Most importantly, I hate poetry for teaching me how to love. Poetry made a lover out of me. Before poetry, I didn’t know that the gaze from my lover’s eyes could loosen my joints. I didn’t know that a single touch of his hands could melt me like candle wax. . .
I still sit in absolute darkness. A voice. A soulful voice which becomes a place of shelter, a resort: A voice to heal the wounds of darkness and to chase the ghosts. The three artists speak out images of the past, sitting on the floor when light slowly guides us out of the darkness, their voices put the memories in place.
Thus, it is surmisable that whoever will contemplate the past eternity during which the world was not in existence and the future eternity during which it will not exist, will see that it is like a journey, in which the stages represented by years, the leagues by months, the miles by days and the steps by moments.
I still sit in absolute darkness. A voice. A soulful voice which becomes a place of shelter, a resort: A voice to heal the wounds of darkness and to chase the ghosts. The three artists speak out images of the past, sitting on the floor when light slowly guides us out of the darkness, their voices put the memories in place.
Hence, while the historian's mind is riddled with events, the poet's is bursting with colour, having memory as its minefield. However, there is no fixity to verse. Not in its fidelity to what was or its facility for what will follow. Both past and future are the canvass upon which imagination subsists. Along the way, it rids itself of all ethical sympathies.
Meanwhile, Wanlov the Kuboloro, who joins with M3nsa to complete the rap-artiste duo from Ghana, FOKN Bois, advocates for a young man who has put a coin into the canister: “He has donated for America.” Looking into camera, “Don’t give him troubles when he applies for a visa.”
In essence, you are just like the children playing, oblivious of the uncertainties of life; you are like the lawyer filled with angst over what the judge’s ruling will be on his case; you are like the beggar on the street, unsure of the source of his next meal; you are like the teacher pondering over the best methods to teach his students.
Despite the coldness, I feel inspired to travel to the polar regions to create words of silences, of darkness during the polar nights. I wish my words to touch the extremities and the absoluteness of being.
The heart of a poet is wild and free and even if he lives in Africa or Europe or in the desert and savannah belt, the compass grows fingers to point at every angle at the same time because what we know to be time is only a flirting naked woman or raised muscles of a man through ink and dreams.
It's always easier to distance oneself from the parts of us that we don't understand or cannot control and for me that is my giant bleeding heart that wants to adopt all the puppies in the world and give everyone ice cream to make them all less sad about capitalism.
