Valentine Kizito. All reserved (c)
i do not miss the sun
i welcome the cold
i do not miss the wind
i welcome the calm
i do not miss your eyes
i embrace the darkness
put the gold away
fetch me some ash
wipe that smile away
cry me a river
nothing can ever be the same again
and so will everything
There’s an image of peaceful solitaire
Thinking back on the countryside air
The fields and my childhood lair
I remember a great fig tree — its still there
Standing many a feet up in the air
In a land no owner known nor heir
Everyone admits they were born and found it there
The vast expanse of land around it bare
And grass of gold, green and fair.
scientists claim the centre of the world I know not where
But I have always thought it to be there
Under that old large dark green stare
Cut it down and the world deflates all its air
Like an unknotted balloon at a county fair
Chainsaw-wielding fiends don’t dare!
I have painted Birds on my wall
every morning I wake up to their silent songs
The city is still this morning
The rains tore down all the chaos in the air last night
There is a strange calmness before the start of day
Which for sure will be noisy and chaotic
I take one look at my birdy creations
And like their plumage
I hear the colorful songs — each to each
All in my head.
Lo I can’t hear the Hoopoe!
Oh dear oh dear
I got to paint more birds!
At the North Pole
Our differences met
Midnight sun and full moon
Standing face to face
I promised my girl a walk by the river
Many years ago–but it rained
And we took shelter under a shack
Where we giggled and talked with shiver
a whole afternoon was gained
and we cursed our luck
.
the plastic shade was worn out
and with the windy rain we got a little wet.
Rock breakers shelter in them from the sun
where their glistening backs give out
where hammers and fingers in pain are met
brows winced and sweat overrun
.
I passed by that spot today
The shade shacks are all gone
Rocks are broken by machines now
In their place a cover of teaming hay
Where we sat forget-me- nots are grown
Right where I swore my vow
.
Now I wander around looking for a riverbank
Where I’ll take my Zindzile for that promised stroll
but it always rains and the shacks are naught
so alone I walk in the rain with eyes blank
I go around the blue blossoms on a roll
wet lips whispering forget me not…..forget me not
I often impress myself
by mundane acts such as; washing my socks
or getting my dry pants from the line
or doing the dishes or taking bus to work
and I wonder how I am able to keep on going
getting on in this strange mechanical manner
when my soul is not here–mostly–lately.
.
I want to take off this reality
Like a dirty cloth that has begun to stink
.
Just a little turn of my head
Just a second more staring at the wall
and I realize the miracle of my daily motion
how I am able to keep on going
like a stray bag left in the seat of a bus
which no one is coming back for
.
What a thin line, a tight rope
between keeping up with these mechanical motions
and tipping over to the sweet gnawing melancholy
that calls on to me like that attractive forbidden lover
to abandon my washing task
and sink my head in my foam covered palms.
________________________________________
The miracle is in walking this line
stepping into darkness
fireflies-lights!; crickets-music!
nocturnal party
In the days I readily fell in love
My whole being leaned towards possibilities
And I took cause to succumb
to the slightest maiden glance
In days like these I did meet her- elegantly clad
in the only green dress committed to the closet of my memory
I rushed to my spice box
And a soup did make her
To tell of the savories of love to come
.
I told her of the death of my childhood dog
How I learnt not all pain is physical
How not to relive the pain I foreswore dogs
I took her hand in mine
And with the great sense of possibility—or illusion
In my heart made her my wife
.
Zindzile dear I am brave now
With you by my side
I am ready to keep a dog again
dung beetle rolling
along roodside puddle
O looking glass!
I remember counting my steps as a child
From our hut down the stream
Every day on my way there and back
How when spanked for some mischief
I rushed to the garden to weep
And nocturnal birds imitated my sobs
How I heaved a sigh and went silent
Seeing reflection of the starry sky in a puddle of rainwater
and realized how the flower bearing shrubs
That grows around the hut formed around me
a colourful protective moat from the darkness beyond
.
For a long time life felt like those steps from the stream
Same path, same steps and everyday counting
Over and over again
How these memories come back now
Like projected pictures in a theatre hall
And am alone in the darkness all seats empty
I am the stream flowing seamless
With no need of counting
I am a nocturnal bird imitating other’s sobs
In this garden – world–of constant sorrow
I have drunk all the stars in the rainwater puddle
and sigh no more
a fence of flowering shrubs around my heart
.
Whenever I want I can be eight again
Sitting on the rock terraced slope
Of the old church hill
White warm pebbles of a Saturday midmorning
Among a colony of periwinkles
Looking out on the yon still morning lake
Little passion fruit seeds on my smeared cheeks
Grandchild of God. 