ruler
Let me live and I will show you
My spirit runs as native blood
In all the seven reigns
The girl in the rain
The rain has seized gallantly
To pour librations on the earth
Little puddles with their mud friends
Drinking away the renderosity
Bitter water disagreeing to agree
Who to lead the emancipation
Before the precarious evaporation
Her eyes clearly form the refraction
Coarse and shaky black blinks
Soliciting for paradise retention
But I know they are mere verbs
Been making her appear lifeless
But the radiosity been so edgy
Appearing to be submissive though
Those icy blue eyes so unionize
Within the in built gilt coverings,
The clandestine candlesticks,
Expensive and shivering cold
A sure bounty of silverado
An engagement made so real
It begins to dramatize her soul
The fireflies my brothers
Swarming round and round
They gathered for the village
In a millionth mechanical march
Having travelled in dazed dimensions
Far from the lonely mountains
Where the cradle once settled
They have come to witness the day
To see the affairs of our kind
Dressed in nature’s own clothing
Red heads with sand beads
They rallied for the inevitables
For the future and for the look in our eyes
Not long their leaders come out
To speak to the multitude tangents
So we cannot hear him nor feel him
The latitutude protection he seek
We know not the providers
But a day sure so disappointed
They are coming for us
Sitting midday in the cocoon
Housed pragmatically by myself
Noon doomed to be razed
The south storm in my mind
Waging tremor upon myself
Cursing the day the soil made me
And the day the village drums unrolled
Because a lifeless made it to life
Wind flaps raging noise on my ears
Tearing indomitable native speckles
Emerging with great reasons
From the lackadaisical nuisance
To a lackluster axial lullaby
Tailored to loop ceremoniously
In a rustic calabash storm
Made worse by plastic monoplane
Now they filed in their numbers
With no meticulous message
Their Passage in ample vectors
In undulative amplification of forms
A classified comprehension it seems
But pseudo set in a semi dotted layout
Played silly with puppets and pins
Song of life
Life is waitingLife is talking
Arise and get itThe nurd night light
Awaits in an artistic lingoPainted in earth strokes
Herb faced and hands akimboThe new breeds emerge
From the sacred cropped covenSandwiched between home roots Praising with all hands on dusk
In the deep heart of the ancient moonCalling the germinative ancestors to Rise For revelation has come to play
Violet strings of lost soulsIn vengeance they seek in danceSinging hallucinational melodiesRaising their young in backyardsWaiting for the fifth market dayWhen the spirits come to sell
Gorogoro ointments that curesThe maiming cold and ethnic eczemaThat returns after a deliberate sojourn
Life is waitingLife is talking
Arise and get itThe nurd night light
Awaits in an artistic lingoPainted in earth strokes
We were young
I remember In the new moon light
In all it's blue shimmersThe beautiful monopolyAnd it tapered shadows
The leathery melodyAnd it's fungal fingersThe sleepy villagersIn their nativity calicoWe were so youngWe were so strongAnd so stretched
I rememberThe stars were bright
And shining down on usThe light so powerful
It's boolean transfixes usThe man made hope
And how hopeful it becomesMany years gone pastMany drums beat past
Your eyes fightingFeasting like a no tomorrow
We were so youngWe were so strongAnd so attached
Everyone hurts
Fear makes it avid way
Away around the drowning
Dawn of a nascent generation
Whose metamophoric faith lies
In the twist of a naked truth
The hurt ushers in trend
Made realistic by current
And existing pragmatics
With the wounds suffering
Less and ambiguous ointments
Hands congregates in unionism
In latent bid to pave the illusion
But everyone bites the pain
That makes the bane beautiful
In a way hurt has found a foundry
We try insidiously
Miraculously and methodically
But fear intrinsically carves
An uncut niche that takes its place
In the mutative journey to hurt land
The village in your skin
I reminisced the seasonI returned to your coldIn a bowl of calabash oilTanned by the night blanketWith a taste of salt in your tearsAnd the feeling of rejectEmbalmed in your looks
I could taste the clan in your skinThe brown earth in your colorThe lounge akin to a comfortYour home made stale skinLike a baobab tree tattooTolled away in climatic imbroglio
It was calling me in namesAnd nostalgia stigmatic spiritIns't it what you really wantNow you embrace meAnd envelope me with graceA council with skeletal cover cloth
In the valleys where the harmattanPlays the tune with conscienceIn the palm of their handSending seasonal semanticsTo all the skins in the villageSo they know where the heart grows
The Gracelands
The cold from the strangeRivers of ughali tributariesFilters through the filletsRubbed against the fenceThat holds the calm watersThe string in sync with the flowYou could hear the sweet rhythmUndulating through the agedWinds that blows mind away
I remember In the new moon lightIn all it's blue shimmersThe beautiful distanceAnd it tapered shadowsThe leather melodyAnd it's fungal fingersThe sleepy villagersIn their nativity dreamsWe were so youngWe were so strongAnd so stretched
I rememberThe stars were brightAnd Shinning down on usThe light so powerfulIt's Boolean Transfixes usThe man made hopeAnd how hopeful it becameMany years gone pastMany drums beat pastYour eyes fightingFeasting like a no tomorrow We were so youngWe were so strongAnd so attached
Memoirs of Senegal
Like your eyesMisty with mysticsScared to let goProbably reservedFor the bluesObserved for loveDead for tearsThe idea is dearThe vivid past to the futureThe sweet memoriesOf a symphonyThat is of Senegal
I am no whereWhere I grewI knew this TruthFor the freedom withinAll you've got is French The gentle battle it ragesIn your heart storyA string played freeEnchanting and endearing
I know youToo well Wellness incurredCured with eyes closedThe sweet spotWhere the streetsMeets with the heart lightCold melts awayThe stretchLife springsThe sweet memoriesOf a symphonyThat is of Senegal
Sins of cynicisms
Isimada, the ghost of fear
Comes back with his back black
Playing terror to the lost dungeons
In his hands, the retribution whip
Of ancestral curses and roots
Made only for rot and races with rash
His illumination remotely not aligned
As he scans the aura futura
The shrine’s reflection intoxicated
His fears very cold and unyielding
His cynicisms covers his sins
And criticisms in dire straits
Then came the light new beginnings
Spirits of daylight animatics
As the hands comes down
With such volcanic verses
The night fluttering their wings
In readiness for a frantic flight
From the sporadic sensibilities
The horns now sounding eerie
Souls soldiers in sober cacophony
In pseudo and intrinsic struggles
The lineage of the ancestors broken
Bright lights hit the shrub covets
It's done, well done again
a f r i k ar e - a n i m at i o n
By Christian Mowarin
poetry playbook 10