The Beautiful Game

My feet tingle as I wake, breakfast awaits
the golden sun like succulent bait
causes my heart, alive, to salivate.

The grass is greener now,
Winter’s slow howl makes
for the weekend a softened brow.

The slow ticking clock – a tease –
as I set my sights on my pilgrimage,
with thoughts on the soft breeze.

I know as in the forgotten night’s dream
reamed into morning, the greens
will welcome me again.

© Denis Adide 2010

 

On the shoulders of giants I weep!

While doing a bit of research for my Postcolonial module, I came across this picture. It struck me and after a few minutes passing with me staring at it, I felt tears trickle down my cheeks. The dominant thought being that I couldn’t picture living in a place like that, with the different assumptions on race governing the liberties that I’m now accustomed to. I take the train regularly, visit the coffee and book shops freely without facing as much malice. If I was to wake up in that world (which is what is seems like, an ancient and almost forgotten world), I would have little to do than to weep in the face of a stone and seemingly immovable sense of injustice.

This picture reminded me of the suffering that the preceding generations endured: the birth-pains of the social order that we (collectively but still with resistance) are trying to figure out and forge. I suppose like Newton, “If I have seen further, it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants”. There is a sense  however, within which to really understand how far I can see, I must look down and acknowledge the resolute hearts and minds on whose unctions I stand.

 

On The Shoulders Of Giants I weep

I suppose, standing in my solitude swept away from indemnity,
the calamity of the moment is the fact that for all his polity,
Old Adolf had a taste of what it meant to loose in love.

Split like tinder under an axe by nocuous axioms
into the lines sightlessly inscribed for the blind
I’m certainly not playing bingo tonight.

This sky is too weak to support my happy-time dreams,
and my castles like the indiscriminate rain will fall.
This bus will stay here, awake, colorless, with me.

I, like the wood and brick, will – for now – skip the passerby’s eye.

© Denis Adide 2010

A little bit about the pic:

Found it on wikipedia while looking into the Jim Crow Laws. These were a set of rules that governed how people of different races interacted with each other following the American civil war in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I urge you all to check em out.

Story experiments: Scared 1

The sun was about to set. If you could see past the blinding streetlights, it would be possible to make out the blue hue – dawn’s cloak awaiting the emerging stars. From where she stood however, they never shone. Their lights never quite managed to squeeze through the skyscrapers. All her attempts at squinting and concentrating were thwarted by the noises of the passing traffic – the busses, cars, rickshaws, and unforgiving pedestrians, some of whom never passed up the chance to grimace when she sought their help.

The years had made her resilient. It seems as though the winter cold didn’t pinch as hard as it did the first time. The summers would have been lovely but the increase in faces to check ensured that she never got to bask in the day’s glory: that was all for a life she had left behind long ago – they were the shards of person she half remembered. Those were the days when her face glowed, the tips of her fingers felt like a rainbow, and her sole like silk. Her hopes were then built on the dream she carried within, a dream that she lost as quickly as it emerged.

She no longer stood like she used to. Her legs had grown weary from the earlier days when the lampposts applauded her determination. After a million faces, she was assured that the same people walked in those streets, and would only get up when she thought she saw someone new coming. They were like a cascade of blurs that let her know how much of the day had passed by how quickly they walked. Morning and evening were too similar at times and she found that she had slept through some of the grey days and woken up at night.

She ate when the night commanded that the streets be scarce. Crumbs usually; pieces of whatever she had been able to gather while at her post. There were half eaten sandwiches, cold chips, and occasionally, when someone had mistaken her for a beggar and dropped a coin or two, coffee. She had become accustomed to the consistent hum of hunger and in her own way had managed to harness its persistence. But like most things from her past, food had lost it’s appeal; its colors and tastes were as distant as the dream she had all but lost.

She can still remember his little fingers, clasped over her index and middle. His scarf, wrapped around her neck, still carried his scent and with it the months when they shared a heart replayed: they had come here to get him a new one for the coming winter. Constantly she replays the minutes between him letting go and her waking up. They told her he was gone, and that he had taken two of her summers with him.

She knew he wasn’t: the street that took him would, in its own time and with its own summers, bring him back.

Happily Impaled to Love!

To set your eyes on beautiful things – to desire,
Is as to place your hand upon an open flame:
Drooping flesh, dry, unquenched on hoping fire,
In truth an unchecked nature’s hard to tame.
And tears will fall for pursuit of hearty folly
Lest solidly to devotion impulsion’s framed

Rings, like rolling rocks, do no moss gather,
But hoopless, yet bound, hearts do sometimes fail.
Merry the many men who from freedom canter
With thought and conscience less assailed,
For countenance raised and faces full of jolly
Is proof of a joy that is in love impaled.

Deceived do lay the primely disavowed,
By words unchecked, and verbs thoughtlessly sprayed;
Sorrow – the pain of harvests left unploughed
Like carcasses out in open fields unlaid –
Roots its image and words deep in the sully:
The gull of yester’s many things unsaid.

What blissful tranquillity it is to never require,
To rest ones tongue on one’s own heart with ease,
When vision’s agilities only do conspire
To praise the eyes with one’s own heart’s release
And the flame is doused whos tinder starch is folly
For all flesh and breath and bone are all appeased.

Such is the nature of love.

© Denis Adide 2010