Drips in the dark
of the ground
rose strings of our ancestors
Firmer still our bonds hold,
invisible still our roots
that guide and soil our foundations,
smooth as marble, rough as earth worn away.
Yet still we roll on,
thoughts of pasts gone by,
with generations like memories forgoten
and the lives of others we have never cared to know
even if we could.
When we would, we couldn’t,
drawn still our tapestry of thoughts
reads letter’s we desire to read;
aware of our makings
but unable to pull apart and examine
their bold throngs that make them so;
never able to follow them back,
back into the ground,
beyond the death in memory,
beyond the rebirth of their recalling,
beyond our remaking in the the making of our selves.
Sprawled through still
through earth deep and wet,
we grow like organisms, rolling on
with roots deeper and wider spread than
our compact selves know.
Installation at the Morumbi Chapel in Brazil.
poet’s words written + stories unwritten spoken = better poetic words recorded, or simply recorded words :)
A new phase begins, where written grows spoken. I hope you enjoy it!
Prompted by the words of a friend - Kimberly Mwamburi - who’s words with glee that weaved topics and inspired, like a birthday flame that reignites with surprise.
Here, my words were shared, recent work, of a blog where stories are told. Here friend listened, with encouragement and hopefully genuine enjoyment - but genuine encouragement non-the-less. There still, recommendation’s arose, including poets words in the Poem-A-Day Celebration where an obvious word was uttered: poetry is grand - but often better spoken than read; if not better, than convenient.
So strung the obvious - the poetic words I wrote and posted, and the stories told, unwritten and spoken. With a complimented voice for which I humbly thank, why not speak the written.
Simply said, written poetry will now (as frequent as the means would allow, and suitability would suggest) include a recorded voice, speaking the words who’s written form are included.
I sincerely hope you enjoy it! Kivuti Xx
This shit’s hot,
pinks against diamond gold,
if only on dark skin it would hold,
Adorn this hand, whisked up to balance chin;
whisked down and glide,
held in air, making motion to a point explained,
as gleam, how cool do I look?
Not with rock, but piece on fist,
jewel on pink skull.
Crown on death’s cool foliage
now warm blossom crowned
with diamond floret’s
as the living death of some beauty;
as the preservation of my cool.
On my hand,
yes, it would look good.
In my mind, yes, it would be better,
to hopefully inform a design
that will swirl another or I with something cool.
dull the encounter of being,
tire the senses to a standstill,
maybe we can breathe.
dispose of the intellect,
trade imagination for currency,
maybe we can sleep.
oh, it is a terrible sun to evolve with,
shoes staggering achingly into years.
ah, it is some telling of the paper,
maimed honest to have filled its page.
and of what else, but to
find recovery in inspiration,
as to arm precision down to
its every squint,
when poetics are a best-burnt secret
and sex another sell-out drug.
what of the simmering
madness in silence?
what of its persistence
speak! such daring sun.
a scorch so quiet.
and a dare works: somewhere
warmth and cancer;
beauty and dehydration;
light unto blindness;
god into death.
tell me that bit about heaven
one more time.
tell me that bit with
I just can’t see with
these cataract eyes.
Poem submission by Cooper Callinan
Part me as such
as Moses so did the read sea.
Sliced further still by solid meat
and preverbial reach
of heavenly ideals
and blessings making their way
like thundering birds
that part the way
of this carpeting cloud.
Further bellow the valley stretches
and plummets into rocky depths
reaching between crags and cracks
the makings of my true being,
sinking deeper still into an unknown world of potential.
Here, in supposed Hades depths dwell’s a spirit,
with wonder as the clouds and heaven’s,
that sweep, divide and move with heavenly grace of another form;
swirling with cracks and churning with a life
extended far beyond the sight of it’s presence.
and you show me the way.
through cloudy carpet run
with sure ground below feet.
Deep in desert sands they reached
High into space where rivers meet.
Twisting slithering through red giants
Standing shoulder to shoulder in grand alliance.
Spires of stone in mushroom form
Pillars where earth exploded and tore
Gorges who split the earth left scars
and monuments like golden Mason jars.
Swaths of crimson paint splatter and dry
Against coppery cliffs in morning light.
Bridges and arches plume from the earth
In hardened explosion gave their birth.
The land stretches, wrinkles, far and wide;
Surveyed by eagles in denim sky.
In the land of needles reaching for clouds,
Monstrous stones take a closing bow.
Having done their green work
the grasses say to the sky,
The sky is blue and silent,
clouds tease. They slide
silently under a brilliant sun
hoarding their wealth
they are the Himalayas of heaven
cold and distant,
proud of their majesty,
joining and unjoining their vapors
among their kind alone
holding it to themselves
they are vacant
as an empty page
while the grasses
need psalms of moisture
they billow above dry prairies
counting their vaulted droplets
saving whole seas for their own
—“Ready for what?”
-“For what I’m going to tell you.”
Silence followed by more silence.
There was nothing to say but everything to watch.
At the end of his seemingly
he stepped forward
with a pose.
-“You sir, have been schooled.”
-“Pass on what I have taught you. I know you will.”
We looked quizzical
until we found ourselves speaking
in more words than we knew.
- Brian Kivuti
-We Join Spokes Together-
We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it’s the vacant hub
that makes it possible
for the cart to move.
We shape a pot to make a void
to hold whatever we want.
We stand up walls to make a house,
but the hollow within
is where living takes place.
Non-being is at the heart of being.
Silent slippery fall.
Leaps forth, and bounds
down dashing drivelling ball.
Slowly rounds and STOP
here it come,
from rounds world like words
stop here before the circle turns.
is the wind on his face.
his fate yet to meet.
Yet in his crying downfall,
whisks past leaves like silent air,
and petals, white
Soft blue against white,
by missing clouds on blackened trees,
against empty skies of gentle blue
shadows shake and stream on back and limb,
milky skin and thigh with hair.
Dark brow and darker crown,
Here he comes, round the world
through the bare,
until at last we stop and see
the picture will not move.
By Brian Kivuti (Sept 2012)
Rises up and congeals into a fuzzy haze;
Moving from silver, into black,
Then here, my cotton swamp
Clings and stretches,
Limbs arching like bows
First one pull, then sweep,
First arrow flies beyond this musky place.
Its sound is lost in the world outside,
And yet I can see it?
THUD, it makes its mark.
Again and again, against the grain of pulling web,
Limb-bows, brown like aged wood,
Smooth from the touch of loving use,
We let arrows fly,
High and low.
Astray, and then here, hitting the mark.
We, never knowing whether we are unskilled or skilled
In this foggy mess;
Only by this effort, our history,
Our gut that wields limbs
With lithe force
Urgently pushing back awkward gestures –
That we are built, bred and whole.
Skilled and with knowledge.
Drowning in confusion,
But never lost to our nature
That thrust long wood higher and higher.
Further, and wide – sometimes miss. Many times certain.
Cotton melts like mercury’s flow,
Air breaks through with a refreshing whisp,
Whisp’s bursting fresh with lights piercing ‘hello’.
There, our freedom hits like a heady cologne,
Fresh, nostalgic, but new again. Filling our hair and chests,
As limbs stride
And bow, then straighten and flex
With the freedom to be our powerful selves.
People without doubt.
People of faith.
Bows arched and ready, still…
With the energy to launch sure
Our making out into this world…
by Brian Kivuti
it would make compelling pronouncements,
anything worth writing down.
Then after the war of wars
had ground to a shattering halt, the stone
emitted a small grinding sound rather like
the clearing of a throat.
Let us be indifferent to indifference,
the stone said.
And then the world spoke.
I am love.
Peace is my step
and joy is found within my voice.
Truth is my language, my search, my hope.
I am love,
with peace in every breath
like the still sea that surrounds me;
full of life, this is the world within me.
Love, forever I am,
on this journey knowing truth
with much more yet to come
that always was.
- Brian Kivuti