Self

This tumid stench

of self

 

blanket

 

or lens,

 

blessing

 

or curse

 

less?

 

Forest of

absence

 

bead of

drought

 

fruitless

action

 

 

 

yes,

this unwanting belonging

 

this hair left in the sink

 

 

what of it

 

It’s there

Isn’t it

 

I am dorado

I am dorado, yellow

green gold – leaping

blue freedom I,

I am

language of sun

 

color of turquoise

 

I am marlin, billless

and bowing, muscling

out of ocean, dorsal

fin hovering – joyous

over horizon

 

 

Return to water

 

I could simply be

relieving fear

 

and the parasitic itch

 

Ngapile and Sailash; The beads of drought

Oh nkakúyiaâ baobab, kokoô mangrove –      

arms of ɛn-dámà – arms of ɛnkárɛ́ –

 

let us tell one, let us tell all

the gourd

has split open

 

 

and it is of no importance

 

 

everything you may ever know

is as delicate as the way the light waters

 

 

 

nkakúyiaâ- grandfather/ son

kokoô- grandmother/ daughter

ɛn-dámà- sun /light

ɛnkárɛ́ – water

 

 

I collect the words from the bottomless well

head a pail, neck of sisal,

the act is essential.

 

The water is my former and further self

it was never born, it only grows

and it is yours

 

listen to the soft swash and swirl

come into contact –

absorb

 

glow in the eternal warmth of a second

you are mother to all

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

what use for words

when you have already discovered the true sense of the world

 

what use of fearing growing old

when you are only approaching your birth

 

what use of distinction

when everything lives on the edge of itself

 

what use of ends, beginnings and all oppositions

when they distract from the delta of presence

 

¥

 

To be spiritual is not to live forever within

but merely to be involved

 

Involved in the delicate convergence of self and world

 

To be sensitive to all the notes in the eternal song,

creation

 

To remove one’s self from the false shade

that has become of this age

and re-consecrate one self, with air –

our only temple.

 

 

 

To release the ball from inside the bell

let go of the individual

and know that for all we may search

we may never pick the perfect mango.

 

 

To know that all we are is inevitable

light falling on this moment then passing into another body. Nothing more

 

than another little journey we may still call our own

 

and more importantly,

to be in love with the everywhere

of this single breath –

 

our necessary angel

 

the simple rise and fall of the chest

answered in the come and go of the endless ocean

 

 

 

 

 

only then my friends

begins the delicacy of the poem