© outi art
When Lady Serenity
saw me, she swerved.
Her detour a reminder not to dwell on anxiety.
I want to absorb the tempo of my hero.
Go with her on a journey. We’ll decide.
Fill a syrup-colored packing case with maps loosely packed.
Plan our getaway on the back of a paperback. Take me with you.
Two bodies mutter to each other in smoke rings.
Signals blow back and forth. The mysterious air
between the pair: cloaks their mystery.
What are they saying? Is language extinct?
Are words with all their meanings obsolete
now. Frozen. Stiff.
Our vanishing act is a spectrum of messages tiptoeing the resonance frequency. Body of light and energy. The sun glares at us. We stare back.
South African poet Willie Kgositsile posited the necessity of putting aside poetry in the face of looming revolution.
“When the moment hatches in time’s womb there will be no art talk,” he wrote. “The only poem you will hear will be the spearpoint pivoted in the punctured marrow of the villain….Therefore we are the last poets of the world.”
… and pondering the deaths of some of my beloved friends in Sierra Leone. Victims of Ebola… or a fate worse than death?
Where does peace start?
In Mahatma Gandhi’s book “The Story of My Experiments With Truth.” Gandhi said: “When every hope is gone, ‘when helpers fail and comforts flee,’ I find that help arrives somehow, from I know not where. Supplication, worship, prayer are no superstition; they are acts more real than the acts of eating, drinking, sitting or walking. It is no exaggeration to say that they alone are real, all else is unreal.”
Imagine yourself born with a different skin colour.
Which colour(s) would you superimpose onto your DNA?
Who’s looking at you now?
Do you feel your privileges taken away?
Do you feel enlightened?
On top of the world?
As rich as can be?
Full of promise?
On the A-List?