Category Archive
The following is a list of all entries from the writing category.
Ngwatilo at Stockholm Poetry Festival 2009!!
Filed in Cool Stuff, writing, October 13, 2009, 1:07 pm by NeemaOn November 3rd, Ngwatilo shall be in Stockholm for the 13th Stockholm Poetry Festival 2009. I’ll perform/read alongside Wambui Mwangi (Dr.) and Shailja Patel, talk about Kenyans being fabulous across the seas! We’ll also be reading among some fabulous Swedish writers, I’ll update this info as we go along… exciting stuff!!
And what’s the theme?
An Evening [...]
Poem for a Census and a Forecast (The Star: 1.09.09)
Filed in writing, September 4, 2009, 10:05 am by Neemai
My government wants to know if I live, if I am dead.
My government wants to know what I do for a living,
how many hours I work. It counts my offspring
my livestock my radio my mobile phone. It wants to know
my tribe, the place I was born, if I own a fridge. My fridge
shall help my [...]
We Decided To Plant Trees (The Star 24.08.09)
Filed in writing, August 24, 2009, 12:44 pm by Neemato plant blue gum trees because they would sell to the power
company, because it would help the environment, to plant,
even if we replaced the ones God planted – destroy them -
to make farms for profitable fashionable green things, like maize
and coffee, neglecting and forgetting the plants we grew before,
the trees that just breathed while gnarled [...]
Eulogy for a Pothole (The Star 17.08.09)
Filed in writing, August 18, 2009, 11:52 pm by NeemaThe pothole is gone; the one I hit once
and remembered every other trip home,
knowing it was there when I passed
like a road sign. It’s been recarpeted–
by the Chinese, mum says, only they
will fix a road in a day.
I drive over the spot to celebrate and mourn,
the same way you scatter soil over a coffin
before they [...]
As You Say (Not Without Sadness), Poets Don’t See, They Feel
Filed in iRead, writing, June 19, 2009, 11:56 am by NeemaBy Karl Shapiro
As you say, (not without sadness), poets don’t see, they feel. And that’s why people who have turned to feelers seem like poets. Why Children seem poetic. Why when the sap rises in the adolescent heart the young write poetry. Why great catastrophes are stated in verse. Why lunatics are named for the [...]
Try To Praise The Mutilated World
Filed in iRead, writing, June 16, 2009, 7:55 pm by Neemaby Adam Zagajewski
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve [...]
Get well
Filed in writing, June 8, 2009, 12:13 am by NeemaWhen you are well we can walk in the rain
pretend we are young again, that we are willful
enough to splash in puddles. We don’t have to do it really.
We can just smell the rain and the trees and skulk in the black cotton soil-
Come home with me.
(June 18 edit)
Seeing you
Filed in writing, June 7, 2009, 10:47 pm by NeemaI will try not to look at you funny
I am not perfect either. But when I do
it’s really a question I want to ask
God or Fate. But it’s good to see you.
Dream house
Filed in writing, April 29, 2009, 8:32 am by Neemai saw the house today,
a quaint two bedroomed,
with enough space
for a dinning and lounge.
The bathroom loo had a wonderful flush,
a properly old school bowl and tank
and the tub, in its own room,
imagine a bath without the knock
of a belly full of pee cutting in
Outside was a garden of fully grown trees,
no matter they give nothing [...]
Daddy, No.1
Filed in writing, , 7:41 am by Neemaevery thing he says i recall
because he repeats himself
and tells tales as if the action is at par
with the Matrix or Genesis.
everything he says stays
especially my name in vexed tones,
he’s ready to leave,
but i’m still dressing, selecting earings,
So he roars my name into the walls,
no, he’s changed, now he drives radiowaves
into everything, dialing my cell [...]
