Poems from Kenya

In the beginning

2007-08-24T00:26:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the official blog of the Kenya Association of Poets.In a few weeks from today, I promise, you will find here poems submitted to the Kenya Association of Poets since circa 1980, by men, women and children from diverse religious, political or professional leanings, but all of whom take pride in the humble title of 'poet.'

Many expressionists, thinkers, students, teachers, journalists, creative writers, scholars, painters, musicians, and even noisemakers have, and continue to contribute to this ever growing colletion of poetry.

The older poems have been preserved by the secretariat for many years, in the hope of one day finding a publisher. But since publishing comes in many forms these days, the poems have been performed, recited, aired and now, finally, blogged.

But first, a brief history of the Association.I do not know if the charming lady Pam Amadi still breathes the air of this earth, but I ask her poetic spirit to respond to this blog. I think Francis Gichuru is now a senior professor of education at Kenyatta University, but his poems, short, subtle yet deep, still tickle my heart and bring back those fond memories of my poetic childhood.

I have put together some of their poems here not because they were the founders of the association (which is a historical fact, anyway) but because they wrote some fine poetry in their own right.

I am thinking of Shokat Habib, Raju Umamaheswar, Sam Mbure, Marjorie Oludhe, Stoa Pokile, and many others whose poems, though not easily available in book form many years later, kept the literary embers aglow in the Kenya Times newspaper in the 1970s and 1980s.

In this electronic age, can this blog be a reunion for us, an electronic stage, where we can make a comeback, like we did at Kenyatta University's Cinema Hall in the late 1980s and at the Goethe Institute in the early 1990s?

Posted by Kenya Association of Poets.

Adrian Onyando on Otieno Amisi’s poetry

2007-08-10T06:25:00.000-07:00

Adrian Onyando reviews Otieno Amisi’s poetry

East African publishers and their readers have made the personal anthology something of a literary anathema.

With the few exceptions of the so-called established poets like Taban lo Liyong', Micere Githae Mugo and Jared Angira, poets generally do not enjoy seeing their works in print.

Consequently, Taban's diagnosis of literary barrenness in East Africa still holds true especially in the realm of poetry, and particularly in the sub genre of the personal anthology.

Part of this predicament is attributed to poor readership and the resultant small market for such works. The East African literary market is largely school textbook oriented, and by some kind of strange logic, editors and educationists have decided that only anthologies of mixed authorship can meet the criteria for set-books.

Apart from denying us the rewarding study of a single, imaginative development and behaviour, this practice also creates myths for its own self- justification. Foremost in this myth -making process is the assumption that only a mixed anthology is representative geographically as well as thematically. It is not always the case.

Commended himself

Otieno Amisi has commended himself to us by presenting to us the consummation of the merits and pleasures of a personal anthology. Back to the Future is hardly individualized: It is the kind of collection which proves that the personal is also societal, and that a single collection can grapple with so many issues as to be representative of the continent's poetic concerns.

The first poem in the anthology, Thirty Years of Africa opens the ground for the critical assessment of post independence Africa. Thirty years of independence are crucial for they point to the direction Africa will take in the new millennium, basing our judgment on how well we have dealt with our manifest problems, which include the after effects of colonialism and the side effects of modernity.

In Amisi' s realistic estimation, not only have thirty years of dismal performance failed to eradicate the banally publicized problems of poverty and strange diseases, but have also ushered in new sets of problems heard in the resounding of heavy boots, guns and bombs, and also seen in the plight of refugees (A Refugee Song).

For a sensitive poet like Amisi, it is appropriate to present Africa in a series of unflattering metaphors like the disorderly law making parliament, a ring of mightily fit bully boxers, a jungle, and of course that other name for disorder -the Kenyan matatu taxi.

The misrule in our leadership of course, will for long stand as a monument of shame and degradation in Africa's troubled history. Amisi does not hesitate to show the leaders in their true picture: hypocritical, arrogant and even downright silly.

If only beggars would brush their teeth juxtaposes the erratic leadership (ironically on an urgent nation -building mission) with the self-created social problems manifest in the begging "'street families" and the squalor of their condition.

The insensitivity of the government official's self assurance and the pride of his destructive activities ironically climax in his flight from the reality he has created to a posh home and a deceptive future:

My dear Musso,
Take me home
To the other city
Where I belong.
The city of the future

If lack of vision is a hallmark of African leadership, so is tyranny, which is designed to prop it up against the possible popular uprising. In Elephant Song the poet uses that jungle symbol of absolute rule -- the elephant -- to give hope to the repressed masses. One can detect Martin Luther King JR' s hopefully prophetic message in Amisi' s song:
Free at last, free at last,
We are free at last!

Streaks of Hope

It is these streaks of hope that make Amisi' s works more than just poems of protest or victim narratives. The evils and their perpetrators are seen more as belonging to an ephemeral stage in our history marked by something akin to labour pains preceding a new birth.

Thus while a poem like The Grand March ends not in the intended freedom but disillusionment borne out of compromise of principles. Elephant Song is indeed a victory song, consonant with the mood of optimism which graces even the bleakest poems.

What emerges here is clear: the poet reserves the right to prophesy doom, but is also observant enough to point out the first gleam of light in the morning of a new era. While the struggle for justice and social freedom may be long drawn out, there are other concerns, which require immediate action.

Both A Tough War and Save Lake Victoria are wake-up calls against a dreaded disease and the disruptive water hyacinth weed on Lake Victoria. The tone of urgency and rhetorical devices indicate the fight should be underway and that the poems should be transformed into work songs:
It is a tough war, a tough war
And a global thing
'tis now we can fight,
Fight right now' or never

It is informative to read the author's preface that such a poem as "Aids" was composed in a workshop situation and later presented as a choral verse in the schools music festival.

Talking of functional poetry, one would ill afford to gloss over these work(shop) songs, however few they are, for they provide the link between the poet as an initiator of and mobilizer for social action and the poet as an active participant in the events of his day.

Salient features in the history of Kenya do not escape the poet for their symbolic significance. Thus Saba Saba riots in Kenya (Saba Saba) is a local event but with universal ramifications, for it expresses the second wave of liberation struggle in Africa (which in Kenya led to the first multi-party elections).

Violence Without Robbery

The same universality claim can also be laid to Violence Without Robbery and For Robert Ouko, which talk of political murders bedeviling the modern African state, particularly Kenya. The poet probes into the riots and the murders, offering implications and publishing the authors of the hineous acts:

Now we know who killed him
Now we know who killed him... ...

To be in the know in such a context as the killing of a popular politician or clergyman (as were Dr. Robert Ouko and Bishop Alexander Kipsang Muge) is itself courageous, for the knowledge itself is an offence punishable even by death. And the victims acquire the status of a martyr on the altar of justice.

If African writers have made much of politics and society in their works, so has Amisi, but the thrust of his poetry also lies in another direction. Nature, with and without its symbolic value, provide a fertile ground for the poet's exploration of different moods.

Dispossessed, alienated and frustrated, the poet's heart finds sanctuary in nature, which is characterized, generally, as the vortex of beauty and tranquility (The Sea, Rainbow Song). invincible dignity and glory (The Rocks of Kit Mikayi) and the unfailing hospitality and protection of home (Mother Sango, and Nyandiwa).

Between being a lover of nature and being an environmental activist (as in Save Lake Victoria) is only a thin, blurred line; and the poet takes advantage of all the possibilities, emotional and thematic, offered by nature.

However, in relating nature to the society, the romantic appeal wanes and we come face to face with the slime and grime and the madness reflected in a single river (Nyandiwa). In a nutshell, the poet's love of nature, particularly in the water masses, is neatly tempered with his sensitivity to the evils in the society including environmental pollution.

Convergence

It is in poems in which the poet defines his role that we again notice a convergence of different concerns. The poet's life is a dangerous one because of his fighting nature and the unpopularity of his profession. (The Artist Lives Dangerously). He is principled, and oriented toward a just cause, but is not immune to the frailties of the talented personalities:

Let poets heap unmeant praises
On tyranny and corruption
For leaders,
being God's choicest sons
Are hard to come by
And His Excellency is only one

(…Let poets sing)

Apart from being the conscience of the present-day society, the poet is also the custodian of a glorious past. So entrenched is the poet's love for the past that one could say that the only place to find authentic values and happiness is in the traditions.

The title poem "Back to The Future" argues for a return to the past- "Give the pumpkin another chance ' for the side effects of modem civilization far outweigh its advantages.

The poem entitled" Happiness" also emphasizes on the value of traditionalism, complete with its music, symbolized in the nyatiti. One could contrast the spontaneous dance of the nyatiti to the heavy, artificial and dreary dance of 0f development in the poem "The City".

As one who has found use of the rejected cornerstone of traditionalism, the poet leads the way in homecoming, rather like Okigbo in "Heavensgate". For instance, in the poem "Mother Sango" the poet is a prodigal returned to a watery presence.

Echoes of Okigbo's Mother Idoto" are all too obvious. Amisi's indebtedness to Okigbo is expressed in the poem 'To Chris Okigbo' in which he tries to immortalize the poet by paying tribute to his literary-cultural career.

Okigbo's Grandson

As a literary grandson of Okigbo, Amisi also engages in universal themes such as love and its precariousness, the values of sexuality and the warmth of human companionship.

These poems by Amisi are about Africa in all its aspects- politics, nature, emotions, society and culture. They ring with tones rich in melody and rhythm -sound is arguably Arnisi's strongest mettle. In the simplicity of the diction and syntax lies profound meaning to be gleaned through wit and irony. The language sometimes sounds like nursery rhymes even when the themes are serious.

My learned brother, he too sings
The song of the torah
Ten are too many
Ten are too many
Some appendages must go

(I. Hear My Mother Singing.)

But it would be unfair to fail to mention that Amisi' s language is in character and its oral ring reminds us that we have come closer borne, to Africa, with its troubled politics and vibrant culture. These poems will go a long way in introducing the student of African poetry to the rich
I variety of African poetic themes and styles all through one poetic personality -Otieno Amisi.

Adrian Onyando is a lecturer in Literature at Egerton University, Kenya.

The artist lives dangerously

2007-08-10T06:24:00.000-07:00

The Artist Lives Dangerously

The artist lives dangerously
Cursing, blasting, blaming, weeping
The artist lives dangerously
Hits the stone with his ass
Crosses swords with the censor
Critic and state

The artist lives dangerously
On an empty stomach
Performing to a hall equally empty
Hardly marking the hard roads lie
Long worn out by the click-clack
Of illiterate women's high heels
On the same pavement they pass
They who care naught
for a stroke of pen
Or a sweep of brush

the artist lives hungrily
In a little shed
Beside a glass shop
that sells his works
And the library
that shyly shelves his books
Across the road,
the National gallery ..
whose director gulps royalties
Like the local politician
eating bribes
to his fill..

The artist lives dangerously
The tumbling line,
the sweeping brush
Cursing,
blasting,
weeping,
bleeding
And once praising
The artist lives dangerously
An uncommon laborer
without a union leader.

otienoamisi

Otieno Amisi

2007-08-10T06:20:00.000-07:00

Otieno Amisi was born in Nyanza Province, Kenya and attended St.
Mary's Yala and Gendia High Schools before graduating from Kenyatta University in 1987.
He founded and edited a respectable but short-lived literary monthly, New Age.
A high school teacher and freelance writer, Amisi is currently working on a research project on the writings of David Maillu. This is his first collection of poems.

For more Amisi, see also http://www.otienoamisi.wordpress.com/ http://www.writethatstory.wordpress.com/

Now toll the bells

2007-08-10T06:08:00.001-07:00

Now Toll the Bells

Now toll the bells
that say we must part
one thing deep down I know
what forever becomes one
must thus forever remain.

Feelings tender and comely
Fill our hearts a brimful
and though the bells toll ceaselessly
heart beats of love drums on and on...

The weary heart of the mid-day sun
blazes fiercely on weary foreheads
travelers sigh, spitting dust
the journey is long,
but for home we long.

Mere words not carry
the moments
of hearts contented, exalted, delighted .
So to say gratitude for it all
Falls for below par
now toll the bells…

Bwaja I

Fingers of water
fingers of earth
like lover's thighs interlocked
in a ceaseless
life less
timeless
tasteless
endless
meaningless
deathless
ruthless
useless
struggle

Bwaja 2

Sitting on your haunches
a shitting child
slitting your way
your drunken reflection
in the blues of Sango
When I shudder
it's to thee I return.

otienoamisi

Mother Sango

2007-08-10T06:07:00.000-07:00

Mother Sango

To thee I come,
Mother Sango

Numbed

By the twang of metal
by the putrefaction
of a dying city
by the vain splash
of a receding sunset
To thee I come,
Mother Sango.

Let me drink
of your deepest springs
Oozing from the radiant moon
of early eve …

Let me bare my broken baby bones
To the morning winds cool and fresh
Let me dance with the silvery fish
in the gentle rhythm of mid day sea.

To thee I come, Mother Sango
to my people
Tall as truth
Timeless
Healthy
and hearty.

otienoamisi.

The grand march

2007-08-10T06:06:00.000-07:00

The Grand March

The peace procession proceeded
Progressing, like a snake without shoulders
With a license,
Or without a license
Where it was going,
no one knew.

They could end up
outside majestic state house
Or in the mass graveyard
Complete with bright placards
broken bones, blasted heads
Their mouth-filling slogans silenced
Their gigantic tree branches
reduced to dust

Call the police,
Call the police! someone!
No, its the world cup!
Someone must have incited
these peace loving law abiding people?

The police, when they came
A little faster than the fire brigade
Did stop them
But after that
What? where?
How could…?
We know the inciter.
'These church people,' said someone
'with their have foreign masters.
talking about a wind of change
This is a universal problem.

Look where they're going.
A huge cross leads them
glittering like a sword
Seems there is no more heaven
except the one on earth.
The lawyers, the students, too
Have joined the protesters!
Tomorrow they'll close the 'varsity
Those kids have been rather noisy lately
Shouting at the lion face to face!
Some call it the wind of change
Ha, let's see who gets blown away.
The whistle blows
The old marchers, their feet weary
Fall asleep by the wayside
Are soon replaced by more
fire-spitting red eyed rebels

But these too tire out
Gorge themselves with loot
Run out of steam and song
And crumble in a heap of deceit.

The long noisy march to nowhere
is called politics.

otienoamisi

Save lake Victoria

2007-08-10T06:05:00.000-07:00

Save Lake Victoria

Look, look
Look to the East and look to the West
Look to the North and look to the South
All you see is nothing but green
A green wide pitch on a once clean lake
And men and women in deadly machete games Fishing fellow men from precious life
Who will save lake Victoria ?

Listen listen
To the muffled breathing of the lifeless sea
Listen to the silence of a lifeless life force
All you hear is nothing but despair
A strangled plea of waves arrested in leap
By the tangling, throttling, choking weed
Who will save Lake Victoria?

Listen, listen
To the ulultations of Apiny
Listen to her listless footsteps
As she flees from her defeated husband
Cows, goats, riches and all
Women and children and runaway granaries
Who will quell the fury of a jilted senior wife?

Look look
at Nyamgondho the son of Ombare
Pondering his ill fate
Dumb struck by a silent shore
Stuck on his walking stick
Struck by the second wind
Of imminent abject poverty
Who will save wuod Ombare?

Listen listen,
Listen to the pitiful cry of sea farers
Trapped in the hyacinth
In sight but out of reach
So near here and yet so far away
Listen to the pleas of lost fishermen
Unable to bring their catch ashore
Who will save Lake Victoria?

Who will save Lake Victoria?
Who will save the stranded fishermen?
Who will soothe the scorching fury
Of Apiny nyar Lowo?
Who will save the drowning hippo
And the trapped tilapia?
Who will save Lake Victoria?

And the muffled Mbuta and the strangled Ngege Who will hack away the hyacinth
So the fish and the people may be free again
To breathe the clean air of prosperity
And drink of the fresh waters of nam Sango? Who will save Lake Victoria?

Come, come
Come my people, come
With your machetes and swords and pangas Come from the forests and the hills
Of Gucha andTransmara
Come you sons of Asembo and Owila
Come you daughters of Kano and Nyakach From the shoulders of the Rift Valley
From the plains and the .valleys come
Come let's save Lake Victoria.

otienoamisi

Many things have I known

2007-08-10T06:04:00.000-07:00

Many Things Have I Known

Many things have I known
in this my life
Cocktails and feasts,
the powerful scent
or meat roasting on coal
rich and delicious
and plentiful free flowing wine
But I have hungered and thirsted
When the sun went west to rest

I have known the hard smell
and slippery touch
of fresh bank notes, have changed hands
with big bellied shiny faced men who change
country and cards and life for money
Yet penniless have I become again
without a beggar’s ten cent coin
for a crust of bread

I have known the comfort
of London look taxi cabs
Cruised through neon lit cities
in the thick of night
I have slept deeply
in the six inch foams of opulence
In heated rooms
halfway up the sky
Yet too have I trekked many miles
for lack of simple fare
worn my feet
on dusty endless sidewalks
And returned, humbled,
to the sack that's my home.

otienoamisi.

The Minute hand of my clock

2007-08-10T06:02:00.000-07:00

The Minute Hand of My Clock

The minute hand of my clock
is immobile without you
time stands still
at times like these
when I know
you're riding on steel
to places far away
I know you won't come back
But I say to myself
God bless our home
In self defeat
I write these lines
By candle light
Waiting for the advent
Of another boring day
Another day without you
Another you-less day.

otienoamisi

Beat the Drum

2007-08-10T06:01:00.000-07:00

Beat the Drum
Written and performed on Christmas day for the Church of the Province of Kenya, Homa Bay, 1996.

Beat the drum, beat the drum
Beat the drum, a child is born
Newly born for a brand new year
One two three, a child Is born
Beat the drum, come celebrate
Food and gifts and flowers fresh
Fresh new songs of love and life.

Beat the drum, beat the drum
Seized by the African spirit, beat the drum
Let's all dance to the rhythm anew
Of a new child born
To the pulsating beat of the big drums
Beat the drum, let's sing together
Songs of love and life born again
One two three beat the drum.

Beat the drum, beat the drum
For all and Sundry, loud and clear
East and West, there and here
Near and far, all you hear
The bum bum bum of a newborn drum
Tapping the rhythm of life born again
One two three beat the drum.

Beat the drum, beat the drum,
Wherever you are, beat the drum
Let the drum of Christ be loud and clear,
Let Him be newly born in your hearts
Clap your hands and shake your heads
For a child is born, like none before
And life this time gets new meaning.

otienoamisi

I searched for you

2007-08-10T06:00:00.002-07:00

I searched for you
I searched for you
In the crowded city walkways
that boast of vibrant life
but stronger shoulders
shoved me aside
and left my hungry passions
dangling on a parking meter.

I searched for you
In the vast Savannas
beneath the thorny thickets
Over the pitiless plains of Kapiti
But the glaring sun
blinded my eye
And I could not find you.

I searched for you
In the sandy beaches
whilst the sea slept silently
But you had fled
into the furry of multitudes
beyond the sandy reef
And I could not find you.

I searched for you
Daring the deep Aberdares
that the bear waters clear
But the thick undergrowth
strangled me
and the silent roar
of the dancing leaves
frightened my simple soul.

I searched for you
In the blare of modem loud speakers
Calling worshippers at the hour
And revelers to the bar
I looked under the unshod feet
of pretentious worshippers
kissing the ground in reverence
Still I did not find you.

I searched for you
In the hazy smoke of incense
In the jingle of carols
and the leaven of the Eucharist
Under the darkened veils
of Muslim virgins
Under rich robes of royal rulers
Still I did not find you
I searched for you
Under the dark dreary locks
of the rugged Rastaman
Sang and jumped in tearful joy
to the beat of rough reggae rhythms
faced the lure of liberation lullabies
But there
I did not find you.

Now I do not search any more
In eloquent church sermons
I listen to my heartbeat
And await your knock on my door.
I look into my head
And listen to the sighs of my soul
As I await your second coming.

otienoamisi.

Dear Mum

2007-08-10T06:00:00.001-07:00

Dear Mum
(Presented on the occasion of Parent' s Day at Homa Bay High School,October, 1996)

Dear Mum,
I wanted to write you a letter
A poem that would tell
of my first days in this great school
Of my joys and sorrows
away from home
Of my first encounter
with learned gentlemen
And these highly educated
sophisticated lady teachers
Oh, how I wanted to write you a poem!

Dear Mum,
I wanted to write you a letter
A beautiful poem
That you would forever remember
For its rhythmic flow
and wordly grace and shine
A poem of my first meeting
with burning Bunsen burners
My pleasure at rediscovering
the laws of physics
My pride of belonging
to this great institution
And my hope of becoming
a great someone
Ah, how I wanted to write you a poem!

Dear Mum,
I wanted to write you a poem
A beautiful poem that would tell
Of how I learnt to tie my tie
Like Kantai can tie and untie his tie
And how the big boys bullied me ,
And the quarrelsome cooks croaked at me
Like Oliver Twist of the book
And the perfect prefects pestered me
How the tireless teachers tortured me
With wild cats and black cats
And white cats and more cats
And how I quickly ran out of pocket money
And missed your dear delicious cooking
Ah, how I wanted to write that poem!
Dear Mum,
I wanted to write you a poem
A poem that would be the envy of Shakespeare
A poem of bad tempered teachers
A poem of thanksgiving
To our beloved principal
A poem of thanksgiving to you, my mummy,
For all you did and continue to do

But for now, mummy,
accept this simple poem
Till I learn enough English
Then, Mummy,
I'll write you the real poem.
That will make you think of Soyinka.

otienoamisi

Rainbow Song

2007-08-10T05:59:00.001-07:00

Rainbow Song

Rainbow!
Blue
Beautiful
beckoning
A violent violet
Awesome
red and orange
strange
O Yellow, I yearn
for You!

Hearken,
O Rainbow
Indigo is indignant
One two, three
Green glassy grass
Touch not,
it slips by
E' en the earth lets it by

Rainbow
the rain bows before you
Trains pass
under your mighty wings
And your armpits
holy waters
secrete

Roaring rainbow,
to you I offer
This my song.

otienoamisi

A Christmas Carol

2007-08-10T05:58:00.001-07:00

A Christmas Carol
Christmas day, a brand new day
The children sing,
the children play
Now a smile on our faces
joining hands in happiness
On Christmas day
a brand new day.

Sons and daughters
once forsaken
Twice forgiven
smile and play
in this season
with love aplenty
On Christmas day
a brand new day

No more those sleepless nights
No more those endless fights
No more the painful abuse
Now a new found freedom
to choose, to choose
on Christmas day,
a brand new day

Hey you there
rich and poor
Stop the waste
do your best
Help the rest,
you’ll be blest.
this Christmas day,
this brand new day!

Jesus lives, Jesus loves
as we live, we must love
we are one, we are whole,
Virgin Mary loves us all.

otienoamisi

A refugee song

2007-08-10T05:57:00.001-07:00

A Refugee Song
I am a refugee
With no identity
And no nationality
No dignity
In this unreality
Simply a digit
In the devil's computer roll
I want a new life

I am a fugitive
A tattered tent
Over my battered head
A begging bowl
In my blistered hand
Cracked sandals
Under my weary soles
And little faith
In my soul
I want a new life

I am a fugitive
Fleeing from burning homes
And rivers of blood
Cursed to camp and decamp
Along life's lifelessness
I want a new life

My motherland is weeping
Give me back my child
The one you yanked
from my bare breast
Give me back my rivers of purity
that you polluted
with innocent blood
In your drunken fire
spraying spree
And take this new life...

Listen, my countrymen
The world is tired of my pitiful sight
And I am tired
Of your petty politicking
And your platitudes
Of ceaseless peace less peace talks
I am tired
Of your gun-totting gangsterism
And your fiery ceaseless clannism
I am tired
Of your terrific totemic tribalism
And your callous colorless claru1ism
I am tired
Of your empty platitudes
I want a new life

Oh my countrymen
Hear this my cry
To each and everyone
Take away the tears
from the eyes of the children
And fear from their sunken hearts
Wipe away the blood
From the face of the stars
The color on the blades of grass:
Let it be a dewy green
And let the children play on the green scene
Beat your swords into ploughshares,
I want a new life.

I want to go back home
I want to go back
and regain my identity
I want to go back a
and re-till my land
I want to go back
and re-build my fences
I want to go back
and re live my life
I want to go back
and praise my God.

otienoamisi.

I hear my mother sing

2007-08-10T05:56:00.001-07:00

I hear my Mother Sing

I hear my mother sing
As she grinds corn
Supper will be late
and little
Hmmm Hmmm,
I hear her hum
those songs of liberation

My pious brother,
too, he sings
for God’s hand
over the earth
the clouds are gathering

Everywhere the are singing
The sacred songs of rebellion
Calling the many gods
they sing: we want another god
another baba and mama
This one is too much
God come with mana.
to relieve us from this maniac

My learned brother,
he too sings
The song of the torah
Ten years are too many
Ten years are too many

My sister too,
she is singing
Of her many lovers
and no bargain yet for Daddy

I hear my mother singing
As she grinds the corn
for our supper
I too burst into song
A song for my motherland
God, oh God
lay your godly hands
on her many eggs.

otienoamisi

Elephant song

2007-08-10T05:55:00.001-07:00

Elephant Song
(Farewell to Moi. Written December 26, 2002)

Come, all ye animals of earth
Hey you there!
join us here!

E'en the birds of the air
And the fish of the sea
Let's all sing
and be merry
For the elephant
King of the jungle
Has fallen this very day.

Let us sing,
let us rejoice
For there he lies,
dead and gone
Weighted down
by his heavy tusks
never again shall he stand.

Let the terrible tiger
tear him apart
Like butchers with sharp knives
Let the vultures sing for him
Sorry songs of forlorn sorrow

Let hyenas laugh loud and clear
Echoing in the ears of the world.
Call the worms to dig him up
Tell the poachers here is tusk
For there is no more high tax.

Come you all animals of earth
Let's rejoice, let's make merry
For no more shall heavy feet
Trample us in ignorant slavitude

For today
indeed
we are free

Free at last,
Free at last
We are free at last!

otienoamisi

Pulsations

2007-08-10T05:54:00.001-07:00

Pulsations

The warmth of her heart!
The feel of her pulse! –
The love in her eyes! .

That smile-
for years withdrawn
From public gaze
From ogling eyes-
You could have sighed
To see her by the fire glow

But no some
For seeing her thus
I felt her pulse
with joy and love.

otienoamisi

Happiness

2007-08-10T05:53:00.000-07:00

Happiness

I asked my learned friends
To teach me
what happiness is
I went to top executives
To teach me
the meaning of life

I met leading fairies
gifted fortune tellers
To give life back to my carcass
And lightness
To the wings of my mind.
But they all shook their heads
and smiled.

Ah, They smiled!
They who hold the keys
to knowledge and to happiness
They smiled!
Then one Sunday
I wandered
along River Yala
And saw a crowd
of black people,
my people.
With their women,
my mamas.
Their children,
my brothers
and sisters.
And a mtungi of busaa,
My beer.
And a nyatiti.
And I knew.

I sipped. And threw away
the bottle of whisky. Released
my arms from the hips
of the long-nosed girl
And danced
to the Nyatiti
And I knew
Aah! I knew.

otienoamisi.

River river on the Rocks

2007-08-10T05:52:00.000-07:00

River River on the Rocks

River river on the rocks
Tell me just how far you've come
How many feet have crossed you
Tell me where you go from here
Or why you talk to your self
In that one ceaseless hum

River river on the rocks
Do you hear those whispers hey
Trees and leaves and grass and cane
Calling, “river don' go yonder!"
Or you break into a thousand foams

River river on the rocks
Tell me just how deep and cold
Are the waters of your bosom.
Tell me just how much love
Is embraced in your
wings so cool.

otienoamisi

A tough War

2007-08-10T05:51:00.001-07:00

A Tough War

It is a tough war;
a tough war
And a global thing;
'Tis now we can fight
Fight right now or never!
If Aids was a thing
that time could wash
The old would die
and the young would live
If Aids was a thing
that blood could wash
The sinners would die
and the saved would live
But
It is a tough war.

Now my brother 'tis time to act
Crush the plague once for all
So my sister stick to your man
Oh my brother don't mess around
Because
it is a tough war!

All around us
the people are dying
The men are dying
and the women are dying
The old are dying
and the young are dying
The Japanese are dying
And the Arabs too
The Indians are dying
And the Africans too
It is a tough war

Every Sunday I go to church
The preacher he prays
for the Lord to come
To save this world from this malady
I get my chance
I say to the preacher
Be a good teacher and tell no lie,
The Lord is angry with all mankind
And all mankind must turn to the Lord.
It is a tough War!

Every Monday I go to school
The teachers they say
No sex talk
This is Africa
The parents say No
The Minister says Yes
But the teachers don't know
All around us
it's confusion,
Now we are lost, we are lost, we are lost!
And
it is a tough war!
Aids is spread by late night dates
Dirty blades and careless sex
Disrespect for old time laws
The men go booze
and the world go boo
The children are lost
and the elders too
Who is bright to tell what's right
When shall mankind learn to trust
To trust and love?
It is a tough war.

Go to the church and praise your God
Go to the bar and drink your wine
Love your neighbour and hug your friend.
Love your neighbor and sing your song
but save your strength for mama watoto
Because
it is a tough war!

It is a tough war
A tough war
And a global thing
'Tis now we can' fight
Fight right now or never!

This poem was first presented by students of Homa Bay High School at the 1995 Kenya Schools and Colleges Music Festival and later at World Aids Day celebrations in in Gusii Stadium, Ist December, 1995.

Poem for Angko

2007-08-10T05:45:00.000-07:00

A Poem for Angko

Strange
That you, ever so young at heart
So fresh and deep in thought
So kind and gentle, angko,
Should lie there low, silent,
breathless!
When the world seems fuller
Of selfish ambition,
hungry greed and vain pride!

It's Strange, angko,
So strange
That you left before us,
Poor copies of your near-heavenly
goodliness
Before we could pay back
your gentle kindness.

Strange!
That those who eat
of the dish of generosity
Are unable to pay back goodness
No! a mere song cannot
thunder above
The gentle breath
of your kindly heart.

Did your actions not restore
my wretched poor childhood
To make a glorious, vain poet of me?
No. I cannot sing!
The words refuse to leave my clasped lips.

Strange, Angko!
That we who suckled your fatherly sap
And basked in your parental radiance
Have betrayed you
By not saying thank you loudly enough
Yet one thousand thankyous
Cannot match a selfless deed
From one who sought no thank you
Why is it so difficult to repay goodness?

Today my heart is tearful with sorrow
My heart is fearful with respect
For you who smiled so little
Yet loved so earnestly
Behind that stern look
Can a father's pursed, stern lips
Hide so much love?

For who can pay back
Such true, selfless love?
Even though our hearts desire
to repay, to emulate,
The sacrifices you made
Only the humbling memories remain,
For your kindness
was beyond the spoken word.

Strange! Angko! Strange!
Not even the fleeting words of a song
Can capture the softness of your heart.
I want to thank you, brother of my mother
My uncle,
But I can't..
My humble gifts are of earthly value,
given in haste
They pale away in shame
Before your silent presence.

Strange
I who sang Aton nera kende
And went on to become a poet
Now I cannot sing;
my lips are tight.
Only the tears flow
Like a silent, secret stream
Flowing on and on, angko
On and on angko...

otienoamisi

Ugly owl

2007-08-10T05:40:00.000-07:00

Ugly Owl

I may be ugly
but I am still
the boss
of the night.
uuu u.
uuu u.

I am neither a cat
nor a bat.
Neither a bird
Nor a ‘mal.
So what?
uuu u.
uuu u.

I am an ugly creature!
So what?
uuu u.
uuu u.

I shall not spend my day
Perched on a rock ..
wailing, weeping
uuu u.
uuu u.

cursing the birds
that once staged a coup
to dethrone me from jiwe kuu.
uuu u.
uuu u.

And the dogs
who ate all my eggs
in the name of family planning
then left me with a mere two.
uuu u.
uuu u.

The creator should be ashamed,
you often say
of who? Of me? Hu
but the owl is king of the jungle
uuu u.
uuu u.

The children hunt me by day,
But tremble in fear
in their nightmares
when I come calling
uuu u.
uuu u.
uuu u.

otienoamisi.

Have you ever been to sea?

2007-08-10T05:39:00.001-07:00

Have You Ever Been To Sea?

Have you ever been to sea
0 When the winds are still
and the masts are full
In the mid-day blue?

Have you ever been to sea
when the breeze is cool
The silver fishes drool
beneath the waters blue?

Have you ever been to sea
On a bright new day
When the bathers are gay
On the vast sands grey

If you've ever been to sea
Lajn on a burning deck
Gazed into a blue sky
then you would know love.

So bright shines the day
In a hundred colours bright
and the flowers are alight
In a thousand neon smiles!

Have you ever been to sea
Seen the little children
Building castles in the sand
Without a care in the world?

otienoamisi

Letter from a Park

2007-08-10T05:38:00.001-07:00

Letter From A Park

I got your letter the other day
Sweet memories flooded my demented mind
recreated those sugary times no more shared
By the park ere we bade a tearful bye
I relived those endless nights
of wakeful emptiness
that threatened my sanity
I got your letter the other day.

I got your letter the other day
Re-shed the tearful words we once shared
Re-heard your thundering, expectant heartbeat
Pulping a strange rhythm that lost its beat
You'll sigh at my sorry sight
as do those who sit by my side these days
I am insane since I got your letter the other day

I got you letter the other day
Your letter demented me
In insanity I beheld your distant reality
and multiplied my sane insanity
My haunted heart ghost-beating
Against the skeleton that's left of me
since I got your letter that day.

Only your creation's breath remains
In my shattered remains
Only the miles of movie-reels
Play on my mind's screen
Like a jilted lover's dream
since I got your letter the other day.

otienoamisi

Linda

2007-08-10T05:36:00.000-07:00

Linda

Chancing upon a pretty rose
One noon day by dusty country bushes
(Is this how people meet?)
I thought I finally found fondness
(Or was it love?)
But tripped and nearly fell headlong
Drunk with the potent wine of her presence.

'Oops, sorry!', She said and sighed
Heavy in heart, I said and sighed
'It's nothing!'
It was love at fast sight
(A bus came a long
on we hoped, eyes ogling).

Life's long miles take us far
Over bulging, breaking bridges
Under trembling tunnels of trouble
the duel demands daft decorum
and there's no letting up..
“We have nothing,” I say, “Let's quit.”
'We have love," she says. 'Let's stick.”

Life's busy buses pass us by
and we must catch up
the weather is harsh
the roses wither…

But we're up with the dusk
When the winds are dry
and though the bus breaks down again
We've learnt to wait and mend
Along life's endless journey.

otienoamisi

I Wish You'd Hide Me

2007-08-10T05:35:00.000-07:00

I Wish You'd Hide Me

I wish you'd hide me
beneath the sea’s sleepy depths
Leave me
to the crab's cutting claws
there, choking in the sandy salt,
I'd gladly await death.

I wish you'd hide me
beneath the heavy rocks
of Kit Mikayi
Under the massive granites
of Maseno
there, my nothingness
flattened
l' d sadly soak in the godly cold.

I wish you'd tie me tight
Drag me behind a rusty rover
Across the rocky Tsavo
my bones,
searing in the heated vastness
would love you
even more.

I wish you'd strangle me
On a web or string of gun
Fly me over the sea
my heart
tumbling down
would beat harder for you.

I wish you'd strangle me
with a long, long rope
Like the railway line
at Daraja Mbili
my heart, shedding tears of blood
would rightfully cry out to you.
And I would be yours forever.

otienoamisi

30 years of Africa

2007-08-10T05:33:00.000-07:00

Thirty Years of Africa

Africa of the brightest days
Where shine the clearest rays
Africa of the darkest nights
Our land of kingly might

Thirty years ago,
You had your go
From the hands of colonialists
Into the hands of neo colonialists
Seventy years were too long;
too long
And the tethers are still strong:
You have not broken free
In years ten times three

Thirty years of Africa
Thirty years of slavery
Thirty years of misery
Thirty years of civil wars
Thirty years, thirty years

We die
Maimed by strange diseases
Our lives cheaper than a bowl of rice
Sold at thirty pieces of silver
Up North the children have no joy
They no longer sing or play
They no longer make no toys
Only the sound of heavy boots
Marks the birth of a new day
Only the sound of guns
Punctuated with political hot air
Rents the air like thunder.

In the West drums still beat
The same old regular rhythms
But the women no longer swing their hips
Their breasts are fallen ooo
Their faces are wrinkled with sorrow
And the children wail in pain
As they watch the firing squad
Tear down the walls of peace
ln the heat of noon.

The pearl of Africa
Once hurled into the depths of the lake

The lake blasted away
With thirty high tech bombs
Bombs exchanged for precious grain
Heads blasted for jealous gain
There, in the heart of the pearl,
The dust is happily settling
And the children win smile again .

This poem was presented at the Kisumu Social Center as part of 1993 national celebrations to mark thirty years of Kenya’s independence .

A reply to John Ruganda

2007-08-10T05:31:00.000-07:00

Back To The Future
(A reply to John Ruganda)

Hurrah to the new millennium!
Hurrah to Ocol,
and his new found sophistication
But what about the pumpkin?
What about the children
feeding from the dustbins
of civilization?

Like rogue elephants
They trampled on the pumpkin
And tucked away lone infants
deafened by the city's din
in a garbage dump
away from the glare
of the green city in the sun.

Ocol, where are you?
Or are you lost
in the bright lights
of the millennium city?

You, shouting your soldier hood
Sticking out your chest
and chanting gleefully
Why don’t you mourn
the loss of the pumpkin seed?

Why do you shun the return journey
When bombs are blasted
Are you not afraid of the peace?
Where is the pumpkin seed?

You are proud to be urbanite
Dead drunk
with the foolish foreignness
of a child
who rejects his mother
homeless
but for tin sheet roofing
and polythene walls
Yawning
at the rotten maize cob
roasting by the roadside fire.

Simba the dog no longer barks
His kernel destroyed; his food
imperialist dregs
Drifting from garbage bin to sheben
Like the July smoke in the whirlwind
Is this the home you desire?

Were you overwhelmed
by the giant government tractors
as they pulled down the pumpkin
at the old homestead
In their hurry to clean
the millennium city?

There is never a better home
When the home we loved is dead.
And this I say again:
The pumpkin will grow again.

otienoamisi

on land clashes

2007-08-10T05:27:00.000-07:00

On land clashes

Last afternoon I sang a song
that welled up tears
for the land I love
I sang of a land
clad in a fresh frock
matching lawns
green like virgin grass
clean, peaceful, loveable
rising steady from the dry plains
of colonialism.

but my land was behaving strangely
in this dream
its warriors looked agitated
they were menacing
chanting war cries
challenging
charging
crying war
ready for bloody combat
with their own people
still I sang on

Still I sang on,
my song blending melodiously
with the joyful cry of birds
and chirrup of crickets
drowning the breezing
of the slow-ripening corns
and the hush moans
of hungry, hopeful lovers
locked in embrace.

I sang of lush, pretty valleys
As my feet glided over
deathly swamps of slime
I sang of the silent sighs
of the morning sea
shly reflecting
the piercing rays
of the morning sun.

My song flew over
the blue shoulders
of the hills
that suppressed
before the malevolent waves
heated up the noon.

The storm approached
as my voice broke
But I sang on into puberty
I sang of the vast waters
ferrying steaming steamers
and scheming schemers
beyond the once comely hills
to the port that roasts our savings
taking our grains for a lump of salt

The storm roared on
a howling wind, a moaning sound
over the beautiful hills and valleys
My song was cut short
by pitiful cries of fleeing voices
by the wailing of dying childen
and the sight of bones on hacked flesh.

The sound gunfire and sword lashes
cut the peaceful valleys
some called them land clashes
Such gory deaths they were

Such was my song,
My song of home
and all in it
that should have been
and never was
My song of hope

This home
is where I belong
but now, nothing
nothing
belongs to me.

Not even the charred village paths
not even the burnt huts
and smelly carcasses
not even the uniformed men
who parade by the dais.
will grass grow
again?

otienoamisi

The Sea

2007-08-09T08:28:00.000-07:00

The Sea

Our sea,
placid, beautiful
and serene
a trillion times trillion
gallons
of raw liquid
lying low
beneath a canvas
so blue-
reflecting mysteries
incomprehensible

A million million stars
at play
round and round
a maternal eye
and mountains of waves
ferried and hurled
hurled and lulled
on everlasting rock.
Ah! the sea
!
otienoamisi

Mating dogs and cyberporn

2007-08-09T08:27:00.000-07:00

Nyandiwa

Though green, smelly and stagnant
you have reached your mother,
Sango
'E'en when the drought takes its toll
your waters will come calling
gurgling, garrulent, grumbling
to reclaim thy river bed.

Dragging away your sordid remains
into the deep depths of the lake
for the fish you bring good tidings
for men, misery and madness
you wash our sins and sweat
beneath the mighty trees
carving your way under our roads
a sad companion to lost travelers.

Though you hate to move another inch
you know well patience will pay
So lie there, Nyandiwa river
Till life's winding paths
carrying many a wounded heart
brings us together again.

Mating dogs and cyberporn

When starved children burst open
a room of pleasure-pulsing
glazed eyes hasten in the dusk
Its not Paris Hilton alone
Slum dogs, too feel shy
stuck from the back
answering from far above
a call from the sky-ba.

otienoamisi.

Now toll the bells

2007-08-09T08:10:00.000-07:00

Opinion

2007-08-09T08:09:00.001-07:00

Opinion

From where I stand
I see hills, narrowing
into darkened alcoves
where none has been,
and I may not be
And I think vanity.

Life, life, life o love
A life of love
and death

From where I sit
Peering into the dark night
Of our unseen futures
my heart beats hard, hard, hard,
and I think of emptiness

Life, love, o life,
Living to love, to die!

From where I stand
A shaky pedestal, bold
and bare chested
Alone, against a hostile wind
of the whole wild world
I fear the imminent storm..

Oh to f'all from so high
against the storm of life!
otienoamisi

Many things have I known

2007-08-09T08:07:00.000-07:00

To Chris Okigbo

2007-08-09T08:06:00.000-07:00

To Chris Okigbo

Through the lunar mist
Of the Ruwenzoris
I hear
the distant drumming
At Heavensgate.
And vainly call out
To soil, the witch!

Through the hazy dusk
of words
I see
You defiant face.
Jealous guardian of mouldy heights
Of clay that buried you.
And I cry
Again, to soil, the witch!

Open the gates of mbari
You lived to mark edges
Around poet dom.
But planted tombstones
Around your mortal self.

You crucified the poem
But the smouldering ash
By your tomb
Lights a naked silhouette
Before mother Idoto.

otienoamisi

For Saint Muge

2007-08-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

Violence Without Robbery
(for Saint Muge)

There you lay dead
A convict of a suggested coup
To topple a shadow government
Mangled in the metal jaws
of a milky lorry
Driven by a shadow

You departed with a thud
In a splash of fresh moil
a victim of metallic fists

Adding to the ghastly shades
Of a hovel land
You sparked a violent crusade

In the centre of the simmering cauldron
a flame bums
a fire without end.

otienoamisi

For Dr Robert Ouko

2007-08-09T08:03:00.000-07:00

Who will kill the Fire he lit?
(For Dr, Robert Ouko, a victim of political murder. Written February, 1990).

He went away
and left behind
Shattered souls
and broken limbs.

A shamed pigment
and a job half done
Plenty of sad singing
and a state in crutches

We wondered who killed him …

Did he utter a word
That touched some raw chord?
Was it just another bucket kicked
In a land ruled by picked up pick-pockets?
What was that commission for?

From the ashes of Got Alila
A gallant fire he lit
That lifted us higher
For we did not fight
Fight that long-
So long
in vain.

We shall know who killed him…

That night-
The skies were dark, eyes wet
Lone lazy lizard wept that week

We wondered who killed him …

Was it daddy who loved us all
(or so they said),
Went to church, gave us milk and sang with us?
Who could have killed the lamp
the lamb ,
Atonement for our stinking sins
Sins that would block the public loo?

We shall know who killed him …..

At the border where once his body lay
Several more have now been slain
Now that the tears are dry
And our broken voices can speak again
And our cries have been reduced to a whimper .
Who will kill the fire he lit?

Now we know who killed him ...
Now we know who killed him.

otienoamisi

Ugly Owl

2007-08-09T08:02:00.000-07:00

In the beginning...

2007-08-09T02:32:00.001-07:00

Welcome to Poems from Kenya, the official blog of the Kenya Association of Poets. In a few weeks, we promise, you will find here poems submitted to the Kenya Association of Poets since 1980, by lovers of poetry from diverse religious, political and professional leanings. All these people take special pride in being called 'poets,' but they are actually many other things, like students, teachers, journalists, creative writers, scholars, painters, musicians, and even noisemakers.

Above all, they are expressionists, thinkers, critics, entertainers and social commentators who have, and continue to contribute to this ever growing colletion of poetry. The older poems have been preserved by the secretariat for many years, in the hope of one day finding a publisher. But since publishing comes in many forms these days, the poems have been performed, recited, aired and now, finally, blogged.

But first, a brief history of the Association.I do not know if the charming lady Pam Amadi still breathes the air of this earth, but I ask her poetic spirit to respond to this blog. I think Francis Gichuru is now a senior professor of education at Kenyatta University, but his poems, short, subtle yet deep, still tickle my heart and bring back those fond memories of my poetic childhood. I have put together some of their poems here not because they were the founders of the association (which is a historical fact, anyway) but because they wrote some fine poetry in their own right.I am thinking of Shokat Habib, Raju Umamaheswar, Sam Mbure, Marjorie Oludhe MGoye, Stoa Pokile, and many others whose poems, though not easily available in book form many years later, kept the literary embers aglow in the Kenya Times newspaper in the 1970s and 1980s.
In this electronic age, can this blog be a reunion for us, an electronic stage, where we can make a comeback, like we did at Kenyatta University's Cinema Hall in the late 1980s and at the Goethe Institute in the early 1990s?
Send your poems and comments to kenyanpoetry@yahoo.com
Posted by Kenya Association of Poets at 2:04 AM

What, my love

2007-08-09T02:26:00.000-07:00

What, My Love?

What, my love,
and what, sister of my bosom
What is this pain
gnawing at the bottom
of my heart?
I know, I know
Is the waiting in vain
For the one dear one
That vexes my heart so

What, my love, and what
My sweet-heart
are you the precious gem
the chicken seek in the sand?
I know, I know
I shall seek thee in my dreams
Where the milk of your eyes
Glitters like gold
blinding my unbelieving eye

What my love,
and what is this I hear
In the heated market gossip
of women selling omena?
I know, I know
its the pearl in my palms …
shines bright …
eluding the embrace
of my yearning,
mortal fingers.

If only beggars would brush their teeth

2007-08-09T02:24:00.000-07:00

If Only Beggars Would Brush Their Teeth

If only beggars would brush their teeth
Learn to live like decent people
Stop spitting in the street
And attend church regularly
Things would have improved for all of us.

If only they would learn to stop
Thrusting their dirty appendages
against my side mirror
Smearing their dirt
against my sleek Musso
As if I were the one
who made them so helpless.
pitiful and pregnant and poor...
How I wish they could learn some manners!

If only they would show some sympathy
Understand that I am extremely busy
For an urgent nation building meeting
And that I'd gladly give away my last cent
If they care to wait here upon my return journey...

How I wish beggars knew some manners
Some NGO should take time to teach them
How to ask without begging
How to win our hearts without pleading
How to smile without looking so hungry
Look here Mr. Beggar
Just ask. and you shall be given!

I don't mind your menacing canines
The rotten mollars or your watery eyes
As long as you keep away
And not try to kiss my palm
In a feigned thanksgiving
For coin I didn’t need anyway.

I don't care for the gallons of mucus
And the debes of saliva
oozing between the pleading, smiling cries
Of your children-
Why do you care to procreate anyway?
Give me a chance to shut my window!
Keep those slimy, bruised, darkened hands Out!

You don't have to look far
The roundabouts have been invaded
By a dirty army, a swarm
Of undesirable human flies
Miserable beggars by day
Mean muggers by night.

Over there, that mutura chewing bully
that charcoal clothed bitch boy
That pitiful looking girl
A whole family, a whole army!
Not street children but street families!
Something hangs on my boot
like a jigger,
like a monkey
In a jungle of civilization.
Curse the traffic jam!
Curse the traffic jam!
I want to fly over to the other city
where the roads are wider
where the sunshine is brighter
where the pavements are cleaner
where hawking is prohibited
where beggars brush their teeth
where the roundabouts are greener
And the air fresher.

My dear Musso
Take me home
to the other city
Where I belong
The city of the future.

Street kid lullaby

2007-08-09T02:23:00.000-07:00

STREET KID LULLABY

Sleep sweet child sleep
On the hard, cold concrete
Of a towering, unfeeling reality
Let the morning fumes wash your face
And the noon dust be your bath water
Let the plastic leaves of the steel twigs
Be your nourishment, sweet child
So sleep, street child sleep.

Sleep, sweet child, sleep
For your mother, barely fourteen,
Will soon be back from the night party
She went courting the city councilor
The one who drives a flagged Benz by day
And plumy prostitutes by night
She'll soon be baby, back
With lots of bread and lots of sweets
So sleep, street child, sleep.

Sleep, sweet child, sleep
See not the sharp reflections
On shop windows and fleeting cars
Forget the shame and embarrassment
Of your naked unreality
Forget your ten cent dignity
Child of the gutter,
Just sleep, street child, sleep.

Sleep, sweet child, sleep
Save your strength for tomorrow's war
With drunken men and hungry mongrels
For when hyena sits on judgment throne
Expect no mercy, meek lamb
You are a louse, soon they'll crack you
So sleep, street child sleep.

Sleep, sweet child, sleep
In your silent sighs, dream
Of happy times you'll never see
Dream of Mother Teresa
Dream of charitable brothers
Dream of peace .and plenty
Dream, my lovely one, dream
Oh sleep, street child, sleep.

Thirty Years of Africa

2007-08-09T02:22:00.000-07:00

Thirty Years of Africa

Africa of the brightest days
Where shine the clearest rays
Africa of the darkest nights
Our land of kingly might

Thirty years ago,
You had your go
From the hands of colonialists
Into the hands of neo colonialists
Seventy years were too long;
too long
And the tethers are still strong:
You have not broken free
In years ten times three

Thirty years of Africa
Thirty years of slavery
Thirty years of misery
Thirty years of civil wars
Thirty years, thirty years

We die
Maimed by strange diseases
Our lives cheaper than a bowl of rice
Sold at thirty pieces of silver
Up North the children have no joy
They no longer sing or play
They no longer make no toys
Only the sound of heavy boots
Marks the birth of a new day
Only the sound of guns
Punctuated with political hot air
Rents the air like thunder.

In the West drums still beat
The same old regular rhythms
But the women no longer swing their hips
Their breasts are fallen ooo
Their faces are wrinkled with sorrow
And the children wail in pain
As they watch the firing squad
Tear down the walls of peace
ln the heat of noon.

This poem was presented as part of 1993 national celebrations to mark thirty years of Kenya’s independence.

Encounters by Otieno Amisi

2007-08-09T02:19:00.000-07:00

Encounters

The rains come
and go
the storm uproots,
abates
the tide rises
to fall
Joy fades
into sorrow
The sphinx
may rust.
Ripeness drains
into rot
And tears dry away
As times battles
on statistics
Maturity turns senile
But love fuels the afterlife
Encounters
live on.

Kit Mikayi

2007-08-07T07:48:00.000-07:00

Kit Mikayi

The rocks at Kit Mikayi
Are rocks!
rocks upon rocks
They are rocks!
rocks on rocks
rocks big and small
finger-like
poking sky ward
Godward
begging for rain

The rocks at Kit Mikayi
are rocks
Tall
Proud
dignified
like the first wife...
Kingly
defiant
long lasting
like a mother's love
not jealous
like a co wife
just there
rocks rocky marking
the land of Seme
the land of strong men

The rocks at Kit Mikayi
You can't crush them
You can't eat them
You can't till them
You can't move them
You can't separate them
You can't You can't
You just can't
rocks on rocks
peeling,
reeling
bulgjng
pregnant
pushing aside,
greedy
rocks scattered
like desert sands
unquenching

On Work- by Otieno Amisi

2007-08-07T07:47:00.000-07:00

On work

There is no greater truth than this:
If you don't find happiness in your work,
Never else will you never find it
To work is to live life in its fullness:
The joy is in the routine
and the learning it takes,
the fun is in the challenges
you meet.
The pleasure
in the acquaintances you make:
The reward is in the daily bread
The learning in the reaping
of the sweat of your brow.
So work, dear friend,
with all your heart,
For when you work with your mind
and hands and heart
and head and soul
and all your strength
You bind yourself
to yourself
and to others,
and to God.

Mbita Point by Otieno Amisi

2007-08-07T07:46:00.000-07:00

Mbita Point

There's nothing like the feel of wet sand
seeping slowly between your toes

Nothing like the cool of the clear
morning water over your waking shoulders.

Mbita Point
There's nothing quite like the ebb
and tide
The lull of the half sleeping sea
breathing in rhythm
with the earth
waking slowly... so slowly...
to the chuckle of the red-necked birds..

The waves lap gently
licking the sleepy lips of the sea rocks
like a tired a giant hippo
on and on, on and on, back and forth
this wave this way,
that wave that way
salient,
stagnant,
silent,
yet alive and vibrant..
At Mbita Point

There's nothing quite like a morning bath
by the beach
in Victoria's clear waters
watched by the red-necked Masou birds
and the tired fishermen
returning,
from the midnight catch
Ah the lone virgin peeping
behind the reeds.

There's nothing quite like a morning bath
at Mbita Point.

Let poets sing - Otieno Amisi

2007-08-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

Let Poets Sing

Let poets sing
and sing
Sing hymns to soothe
Africa's wounded pride
of Samora Machel,
of Patrice Lumumba,
of Torn Mboya
of Pio Gama Pinto

Hymns to Africa's undying tribes
Good tribes and bad tribes
Hymns for an aging bride
Battered, tortured, defiled,
crying ..

Let poets heap unmeant praises
on tyranny and corruption
For leaders, God's choicest sons,
are hard to come by
And His Excellent Excellency
is only one.
Oh, let poets sing and sing

Let poets sing and sing
Lulling lullabies that lull
and lure and let loose
That we may bow
before love’s mighty power.

Let poets sing and sing
Of dull dreary death,
dignified and humbling
ripping souls apart,
that man may examine
the meaning of mortality.

Let poets sing and sing
Of beauty, fecund,
beckoning, life giving
that we may learn
to love ourselves,
and others too.

Let poets sing and sing
Of hope, forward looking,
forgiving, a radiant ray
that we may find meaning
in the daily sojourn of the sun
Oh let poets sing and sing.

Let not poets sing of ideologies
And empty eulogies
for those who invented nothing
Let not poets rush us to modernity
Across progress lane is a log bridge
Lest we stumble, slip and fall
But oh, let poets sing and sing and sing

otienoamisi is a journalist and literary commentator based in Nairobi. www.otienoamisi.wordpress.com