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