Commonword Blogs

The Errand

E emi m’a r’odo I am off to the river
Yeye mi ran mi’se For my mother’s errand
Yeye mi ran mi’se for my mother’s errand

I’ve been born with a silver lyre
Spinning sweet songs of savannahs
Being the griot of generations
The marabou that never tires of tales

But, but it seemed my tales grew stale
My songs dreary.
The ears of my generation
Are stopped with the wax of tedium.

I, then sought the magic of my lyre
Again, plucking its strings to test for my weakness
Straining my ears to understand how
I failed my homestead.

Ok, blogs aren't me because I associate them with very poor writing, and the uniformity of egocentric vain self-importance that motivates nearly all Web 2.0 UGC BS.

But I will try not to scream "Humbug!" like the little boy who could see the Imperial Jewels dangling garbled grammar, swinging bloated cliches.

And instead I will snuggle up in this box & turn up the central heating till my inner critic stops gabbling like a Muppet Show grumpy old man.

& I will submit something
soon...
I promise...

I do poetry but my writing started with prose prose prose and only latterly has been verse verse verse verse.

I'd have the devil's own job posting any poetry on here though.

To my surprise I've found myself putting together some prose pieces of late, knocking some bits out in that area so I'll put up the ones I've been writing and take things from there (Not today but real soon)

Hello everyone, good to be here! i'll try to live up to the hype of being 'prolific' (funny i've only thought of that word in baby terms)
well thanks so much for the people who gave a quick look to the poem, i'm glad to say recording went well, i hope i can play it soon for you. here is the RSV of the poet, I put in the one because I felt it would be too much putting in both old and new. Enough from me, please comments are welcome! many thanks
Abi

The Poet

He opened my eyes to the banquet he created,
I sat at the table dispensing of grace.

Here's my attempt to 'praise' some household objects... In my typical fashion I let the thoughts get skewed. Wud luv to know immediate reactions and ideas for improvements. -Eileen

Household Gods

I
The Washing Machine
gurgles tabula rasa, with the countenance
of a house priest. Constantly forgiving
the dirt that accompanies living. Confessions
and hymns are washed words strung into lines.
Allow the gust to have its way, open lives
at the folds. In an effort of air everything is shown.

II
The Dust Bin
stands dutiful, locked outside to the night winds.

Not sure if this is actually finsihed or not. This poem came so fast I hardly remember writing it!! Not usually the case for me....but think it would fall into the category of praise poetry...

THE DRUM

Foundation of our voices

Pa-boom! Pa-boom!

Cruising thru valleys

navigating mountains

Criss - crossing streams

Pa boom! Pa Boom!

Celebrating our victories

Dissembling history

warning of unseen doom

calling calling over the wind

Pa boom! Pa boom!

transversing currents

like the ancient gods

the mundane resonating

with the profound

Started writing this last year it started out as a poem turned into an full page essay then back into a poem.
Found this is quite a good way (for me) to write as i tend to very wordy. It lets me get all the words out with no boundaries and then edit later...

Pieces

Mixed race/half caste?
Contradiction in fact
Skin white
but heart black
daughter of the diasporas
unsure of my ‘place’
unlike my father
I cannot claim
the turquoise gem of the sea,
rippling sugar cane fields
ivory sands and palm trees
of the West Indies
as my home.
I would like to think it

Hello fellow hothousers - uploading my praise efforts since I will be away for the next (unfortunately two) sessions. I hope to be able to check in, so do comment and crit if you've a mo. Sorry to be missing out, catch up with you all in feb :)

In Praise of Time

Draft 1

the great healer, the forgiver
the source of our tomorrow, our future
the home of hope
our happy ever after
contained within

and when its present face
reveals a rent of terror
it sows its thread and stitches into past
pain is dulled and scars knitted over
woven fast

Some time last year I bought a book called The Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. Ellison managed to bring the experience of the black man in 40’s America down to one word – Invisible. So says he “I am an invisible Man. No, I am not a spook … I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fibre and liquids – and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me… When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination – indeed, everything and anything except me.”

Poem Search.

Manchester's growth as the first industrial city is inextricably bound up with the slave trade. The cotton that fed Manchester's mills was slave picked cotton. I am looking for poems that can address this theme - head on, or obliquely! If you have such a poem let me know! peterkalu@gmail.com

This blog is for everyone on the Hot House Poetry course to share work, ideas, reading suggestions, etc.