More Poetry

After a lengthy discussion with one of my acquaintances we eventually found ourselves sharing some of the poetry that we had each been exposed too. Below are some of the poems that we engaged in and left us inspired:

William Shakespeare Sonnets:

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, 
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

Sonnet 114

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were, when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, 
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd 
In process of the seasons have I seen, 
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceiv'd:
   For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
   Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead. 

Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground

   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare. 

Other Poems

Walking Away

C Day Lewis

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day –
A sunny day with leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-ruled – since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away

Behind a scatter of boys. I can see
You walking away from me towards the school
With the pathos of a half-fledged thing set free
Into a wilderness, the gait of one
Who finds no path where the path should be.

That hesitant figure, eddying away
Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem,
Has something I never quite grasp to convey
About nature’s give-and-take – the small, the scorching
Ordeals which fire one’s irresolute clay.

 have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still.  Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show –
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.

Ulysses

Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
         

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
         

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Poems By Robert Frost:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Stopping By Woods on A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

English

English

During high school English was one of my worst subjects despite the fact that English is my first language. However, in boarding school my academic performance in the subject improved. I attribute this change to two factors: a greater emphasis on analysis and the importance of writing from the heart.


While articulating oneself clearly and appropriately in any given context is important, I do feel that it is better to take just as much effort (if not more)  to observe and analyse various media and literature before expressing oneself. At the very least a greater emphasis on the former two aspects assists in giving some sort of template. Moreover, there are too many ignorant and thoughtless comments and views that are shared  on our social media platforms.  At the very least we should seek to only express ourselves after listening to all key parties to any story. The biblical phrase, "Be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to anger," springs to mind.

I also attribute my improved my performance to my English teachers in boarding school. They were passionate about the subject and even offered the best piece of advice I have ever heard with regards to creative writing. During the early days of my tenure at boarding school, the advice was along the lines of expressing yourself and experiences in your work. Acting upon this advice did wonders for my writing. In fact, I wonder if I can somehow grab a copy of the essays I wrote in those days, for I am convinced that I expressed myself as best as I could during those days.

Prior to this advice,  I had very synthetic approaches to essays most of the time; I was trying to be scientific/professional or poorly copying a particular writing style. This approach divorced my voice and my personal experience from my writing.

I will end this post with some of the most thought provoking poems I came across during those days, which I had really labored to find. It's title is Strangers Forever by Amin Kassam. It is melancholic and  disturbingly thought provocative:


Each of us 
is a passenger
seated in one huge
compartment
going we do not know where
all strangers
thrown together by chance
who travel without arriving;
Who can read the whispers
of your mind
when they are hidden
even from you?
Though you open a window
in the chambers of your heart
though you strive to say
what you feel
and in striving reach
 a state of understanding
there is still one part
one small part
that remains your own
one part
that neither I nor anyone else
will ever penetrate.
    Forever strangers.

African Superheroes

African Superheroes

The announcement of Marvel Studio's "Phase 3" and Warner Brother's equally loaded schedule of DC-related films has turned out to to be a kind of double edged sword in my opinion. As an avid comic-book reader (ahem, via Wikipedia summaries),  I look forward to the plethora of live action superhero movies that will be available in the near future. However, at the same time I have some feeling of apprehension which is probably justified on the following grounds: should any or a number of these movies genuinely flop (in terms of critical response and box office), it could trigger a crash, similar to the North American Video Game Crash of 1983, consequently leading to the abortion of several of these films and putting the entire future of live action comic films at risk.

Movies, aside, I wrote this article to address the limited access that I continue to experience. In fact, the most intimate encounter I may have had with superheroes in my toddler days was with those seemingly awesome toys that came with a chicky-meal from KFC! I did not care about the fact that KFC made money by packaging toys and miserably tiny pieces of chicken. No kid from the 90s can deny the satisfaction of boasting about your cheap chicky-meal toy during break time at school and simultaneously denying your classmates the right to even touch that toy with their not-so-finger-licking dirty hands... just before the teacher confiscated them. 

On a serious note, due to lack of accessibility to comics in the past, I feel deprived of some of the greatest story-lines in comic book history, story-lines that inspired major motion pictures that pseudo- comic-book fans like myself quote today. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that the market was mainly in that magical land USA. 

Nonetheless, on the continent, we have had our fair share of comics. Dating back as far as the 60s, the African continent had its own James Bond: Lance Spearman, whose photo comic was syndicated in  various local magazines of that era. And who could not forget Supa Strikas? The ultimate soccer story that defied the laws that govern football today (Sepp Blatter, match fixing, Arsenals injury record, to name a few...).  Moreover, it would also be a harsh generalization to conclude that the African Comic Industry is dead... Earlier in 2014 I had the privilege of visiting a mini "comic-con" convention in Cape Town, where some professional work was on display. 

Unfortunately, I have a bone to pick with the current comic-book industry as it is and has been on the continent. This is due to the fact that most of the work out there fails to the noticeably absent lack of relevant, original storytelling. Where are the unique tales that are inspired by ordinary people and situations that occur on the continent? Much of the media is just copy-paste of Hollywood. As nice as it may be, I cannot relate to an alien who lives in a very modern first world fictional city known as Metropolis, even if you rename the city to  "Ke-Nako-Land. Nor can I identify with some intelligent nerdy kid in New York who has a spider sense and swings webs while burdened with the great responsibility that comes with such power... Even if you contextualize him and make him some intelligent kid who goes by the identity "Dung-Beetle Man". 

I wish I had the talent to bring to life something original and truly African at the same time, but I have just not been endowed with the patience to translate such stories into artistic full page comics. I do believe that it is better to do something about an issue that presses you than complain about it, but for now complaining is all I can do..

Perhaps if there is some artistic genius out there who shares my passion for comics, here me out. I have this masterpiece of a story that has been lying dormant in my mind for a while now:

The Chronicles of Homework-Boy:

Bichu was your typical African school boy.. lazy with a work ethic that only existed to help him steal chicken stew from his neighbor's parents whenever he is really bored and hungry. However tragedy strikes when he is caught and receives his  receives the beating of his life from his  neighbors and his parents. Shaken by such an experience, Bichu uses the memory of his tears to transform himself into a diligent hard working student who completes his homework on time every time....