Sunday, May 10, 2020

When world unite, Sehloho Piet Rampai


Hatred will lose its humongous value
Selfishness will die in striking solitude

Our night will be addressed as daylight
For gloom never will cause us doom

Heaven will cast upon us, stares of jealousy
Celestial bodies will wish to resign their duties

Mama will roll her wrapper peacefully
While offering her offspring's mirthful smiles

Papa will crown his cap unperturbed
Walking the heart of town undisturbed

No room will be allocated for chaos
No space, be given for weighing woes

We, in safety sip our sultry soup
And lay our heads in serene tranquillity

Ears shall cease to hear smearing sounds
Sounds so strange that strangle souls

When world unite…if world unite


Sehloho Piet Rampai @Rampai80544953 is a South African Poet, writer and author of various poetry books namely The Words, Poetic justice, Poetry o clock and Mabinabine. The Poet was born in 1985 in Ngwathe, Edenville and grew up in Odendaalsrus Province of the Free State.

there is only sky, Gitan Djeli


there is only sky

deep into the whole of being,

the outer-ring overwhelmed by depth,
ridges on the edge stretch reach out.

there is only deep,

staggering smooth depth

a universe,
a dome of light,

         knowing, being, floating

shapes wave immensity obscured.

in a hole, in a well.

open,
if it overwhelms, well…

        followers, converters suffocate,
        like train delays,
        empathetic voices without empathy

the well sits still solid, on its own,
wild scape,
(is)land of the land,

         come who may come,

not inviting,
open indefinite,
find relief in earth waters if you may

intimacy

            we pause, we tend, always negotiated

in formed spaces
with/within/outside/inside other spheres.

invite the sky in

          without shapes, without break, waver the circle of light

blurs of distance,
symmetry is irrelevant

there is only sky.




Gitan Djeli @gitandjeli is a London-based Mauritian writer and researcher in cultural studies. Her latest poems appear in Poetry, Adda, Amberflora and Parentheses Journal.

Post-Mortem for the Revolution, ML Kejera



The war?
Won.
Our cause,
just.
The dictator?
Two million bloodless holes.

Our alliance?
Shaky.
The river?
Ours.
Our scattered?
Returned.
Babylon?
Distant.
The sea,
unforgiving, unrepentant.

The horizon,
boundless.
The children,
breathing.
Our martyrs?
Legion.
Our voice,
soft.
Our stick?
Miniscule.

Our father,
crying.
Grandfather,
cheering.
Mother,
whooping.
Grandmother,
dancing.
The old,
planting.

Victory,
ours.
Defeat?
Forgotten.

What is left, but to turn the wheel?
On 21st January 2017, The Gambia’s Dictator, Yahya Jammeh, ultimately agreed to step down from power after being democratically ousted. His initial refusal caused an exodus of refugees into neighboring Senegal.




ML Kejera is a Chicago based writer of Gambian origin. His work has previously been published in Strange Horizons, The Outline, and Cafe Irreal. He was recently shortlisted for the 2020 Commonwealth Short Story Prize and nominated for the Caine Prize for African Writing, both of which he hopes to win. He is at work on a collection of short stories about the fictional nation of The G, for which he is seeking representation.

SEQUENCE, Tọ́pẹ́ Salaudeen-Adégòkè


I

Like a bee full of dreams
Buzzing past the scent of memories,
The treasures of history:
Gold, topaz, stone, steel…
            - Resolution.

II

A half-gnawed apple
Browned by oxidation,
A half of a setting sun
Gulped by throat of the sky,
The tmesis of resolve
            - June 15.

III

The river of dreams
Is the mirror of déjà vu
That reflects jamais vu
And ripples of colours
In 365 degrees
            - Mutatis Mutandis.




Tọ́pẹ́ Salaudeen-Adégòkè is an editor, literary theorist, critic and writer from Ibadan, Nigeria. 15/6, as he sometimes likes to be called, has been working on the connectedness of poetry and mathematics. He is the co-founder of Fortunate Traveller, a journal of travel literature. Also, he is the author of Transacting Stories, a chapbook of his travels across Africa, which was published by Invisible Borders Trans-African Photographers Organisation and was part of their exhibition ‘A Volatile Negotiation Between the Past and Present’ at the 2019 AfriCologne Festival, Germany and the12th Bamako Encounters - African Biennale of Photography, Mali. @LiteraryGansta is his alter ego on Twitter. 

Three Poems, Petero Kalulé


Stipples


(whispered)

–– for Carson

my foot steps
     where
        your foot steps
step, standing
        on the hollows of
                            absence

but sand song s-
       pool
       where our feet
             sink, s-
tipling hollows full, sof-
            t,
          heeled over




Kafunda

– for Tim

in attempting to enter the meanings of this word, i break it down, into 2 small words ka & funda

i start w/ ka, a diminutive, to mean miniature, small, tittle, pocket-like. w/ diminutives, inferring the affection and intimacy of cracks
            small things ...

i move on to funda, which comes from o’kufundikira/ kufunika to mean the tucked in, the secret, the mesh shrunked in, or out, the enveloped, the shawl, the wrapped, the pouched, the folded, the shrouded, the tender smalls w/in smalls, the open-out ––fungua

meaning engulfs in the kafunda, meaning in the kafunda is multiple … a kafunda thus unalterably becomes bufunda, inferring a multitude of kafunda.

the kafunda is many but one, petalled, ––origami. english doesn’t do the kafunda’s plurals justice, english won’t do the contours of these folds justice; the grafting of grammars is wrong–– for english is exterior, superficial

i can only describe the kafunda imperceptibly as one would describe the folds of lovers, their strange familiar open-out places. perhaps, one shouldn’t even (have to) describe another’s folds? Which is to say, one should only experience them amorously in relation, abutting, rubbing, scraping, ruffling w/, into, and beside them

a lover’s or a friend’s folds needn’t say much either …not much initiation is necessary. they simply relate. they fold out. they hold out, teaching one how to avow unconditionally, in a tangling without presuppositions
             
                                      like ears, they “gap” & pull one’s unmouthable secrets, quietly, with-in. The folds of those we love never ‘straightforwardly’ emerge, no; they are lightly waiting, wavering, faltering, always lightly waiting patiently, ––ka. like a likkle smile. all folds arc into the emergent, waiting open-out for relation (i.e., an involvement from within/without) revealing crannies of hospitality, kindly on, from the very beginning

the potentiality for this relation is always there, silent, inward, in the cracks of pockets already there, priorly welcome, already there, defying time, always here, exigent, errant, playful, defying boundaries, supplely passing & returning, passively yet intently, never without delay, creeping
                                 insurgently also

in this sense, the kafunda (un)folds itself flexibly, paring space, orbiting, as its own parabola, past, present and futural, up, down & sideways s w inging sweetly also

bodies (un)fold within the kafunda in similar motions. bodies become bufunda … in similar ways, they crease, past, present&futural-up, down and sideways, all so yieldingly. they s offly flounce, emplaced, through small parallel-surface divisions of selves, flexibly, receptively, never without delay, stealthily, always there, haptic

when pushed to a far edge, we find comfort in the fragile crests of the kafunda, where we open-out, negotiating entrapments, boundaries, rims, dents, partitions, considering all the different skeins of the kafunda’s-bufunda that embed us. at the same time, we shrink (calibrating the gaps of death - exhaling breath, its rhythmic quaver for shrinking/funda also implies the gap, the crevice, the aperture of kufa/closure/the crypt/the-ultimate-leap) considering the ever-changing open-out space that the kafunda’s-bufunda occupies (yet gives/ closes away/ & RESISTS) when its forms cling, when its skins gently touch

this open-out-&- shrink space involves some kind of intervallic folding, it involves a double unveiling, a balletic bind … a stitching of an enveloped body to its flaps of emerging enveloping selves. It is a pliable secret inflected gesture of sharing [for the texture of sharing  which is a texture of kindness - is a topology of flapped folds – perhaps, this is why one ‘wraps’ a gift? -] that owes an interconnectedness to other body-non-body-spirits in their peculiar dispositions, contortions, & (non)formations …

                       i flutter, you flutter, we flutter

in the open-out-&-shrink, bodies move, bodies weft, mesh mosh, enmarsh, rift, raft, bodies collapse, bodies scaffold, bodies enjoy-n-in their super-imposed multitudes upside-bottom to top. bodies break; their hearts-nerve, their ii’s-unlid, their lip-hips-lop, slippery, their straight-thighs-curve, their front-behinds-clasp, their pleats-frock-&-prong (jolting, all in the pocket) rub-a-dub-dub 2gether

all manner of social-elasticities unfold together in the open-out-&-shrink of the kafunda: consummations, contemplations, confessions, exploitations, frolics, evections, contaminations, waverings, deaths, debts, mournings, wreckings, worries, langourings, ablutions, absences, silences, lapses, perhapses, songs, arrivals, departures, dances:

over & over,
in crossing over, i take-all-off and in-
              fold ;
  né ––
         fundikira

perhaps, in attempting to describe the recursive open-out, i’ve crinkled this fold way too far, and revealed way too much incomprehensibly

ach, the fold always shrinks !

and so, i must remember the kafunda’s microscopic smalls. i must remember its ability to entice, pouch & gather me into the oblique unknown, into the elsewhere of the open-out-&-shrink

but perhaps most importantly, i must always remember that i (shan’t) fold alone, that i can(’t) fold alone; [in-2 my own interiority]

& i say yes, i must remember that to kufunda is to wholeheartedly embrace the never subsumable open-out-&-shrink

                   

Things


having things is talk is having things talking
about is to talk having things about is to partake in
things having talk is things to talk about having




Petero Kalulé @nkoyenkoyenkoye is a composer, poet, and multi-instrumentalist. Their collection of poems Kalimba was published by Guillemot Press in May 2019.