MY FATHER WORE GRIEF AS A GARMENT.
Today my father cuts his hair low,
he looks older & tired.
i can see it from his eyes,
myriad of life’s untold tales.
i am looking through his private diaries locked up & hidden,
maybe i will be lucky to see some of good recorded memories
of himself on what life was like to him while growing up.
there is this big box full of Bibles,
from where he wrote our names, –
with each passage our names are engraved –
and a special prayer points attached to it.
he had brought this box to my mother as a gift,
when they both settled their last quarrel, –
which i believe he holds it dear to this Bible and box,
as they lived the rest of their lives separated.
when i reckon of how much i have been through,
i think of how much my father has lived to endure
as the result of the ill felted marriage with my mother,
as all i could see written on his face are scars of griefs.
I doubt it, if god knows how much
my father has been able to endure within himself,
everyday remembrance of us, – hands him over to grief;
& he evaporates like mist each without our knowledge.
today, my father cuts his hair low to mourns
his ill felted marriage with my mother
& his grief, he wore as a garment.
There Is A Good Day To Write About Our Memories
Yesterday, I took out the bottle of dye I found
under the bed in my grandmother’s hut,
and I drew with it – a triangle on my heart.
In that triangle, I engraved the memories –
of my life as a pilgrim – who is a survival of
myriad of life’s experiences as a child.
Outside this triangle, I wrote myriad of names,
some were those who – in my life on earth
have played one role or the other hand – alive or dead.
As I tried to limit the names for the next day to come,
for what I have written here is the beginning-in my heart,
it is what I can hold out today, as the triangle expands.
& as I held out my hands to draw on my heart,
it all became visible, the words of my grandmother,
she had once told me, there is a dye to write memories.
Out of my curiosity as a growing grandchild,
I visited her hut every cool evening with oozing winds,
and she would say, there is a good day to write memories
of those life has blessed us with – though they are not here,
this dye is specially meant to be used in writing in our hearts,
except for such moments, the dye stays hidden from the eyes.
I reached out my hands yesterday under her bed,
in that her small hut after many years of her death,
I am blessed to have found the dye for which I am using now –
To write about my memories with her,
our times together is what I am about to write here,
as it started from the gathering of clouds that rained.
For you
I am becoming a watchman
To watch over your inks that flow into tiny air
For you,
I am becoming an African
From the Southern tip of Africa
For you,
I am becoming the first inhabitant of the Cape
For you,
I am becoming the first owner of the land
For you,
I am becoming the first race known as the San
For you,
I will go with my bands into the forest and pick wide berries
For you,
I have become the hunter and gatherers
For you,
We will go into the mountains and pick pebbles
Each man on his bands, we will gather up stones
For you,
We will return to use the stones to make you a grave
For you died a hero in the land of your so journal
For you,
We will use our stones to build you a grave.
Dumpster Fire Press 