Joy is no place for a poet to dwell,
Words will escape, when prominent is hearts swell.
Gone is your passion, fires quelled,
To the devil of happiness, your soul to sell.
What is this misery, what is this hell,
Of losing ones vernacular, on face fell.
So rebel, rebel, if you want to tell,
And to remain a poet, ring proses bell,
Leave joy for the squandered,
For the empty shells,
And joyless, forever revel.
There are certain fuels for poets and comfort is not one of them. People who are comfortable can’t summon inspiration to manifest to activate creativity and artistry of any kind or if it does, it is superficial, contrived or lacking.
Joy to the poet is like women to a fighter before a fight. Their legs are taken from under them and they lose their mongrel. Poets need mongrel. They need hurt, pain, anger, jealousy, pride, longing and agitation.
Love is not the same as joy so it is not to be mistaken. Many a love poet although speaking in tongues of ecstasy is far from joyous.
I’m just a fisherman of words
When luck be my might
A word will bite
When the waves crash with vengeance
I’ll pull in a sentence
When the sea roars, masts are frail
I’ll reel in a whale.
I have a confession to make.
It’s just all luck of the bite.
Your job is to throw out the bait, that can never stop if you wish to have a meal.
The rest is up to the sea. If she feels merciful, she will grant you a taste.
When there is an abundance, she will let you feast.
I don’t own a thing.
Some of my catches have been releases of far better men and women before me who don’t need to devour their catch.
The experience is enough for them.
Knew my weakness,
Is in being sleepless
But that’s ok, I liked being manipulated by her.
She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,
Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,
She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,
She knows me well, feeds my addiction.
Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,
At times white noise, piercing violence,
Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,
She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.
Only a lover would know her and how she allures,
She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,
She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,
Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.
What if we had those conversations
even if only in our imaginations
between each other that might unite our nations?
of societies trivialisations
touching probing, questioning, discussing agreeing, disagreeing but opening up the discoursation
to awakening from hibernation
to unhinge our inclinations
to egotism and trepidation
to one another
of the other.
We talk over, through and past one another, it’s time to talk TO each other.
A poets ultimate defeat
Is kinda’ bitter-sweet
It’s in the Hands of God
Where they always wanted to be
Where they can never have the last line
If you cannot suffer the pain,
You have no business falling in love with an artist.
Through song, writing, paint or any medium,
The pain inflicted is of two types:
If they love you,
It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally
If they hate you,
You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.