tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51983941686361198412024-03-13T12:10:30.181-07:00CHISIYA ECHOES: NEW ZIMBABWE POETRYEmmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-89408070452015895062012-09-12T20:58:00.002-07:002012-09-12T22:29:33.314-07:00On Seeing Chisiya again after Sixteen Years <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UbygY0JVy10/UFFZSvRPsOI/AAAAAAAABy4/yoAVt2lLJHw/s1600/chisiya.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UbygY0JVy10/UFFZSvRPsOI/AAAAAAAABy4/yoAVt2lLJHw/s400/chisiya.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
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This time I was there: <br />
I saw Chisiya but never heard the echoes,<br />
Rushing to Runde River for a swim<br />
Only to be overwhelmed by the dry<br />
Bed of sand, where once mystery ruled. <br />
<br />
I paused; I pondered, <br />
Searched for it, and saw a new mystery; <br />
That emptiness that used to be a large pool<br />
Where once crocodiles and hippos met<br />
To divide territory and plan attacks on humans. <br />
<br />
No, there wasn't any of that this time; <br />
But the sand burying even the largest rock<br />
Inspired thoughts of new dreams: <br />
Conceived here, to be born in another land; <br />
Mototi Dream mating with American Dream<br />
In a marriage of Distaster<br />
As the Dreams Divide Territory and Time. <br />
<br />
And when I walked on this tomb<br />
Of what once scared and attracted; <br />
I could sense the deeper smile in me<br />
Cajoling the element of fun where now lay Dread.<br />
<br />
Back from Runde, having followed its course <br />
All the way to its confluence with another river, <br />
I saw Chisiya again, from another angle<br />
Where rocks wrestled with trees<br />
For the early bath in sunlight; <br />
I saw Chisiya again<br />
When the sun was escaping the sky; <br />
And the rocks looking at the sinking horizon<br />
Seemed to grow longer and denser<br />
That's when I could have heard Chisiya's echoes <br />
Had I not already courted those from elsewhere. <br />
<br />
It's the change we seek<br />
To have been away for so long <br />
And agree there is nothing wrong<br />
With a dream or two, if we remember <br />
to cement new hearts to origins, <br />
and learn even to refuse echoes <br />
That invoke that which used to scare. Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-58464681648947348862012-01-25T08:41:00.000-08:002015-08-26T14:31:29.684-07:00Capture it NowSo many of those things <br />
we must care to capture<br />
before, as we've been told, <br />
they escape--something to do with <br />
the nature of ideas--how never <br />
again will we be able <br />
to find them, or suppose we do, <br />
we will as with the same palate<br />
that took us there in the first place<br />
find, only to resume searching. <br />
<br />
But let me tell someone now,<br />
tell myself, even, about the day<br />
I could have done what I'm now doing<br />
yet I cowered and cowered,<br />
looked down then inward<br />
and felt the small teeth of caution: <br />
so while I'm feeling horrible<br />
about this or that not yet accomplished<br />
I have known too that accomplishment <br />
that happens in public view<br />
is not always a reflection of the failure within. <br />
<br />
So many things, so many ideas: <br />
and I hear some of you whispering: <br />
Tell us, tells us now...<br />
and laughing, I will pick satchel,<br />
walk one or two steps before<br />
I tell myself to face it....<br />
<br />Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-16472138766945217062010-02-03T00:05:00.000-08:002011-12-05T16:57:38.704-08:00Beyond GuessesAfter a while they look at you<br />
and tell you who you are<br />
and you smile, because that's what you do best<br />
and nod, leaving them to believe <br />
that's what you are--<br />
and now it doesn't matter<br />
because you confirmed it,<br />
made it easier<br />
for another group to guess<br />
and not even bother to ask<br />
if what they have heard you are<br />
is really what they should see<br />
when they too look at you.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-51955206565578529612009-11-13T09:04:00.000-08:002009-11-14T08:55:56.216-08:00KEY TO MY HEARTKEY TO MY HEART<br /><br />Who stands at my heart's door and knocks?<br />Knuckles raw<br />Serenades me,<br />Promising the sun, moon<br />All the stars.<br />My name<br />A sweet song<br />On his lips that quiver<br />With a love induced drunkenness.<br />A current runs down his spine,<br />He wants a part of me;<br />Who has spanned a lifetime<br />Searching to find a self<br />Eventually found in an emotional quagmire,<br />I will not trust a stranger<br />With my jewel.<br />Tell the mouse<br />The key to my heart<br />Hangs with the bell round the cat's neck.Emily Masianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12562427222834754630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-86293683436444588402009-05-22T16:43:00.000-07:002012-09-12T22:47:12.343-07:00SocialiaSome people are just sores; <br />
so you walk around<br />
avoiding bruises, even on days like this<br />
when what should matter<br />
is that the <span style="font-style: italic;">zondos</span>--<br />
some call them mazondo--<br />
are cooking.... <br />
<br />
And further down the hour, <br />
we will be gathered, again<br />
chatting and chewing: surprising someone;<br />
and every now and then, someone mentions<br />
country, culture, coughing,<br />
until we return to the sores, <br />
by the time we've counted<br />
eight empty Mondavis, sometimes Remis. <br />
<br />
Before long, it's good-bye,<br />
especially if not much good is left <br />
in this oppressive Sacramento heat.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-56536356821960627392009-05-18T20:48:00.000-07:002012-09-12T22:49:52.004-07:00The VestigesSomething about the best there is<br />
grabs and twists your insides<br />
and you want to call Mai<br />
even where no shadow exists<br />
of what we could call devices; <br />
<br />
First, there are those<br />
luxuriating in the idea...<br />
then dream becomes nightmare, <br />
and you wake up with a headache, <br />
only there is that which drives<br />
the idea of the best<br />
which becomes a shame<br />
when you turn and others say, <br />
"Let's see." <br />
<br />
Then the memory of shoots<br />
Once in Mototi budding, but blooms delaying<br />
until years later, carrying the weight<br />
of the sky, we dreamt of burn-darkened<br />
ends of what could have been blooms.... <br />
<br />
Something in talking about the best, <br />
when even the worst would detest contests.... <br />
So you stand, sit, stand again, <br />
and the laughter you hear<br />
is of hope turned clownish<br />
as where once we sat and told stories<br />
we now roll, like donkeys, <br />
in the ash of insignificance....<br />
but the whistle syou hear, <br />
those are the vestiges....Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-87002319477620424022009-04-14T22:46:00.000-07:002009-04-30T10:38:00.092-07:00Smile & SendIf you are like me<br />Today you are sending, <br />and Mukoma, looking down<br />will smile--exactly something<br />he would have done, no questions. <br />I am sending....<br /><br />You can't do things otherwise;<br />pound the asphalt of adamance<br />turn away not to return,<br />even when you see reason not to. <br />Remember there are smiles, <br /><br />and there is sending.<br />Hearts' doors can't just shut<br />and locks click to ward off the obvious<br />that often hides, until you open your mouth; <br /><br />Sing about this day<br />of dents, but remember the panel-beater<br />of time, chance, fate even; <br />so then smile and tear velcro. <br /><br />There are lines sometimes<br />where you go to send, <br />and remember this time<br />you will hold the line <br />and invite angry grunts, <br />but only if they knew<br />how proud Mukoma would be <br />looking down from where he is<br />because all he would have needed <br />was a short notice to know<br />that it was time to smile<br />and send, to end solitude<br />and begin a new chapter.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-61871795801732961632009-03-25T21:51:00.000-07:002009-03-25T21:55:12.408-07:00WAITING<div><br /></div> <div>Skeletal beings</div> <div>Eyes bulging out</div> <div>Bony arms</div> <div>And legs,</div> <div>Milky white teeth</div> <div>Gaze unblinking</div> <div>Into the distance..</div> <div> </div> <div>No appetite for food</div> <div>For sex,</div> <div>For life itself.</div> <div>They are waiting to die.</div> <div> </div> <div>Bodies disease ridden,</div> <div>Bitter hearts,</div> <div>Angry hearts,</div> <div>Sometimes just resignation.</div> <div>Where is hope?</div> <div>Where is love?</div> <div>They are waiting to die.</div> <div> </div> <div>There are men, </div> <div>Women, children</div> <div>In varying stages of degradation. </div> <div>All going one direction. </div> <div>Is there hope</div> <div>Beyond the grave?</div> <div>Is there life on yonder?</div> <div>They are waiting to die..</div> <div> </div> <div>It is "the big one </div> <div>With a small name"</div> <div>The scourge of Africa. </div> <div>Unbridled lusts</div> <div>Incubating death</div> <div>In nations loins..</div> <div>They are waiting to die</div> <div> </div> <div>Unwilling passengers</div> <div>At the last bus-stop.</div> <div>Ticket paid in blood,</div> <div>In advance...</div> <div>They will all get on the bus.</div> <div>Though some will linger...</div> <div>They are waiting to die</div> <div> 06/01/05</div>Emily Masianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12562427222834754630noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-38381480442279249072009-02-27T11:15:00.000-08:002009-02-27T11:21:18.967-08:00HeartsNorth of here<br />is a place where<br />they talk about us <br />as if we are <br />not...<br /><br />Then you look <br />around you one day<br />and see the sun <br />has forgotten to smile<br />and when you send<br />it an email<br /><br />after delays<br />it will send <br />only one sentence: <br />"Who ever told you<br />that I smile?" <br /><br />Intense, I say. <br />So let them talk now; <br />and, unsmiling, <br />we will thrash on<br />with our existence<br />while from a distance<br />they look and sob.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-70191340941184271392009-02-13T10:47:00.000-08:002009-02-13T10:52:38.677-08:00REALITY<h2><span id="ctl00_ContentPlaceHolder1_lblTitle">Reality</span></h2> <h3><span id="ctl00_ContentPlaceHolder1_lblDedication"></span></h3><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="poembody" id="ctl00_ContentPlaceHolder1_lblPoemBody">The reality of my being today,<br />Sorrow, solitude circling a hapless heart.<br />Penniless, as broke as my spirit is<br /><span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1234551086_0">Broken</span> outside and inside .<br />Reality is there is no food in my house,<br />No water to quench my thirst.<br />Nothing to quench the pain I feel deep<br />Within the marrow of my being.<br />No lighting, I cannot see.<br />Groping in the dark for answers so elusive.<br />What do I tell my children?<br /><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1234551086_1">Orphans</span> birthed and schooled,<br />In the sorry art of poverty.<br />Ravaged by corruption,famine and more.<br />Reality is I have failed my kids.<br />A progeny conceived in a lie called hope.<br />I mourn for a <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1234551086_2">lost generation</span>,<br />Whose destiny is ash and dust.<br />Born of strife and disease in this land.<br />Dafur? <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1234551086_3">Zimbabwe</span>? <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1234551086_4">Africa</span>,its all the same...</span></span>Emily Masianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12562427222834754630noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-592793752780546682009-02-09T11:02:00.000-08:002009-02-09T11:08:16.749-08:00STRAY FLIESSafe in blue, <br />even what we think<br />cracks the whip<br />of memory, in those moments<br />when mothers call our names,<br />only to be mocked <br />by the echoes of Chisiya. <br /><br />Because a look so distant<br />that even Runde will question<br />why they have to keep looking<br />will be pocked by stray flies<br />which too do not know<br />what to report, where even they<br />can now declare starvation. <br /><br />The safety is now in <br />the hell we have created <br />which sings in fear <br />of what we might do<br />had we stayed a few more months.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-84010022529513662762009-02-07T13:58:00.000-08:002009-02-21T14:06:59.209-08:00PathAll about is a wound, <br />and she murders<br />the air in her way, <br />not sparing the flash<br />of what will glue us forever; <br /><br />but this is not love; <br />there was no love in Rusitu, <br />just rain, rain, rain<br />and teachers' involuntary bankruptcy; <br /><br />but she had a bank in her heart, <br />vaults locked by inexperience, <br />her mind the diamond <br />you dared not touch<br />unless you knew<br />insurance that protected the sun. <br /><br />The wound on the ground<br />I have not walked in decades, <br />Her endless walking <br />defying<br />what in time should slow you down, <br />because unless I give this canvas back<br />to the trees, that smile<br />will continue to torture me <br />and ask why I never<br />opened an account....Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-68028653111188455892009-02-05T16:02:00.000-08:002009-02-05T16:05:05.271-08:00WHO NEEDS WORDSWHO NEEDS WORDS?<br /><br />Where are the lyrics?<br />Where is the rhyme<br />And where is the reason<br />For this sorrowful song?<br />The heart sings pain<br />And the heart hums strife.<br /><br />They kill the children,<br />And rape the women.<br />The men have died<br /> In senseless wars!!<br /><br />Who needs words<br />For this <span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1233878623_0">sad song</span>.<br />Which the heart sings?<br />The lyrics are in their eyes<br />A monotonous melody in their stride.<br />Its not a song,<br />Its a dirge.<br /><br />7TH Nov. 2008Emily Masianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12562427222834754630noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-32425566705382502692009-02-04T11:53:00.000-08:002009-02-04T11:55:22.316-08:00ANOTHER LIFEANOTHER LIFE<br /><br />Nostalgic heart,<br />A painful whimper<br />For a life that was. <br />A parsimonious existence<br />Living life<br />One day at a time.<br />With tomorrow,<br />A dream<br />Out of reach today,<br />Becoming today<br />Lived like yesterday...<br />Life in the village.<br /><br />Constant music,<br />Nature's band.<br />Singing birds<br />Clacking chickens,<br /><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1233775980_0">Barking dogs</span><br />Cows, donkeys and more.<br /><br />Feet plodding earth<br />Foraging the forest,<br />Nature's basket,<br />Fruits,roots,berries,<br />Insects too,<br />Men hunting for meat.<br /><br />The river- a life line,<br />Drinking with the animals.<br />Boys fishing upstream'<br />Women, girls<br /><span style="border-bottom: 1px dashed rgb(0, 102, 204); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1233775980_1">Washing clothes</span>.<br />A kaleidoscope of rags<br />Dotting bushes.<br />Old women bathing,<br />Shrivelled buttocks<br />Dessicated breasts,<br />Dead to the world.<br /><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1233775980_2">Children playing</span><br />Shrieking,shouting<br />Sheer ecstacy,<br />A joy no money can buy!!<br /><br />Girls balancing clay pots<br />On braided heads,<br />Gourds in hand,<br />Taking water home.<br /><br />Boys heading cattle in the hills<br />Carving wooden weapons,<br />Weaving with grass<br />Whips to drive the beasts.<br /><br />The day glides slowly by<br />Warmed by a lazy sun,<br />Taking no hostages.<br />A nonchalant crowd<br />They have conquered time.<br />That's another life.<br /><br />1st Dec. 2008Emily Masianehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12562427222834754630noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-27091697202456134212009-02-04T02:13:00.000-08:002009-02-04T02:20:07.433-08:00NOT IN ONE DAYYesterday someone said<br />this is not necessary anymore; <br />and I walked silent, for long, <br />like I had not heard a thing<br />then remembered to always hear<br />words when they seek attention;<br /><br />thus today I wore<br />pants made of words<br />scrambled<br />as if poems are fabric<br />when you run out words; <br /><br />it was a statement<br />that until words retire<br />this position will always<br />be filled, and the smoke of industry<br />will stop only to fool breaks<br />which for centuries<br />have always wondered when <br />they will be taken....Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-26440998806804612292009-02-04T01:44:00.000-08:002009-02-05T21:29:58.324-08:00THINKING ONLY WHERE WE CAN'T ACT FULLYWhen I don't sleep like this <br />I am not here, and if you<br />were to walk into this room now<br />you would hear music I am not hearing<br />because it long transported me far... <br /><br />Why do we think only<br />when we can't act fully; <br /><br />So now they are going to talk again; <br />and those who should talk<br />cannot talk anymore<br />when mobile companies charge in Forex. <br />So now we can't afford<br />To make our mothers back home<br />Afford to talk to us, <br />that's even before we know <br />what they are not going to get<br />in the stores, which will laugh--<br />the shelves will--at them<br />when they shovel out<br />the local currency.... <br /><br />But perhaps I should sleep<br />and dream that dream again<br />of my walking in the village<br />pockets full of US Dollars<br />wondering into village shops<br />where open-mouthed store-keepers <br />had no use for my green bills<br />and so I would wake up<br />to learn to exchange my currency<br />before I left the city.... <br /><br />But when I don't sleep like this <br />I don't want to be here<br />because here all you hear are words<br />at the root of which <br />is hope for those who learned <br />long before we knew to suspect<br />that when worse comes to worst<br />the best of the worst will<br />kill simple desire<br />before even hope<br />learns to fly.... <br /><br />You can try now; <br />try to haul me to bed<br />with the promise of dreams<br />where fish fly, and birds crawl <br />with beaks, while snakes stand tall <br />Not to remember at all<br />anyone ever telling them to rule....Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-10808556048974355032009-02-04T01:24:00.000-08:002009-02-04T01:32:35.702-08:00TO ENEMIES OF CHANGESome say words<br />can't run riot... <br /><br />A few laugh<br />when leaves whisper <br />and feet can't graze<br />when we are transfixed<br />in a moment where change's <br />threat is pure <br />diahrrea.... <br /><br />They should have done this <br />centuries ago, before the children<br />learned to ditest<br />this apprenticeship <br />and now the burden <br />rolls in the ash <br />of its dispair....<br /><br />Now others fear words, <br />and we will watch<br />when like the Gonera bees<br />the words will chase them<br />into their caves of no return.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-62318781188101679112009-02-04T01:17:00.000-08:002009-02-04T02:12:33.931-08:00TUNNEL OF NONSENSELet me for once <br />not understand this language; <br />I will let the air talk<br />in its salted and peppered words, <br />and I will watch them <br />twist in pain when more <br />ears rebel against what yesterday <br />was their very root: <br /><br />because why let things <br />that can't talk claim eloquence, <br />when our mouths rust<br />from lack of use? <br />Why let ears trained <br />to ping away sense<br />stand tall and become <br />the sense they defy? <br /><br />I don't want to understand<br />this. Stop wasting your time<br />watching a brow that may<br />twitch its invitation<br />because where ears rebelled<br />hearts already deserted....Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-84784372117680670862009-01-13T11:23:00.000-08:002009-01-13T11:36:23.881-08:00Yondo SisterWaist <br />of words, no waisted time<br />if music still resides here.<br /><br />To dance well<br />don't hate verbs. <br />Learn to kick nouns<br />in the ass and wipe<br />feet on adjectives. <br /><br />That's what she does, <br />Yondo--perfect poetry<br />packaged in the fabric of time, <br />coil of past and future,<br />where the present <br />cannot stop to bloom. <br /><br />That vortex, prelude<br />to the tropical storm<br />of her dancing, waist <br />of no wasted words.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-9188255762987298202009-01-12T01:22:00.000-08:002009-01-12T01:43:15.410-08:00Tales Today, Tales TomorrowThey left this morning <br />for the summit, to see <br />the sun dancied<br />for the new year. <br /><br />We too used to go there at dawn,<br />Pegged the perfect spot <br />On the highest point of Chisiya, <br />Our own Kilimanjaro here, <br />When it finally peeped out<br /><br />The sun would find we had already<br />Danced its message, and the new year<br />Was already croaking its budding message, <br />And when we insisted on looking<br /><br />To see how the sun winced, <br />We walked away, aware that although <br />disappointed, it would never scotch<br />Scotch us with its anger.<br /><br />They came back and said they saw it. <br />We nodded, understanding that they <br />Would die to know one day <br />They will sit like us now<br />And not even pretend to believe. <br /><br />They too will look at own <br />Returning from summits with tales <br />Of sun's soukous and ululatation<br />And will not nod without belief.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-66221776004837772862009-01-07T21:31:00.000-08:002009-01-10T18:02:39.472-08:00Tea & ToilingWe drink our tea with sugar and cream<br />Always, <br />Even some say try black. <br /><br />Tea & Toiling, <br />That was the motto in Mototi<br />When rain remembered home<br />And the river liked to roar. <br /><br />If you drink tea<br />Before you carry hoes<br />And weed all day, <br />You want it with sugar and cream<br />To make toiling sweat as harvests.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-23994434384843541052009-01-07T21:03:00.001-08:002009-01-07T21:11:20.335-08:00Words Like FloodsRunde always roared<br />when rains hummered Mazvihwa<br />and we did not know anymore<br />what the sun looked like. <br /><br />When a river speaks<br />It helps to listen<br />and bag those words<br />before they grow wings<br />and fly away, but we let<br /><br />Runde fly through time<br />And now, sitting here, <br />I am one of a few<br />Who listened just once.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-26777422737230792122009-01-05T02:23:00.000-08:002009-01-06T00:54:53.950-08:00Ehe, For RealNow they tell us<br />we can't talk about these things<br />unless if a big name like CNN <br />pays us to report poverty<br />in these places. And we tell<br />them "these places" are our homes<br />and they look <br />at us and say,<br />"For real?"Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-19098433207700403632008-12-28T15:51:00.000-08:002008-12-28T16:05:21.140-08:00Natomas NorthYou look at houses. <br />I look at pages. <br />RoomSource brings the steam<br />Of confidence to your eye<br /> <br />while Marechera, Marquez, and Morrison, <br />Scramble for my day's last minute<br />Long after words<br />Have exhausted the architect.Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5198394168636119841.post-83511735213883160132008-12-21T12:36:00.000-08:002008-12-21T12:53:16.980-08:00It's Not a FantasyWe can look into the future now, <br />See the impossible morph<br />Into smiles, shouts of joy,<br />As children skip about again<br />To welcome us back home.<br /> <br />One day, their turn will come, <br />Not to be chased from home<br />By desperation but by the thunder<br />of a tradition our years here<br />Have culled for them. <br /><br />We can be forward-looking now, <br />Even where the the eye defies vision--<br />As what it sees pricks growth--<br />We can still see tomorrow's sunrise<br />And sing the new chorus of change.<br /><br /><em>© Emmanuel Sigauke 2008</em>Emmanuel Sigaukehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04171063918198721862noreply@blogger.com0