it is really the 'good' emphasis tags.
the 'bye,' our nods in reflection's haze:
you have me altered: inside tuned more;
leaving revelations within self,
to unfurl in time under guide of
that true and old germinating song, luck.
thank you for everything.
It has been a goal of mine, for some time now, to practice living gratefully on a daily basis. Thus it seemed natural that I would want to decide whether or not there is anything to be even grateful for in the first place. It is like that question one throws at one’s parent(s), at that teen age when one is allowed to be a proper monster. So one may say something like; “Well I did not ask you to birth me, did I? For all I know you and your lover were having a grand time and I just sort of happened, didn’t I? But you chose to keep me! Didn’t you? So forgive me, pretty please, if I am a disappointment. I am therefore not entirely to blame, am I? You share the blame in a few things like: 1, choosing to have sex, and 2, choosing to birth me, and 3, choosing to think I would not be a disappointment to you!” Right. >:) But sooner or later one must admit that there is a bit of a catch to this sort of blame sharing. And this is the question of why one chooses to live. Yes, life is gifted …
Well, someone must stand up for wrinkled clothes! And I have volunteered, too willingly, to be that very person. But this shoot is not about the waves that texturize clothes, it is a tribute to the wrinkles that attempt to trace the pulse of our lives, and that breathless exit we call death.
And yet this shoot is just another way of stilling, in act, a chant that has been ringing my being for days now. It goes like this:
Please GIVE me your kindest N!
and GIVE me your sweetest A!
please GIVE me your courageous N!
and GIVE me your most beautiful A!
AND WHAT SPELLS?!
N A N A!!!!
I love you woman, and you know it is the sort of love that death cannot woo breath from.
You were and are a glorious BLAST!
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end
Will come when it will come.
--William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar I was made to memorize the above poem when I was in the sixth grade. And, as a class, we recited it every morning. This is the only poem that I know by heart (with a forgotten word here and there). I am not afraid of my dying or that of my loved ones. I think death a devastating blessing. It is, after all, the only certainty for all living beings. As suggested by the poem above, I was brought up in an environment which sort of prepared one to face death head-on. Every Ghanaian knows that no one goes to a funeral to cry! I mean yes, we share tears here and there, but the majority of the time is spent eating, dancing, and catching up with all those extended family members one has not seen since so-and-so died––for …
To conceive death as death Is difficulty come by easily, A blankness fallen among Images of understanding, Death like a quick cold hand On the hot slow head of suicide. So it is come by easily For one instant. Then again furnaces Roar in the ears, then again hell revolves, And the elastic eye holds paradise At visible length from blindness, And dazedly the body echoes ‘Like this, like this, like nothing else.'
Like nothing––a similarity Without resemblance. The prophetic eye, Closing upon difficulty, Opens upon comparison, Halving the actuality As a gift too plain, for which Gratitude has no language,
So Long for Nana
my feelings spell
you as peace in dazzling happiness
awaiting in merriment in
so soon is where
we laugh without barricades in love
our fingers entwined