Sometimes I Write

Sometimes I write
because mine is a face
that dreamt a thousand dreams
captured in a thousand-and-one words

In silence and solitude
i write the wailing quietness
delicately picking the sound of a pin drop
capturing floating, settling dust
In ghastly realism.

Sometimes I write
in cacophony of city bustle
my words roaming the human jungle
capturing city’s hustle
out of impatient honks,
hurrying thumping feet
to filter meaning from the gibber.

On the Mara boulders I cat call
words free reining plains, hills
before me pen, me notebook picks:
on rustling grass
whistling foliage
on lull of lapping cool rivers
to the roar of dark, foamy Victoria
the echoes of the cat call.

Sometimes I write
in heady African prayers
throbbing with the bul
shrilling with the asili
with clap of hands, gyrate of bodies
dropping with sweat libations
raising slowly amid chants
before letting my words hung loose
accompanying invoked spirits of ancestors.

Sometimes I write
(like now)
in a warm insomniac night
amid soggy sheets, sleep disserted
when the world listens
to some things I don’t say.

by Manuel Odeny

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