Tuesday, October 08, 2013

BAD POETRY


Bad poetry is not like this one
Flimsy
Cliche
Drowned and insalubrious
Dumb
Distanced-
Itself from reason
Wrong
Easy

Bad poetry is not sad poetry
It's not happy poetry
It's not even abstract poetry
Bad poetry is mad poetry
Skirting-around-nothing poetry,
Exaggerated poetry
Poetry that wants to lose its life in broad daylight
And make mummies out of minds
And dummies out of our kind

Bad poetry is what good listeners do not long to love
Bad poetry is what around-the-way listeners love to cheer
So therefore don't judge poetry by today's audience's jeers
For poetry is so generalized it's queer

Bad poetry is what good readers do not bookmark
Critics crawl to, like crickets
To find its cracks and cringe
Dropping thick spittum into its crevices
That's bad poetry

We all went to the river-side
With earthenware pots on folded rags on heads
We all dipped by first swirling
On the mirror-surface of the waters
that house our ancestors' destinies
We dipped
We fetched
We carried
Then returned
To our homes beyond the dusty footpaths
And presented our fetch
We became poetry
By the waters we had
Some had water as clean as a baby's feet
Some had water muddied

Some became good poetry
Some, bad..

But they do not arrest bad poetry
When it murders and stains society
When it rolls over good poetry and mutes it
Like it's no criminal
It's sad!

(c)06102013 KW

Tuesday, October 01, 2013

THE COMPLEXION OF A GHOST (For Trayvon, may he R.I.P.)

Under the soul shed
We were each given different skins
By the master form-er

So I ask
Have we stopped dancing to King Jr's groove?
Is there a reason not to feel comfortable in our own skins
As if we have something to prove?

I see black thoughts march
With limping legs of revolution
I see black veins burst
And spill into society's tear rivers
Leaking into twin lakes

Does the colour of blood differ
Under the soul shed?
 let's ask the master form-er


Blood spilled yester-night into the eyes of pitch black night
So this morning is blind
Even the "common" cocks are mourning
They refuse to crow
So there's silence on the lawns

What's the value of a historic scorn?
Does it rise in value or devalue like currency with time?

Buried on winter froth
Harvested, in summer
A black kid tripped at the edge of sun's feet, he falls
At night
Into tears of spring

Between every gun shot and the dead body
Is a crying bullet with a sad story!

(c)KW 01102013