Back to Sidi. I continue my reading or misreading of his poems. I am searching for that single line in “Gathering of Spirits” that would resonate and strike me as a thoughtful punctuation of our proselytism.
Pan-African poetry publishing collective releases videos of its just-published books—The Script of Bruises and The Other Names of Grief.
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.
