Poetry with an african genre

22
By Christian Mowarin poetry playbook 4

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Transcript of Poetry with an african genre

Page 1: Poetry with an african genre

By Christian Mowarin

poetry playbook4

Page 2: Poetry with an african genre

an oxygen paperback

July 2010

Christian Mowarin

Open your dream in sleep

And you will find gold patterns

Shilver in pure imagination

You will see bright lights

Run faster in your heart

You can win a race to freedom

Your mind is your rotring

Rotate with it always..

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For my mother, clara

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Save�afrika�now

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Listen�to�herOpen�her�windowsLaugh�her�sorrows�offMake�her�a�butterflyRead�her�a�bookPaint�her�a�bright�color

Connect�with�herHug�her�really�closeDust�the�speckle�off�her�tanPut�her�in�every�drivewayDrop�her�a�noteShow�her�a�new�world

Dream�with�herChange�her�handwritingTell�her�to�look�againStart�a�life�with�her�nowTell�her�Its�not�over

Smile�with�herPlay�her�a�new�songGive�her�poverty�a�large�kickBuy�her�a�red�roseMake�your�inspiration�hers�Make�her�your�best�friend

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Dance�of�terror

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I�watch�the�light�as�the�evil�passesFumes�swell�by�a�dark�black�colorLife�flash�convincingly�before�my�eyesMade�serious�by�a�cutting�edgeHurricane�and�deathlike�blowMy�feelings�begin�to�takeA�wild�life�of�its�own

My�heart�turns�drained�yellowAs�the�dainty�sword�strike�magentaCrossed�by�slain�courageNever�before�practiced�by�barbarismNot�even�our�war�raged�civilizationMy�soul�begins�to�corrugateThe�sound�drowning�my�heartbeat

Lord�i�hate�the�trajectory�terrorBut�it�wont�just�leave�me�aloneThe�mad�story�told�now�and�nextThe�dead�lies�dead�and�stay�deadPrecious�time�means�the�world�to�usOur�birthday�begins�not�to�be�our�death�dayLord�save�us�from�this�death�in�melancholy�street

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Ageless�chant

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Its�native�contour�line�passes�underneath�our�feetEvil�like�the�one�which�it�radiatesEveryone's�nightmare�for�which�its�drawnWill�it�ever�eats�us�or�leave�us�to�be

Sometimes�a�little�sticky�with�worn-out�sapSometimes�when�long�time�drawn�stay�putThe�witch�doctors�line�art�amidst�overgrown�weedOnly�he�knows�where�to�step�to�save�the�gods�wrath

Toothless�and�ageless�he�chants�most�nightsNigh�along�his�badly�dotted�circle�with�leg�akimboBlack�magic�for�a�black�prize�for�a�nightSeldom�truncated�by�knight�knives�in�the�wind

The�ogene�too�robust�in�its�clangy�clan�cryGoing�far�into�the�stills�and�monuments�of�the�nightShivers�and�shrills�torment�us�still�asWe�made�our�tired�journey�to�sleep�land

They�say�the�chant�scares�the�drought�and�breaksThe�flu�from�the�mosquitoes,�pinches�iba�from�little�onesHis�withered�fingers�claws�tuberculosis�from�old�geckosOnly�to�sometimes�resurface�in�another

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kaleidoscopeMind

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Open�your�eyes�in�blacknessAnd�you�will�see�vision�in�motionShake�in�stillnessYou�will�hear�a�rustle

Whisper�in�your�mindAnd�you�will�create�an�audienceYour�mind�is�your�playgroundPlay�with�it�always

Open�your�dream�in�sleepAnd�you�will�find�gold�patternsShilver�in�pure�imaginationYou�will�see�bright�images

Run�faster�in�your�heartYou�can�win�a�race�to�freedomYour�mind�is�your�rotringRotate�with�it�always.

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Paradise�slavelandscape

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The�setting�sun�slowlyGlide�past�as�the�rays�moveThe�shadows�in�my�roomIt's�mappings�corrugates�my�finger'sFurrow�as�it's�violet�rayPunch�holes�in�my�reflectionWhat�is�this�paradise�slave�landscape?

Been�aging�there�a�whileNear�the�open�yet�closed�shuttersDying�slowly�since�the�dayWhy�do�i�have�to�remain�unattended?What�is�it�this�fabulous�land�has�turned?What�is�this�paradise�slave�landscape?

Could�it�be�day�have�cast�An�irrevocable�spell�on�my�genre?Pulmonary�thongs�piecing�throughHopes�and�beams�who's�now�upturnedBold�hearts�in�burnt�dimensions?What�is�this�paradise�slave�landscape?

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This�genocide

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In�the�backyard�of�my�mindI�see�an�open�landscapeA�landscape�and�a�lampshadeThe�wind�has�stopped�cursingMy�mind�window�now�open

I�see�an�open�gravelandWith�all�the�blackskinned�bodiesLying�flatfaced�down�and�legs�bentOn�top�of�the�rectangular�sand�dunesI�could�see�as�fresh�as�yesterdayThis�genocide�of�spotted�dotmatrix

What�are�they�doing�nowBeckoning�to�me�in�their�tired�sleepIs�this�an�open�or�broken�invitationIs�this�a�die-up�call�orJust�a�theatre�of�death�playFor�my�own�mind�and�kind

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This�genocide2

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Lord�this�things�that�i�see�and�feelThis�spreadsheet�of�murderOur�mothers�wont�like�itIt�will�take�away�their�heart�orIs�it�mayfair�hallucinations?

Am�looking�at�you�nowAm�convinced�you�just�made�The�whole�saga�upIts�a�novelty�dreamSet�in�a�semi�urban�mindscape

You�know�you�must�wake�up�nowYou�have�to�go�to�workThere's�a�jazz�band�coming�lateI�mean�'you�cant�be�serious'Its�one�of�your�picture�galleries

In�the�wake�of�a�third�dimensionA�moment�in�timeA�moment�not�to�beIs�it?I'll�just�close�the�windowI'll�be�just�fine.

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What�have�theydone�to�us?

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What�have�they�done�to�us?These�merchants�of�human�bloodDemons�of�practical�politicsWhat�sad�tributriesThey�have�entrenched�in�usThat�leaves�no�path�to�freedomland

Every�act�unites�their�wicked�hiveA�clear�show�of�bad�photographyOf�a�shapeless�and�derailed�dreamAn�entanglement�we�must�wadeThrough�like�mutilated�zombies

What�have�they�done�to�you?This�neo-slavery�proclamationsmaggot�like�political�and�economic�plotsAll�our�once�beautiful�petalsFallen�like�slain�heroesWithered�to�the�naked�skeleton

Everystage,�a�cinematography�of�deathA�passion�we�carry�like�shacklesAnd�wounded�scales�permanently�gluedAn�abomination�we�must�wearThrough�all�facet�of�this�lost�land

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A�hole�in�the�heart

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Have�you�everFeel�a�black�holeHeavy�in�your�heartSo�deep�it�plunges�The�inner�chambersOf�your�consiousnessSo�wide�it�stretchesMiles�and�miles�in�theTexture�of�your�mind�walls�

Have�you�ever�Touch�an�emptinessDeep�in�your�heartSo�perilous��it�spawns�theCave�walls�of�your�imaginationsSo�open�it�wages�warWith�your�naked�soulEver�and�ever�in�yourCracked�model�of�your�future�life

Have�you�ever�Seen�a�lie�so�laid�downDeep�in�your�selfSo�woven�it�twistsYour�marooned�instinctsSo�told�it�maketh�truthWith�your�auraAll�in�all�in�your�Spelled�Devotion�of�real

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By Christian Mowarin

an oxygen paperback

July 2010

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