Ingoma Nshya (Tale of the Palace Guard)

This was my response to a story challenge put forth by Milton Davis. Find his group, Sword and Soul, on Black Science Fiction Society.



Today, there is time enough for stillness. Time enough to rest the calloused soles of my conflict laden feet upon the bare tile. Time enough to look west, out over the nshya, to the distant marshes. They give rise to a mist this day that reaches humid tendrils across the sprawling farmlands which divide the palace from the swamps. Mist which brings with it echoes, remnants of the fallen warriors of my tribe, who beat with one hand the shields which rest against their hips, as if those plates of finely engraved bronze were ingoma, and brandish their spears in the other.

As they move toward the palace, they each in turn call out their names, and the names of their fathers, and the names of their sons, and the count of their kills. And as each finishes his recitation, he then takes up the battle cry which we sing as we march out to face our would-be oppressors. Despots who throw their numbers against ours in foolish campaigns, in foolish pursuit of a land whose warriors are bred of warriors who were bred of giants. When the seldom occasion rises, and the mwami allows his golden shield to hang at his hip and the tip of his spear to rest upon the earth, I have seen this king laugh until the heavens shook at their folly.

The day stretches on. I have not moved. Neither have my eyes strayed from the procession which eddies out over the land with the mist. And as night begins to fall, as the sun begins to lower itself into the now thinly steaming bogs, one last warrior makes his way across the land. His eyes burn into mine across the distance and the beat he sounds upon his shield imitates the beat of my heart. He calls out his name and I take a hard breath, he calls out the name of his father and I stamp the tip of my spear upon the tile in acknowledgment, he calls out the name of his son and once more I stamp my spear upon the tile, in place of the child who is too small to do so. He then counts his kills and with every rising number he beats his shield harder, as my heart beats harder. At a thousand he stops and fades away with the dissipating mist.

Darkness now covers the land. I push my feet into my shoes and stand away from the wall, stillness is at an end and I must prepare. Tomorrow dawns upon my vengeance.

Image: Ludwig Deutsch, The Palace Guard, 1892

Specter

---

argent light shines down
upon a grave dappled hill.
death does not walk here,
instead it sleeps;
though upon rare occasions,
when the earth’s satellite seeks reprieve
behind billows of sky-bound veils,
the Sandman’s sway knows a brief surcease,
and phantasms conceived
of Platonic philosophy,
rise from their crypts.
they displace nothing of earth, nor of air,
these distorted perceptions,
these false semblances who make claims
upon continued existence...

---

Image: Howard Pyle, Pirate Ghost, 1921

Impatient Sensibilities

inception of untimed exactitudes borne of almost infinite unproximity brought soft lined shackling to me. the rhymed dance of bliss with similarities bore me to ignorant unrealities. the incompleteness of the matched severed the bond save an unravelling strand of patience.

on the flagstone of my essence is etched the unsurity of destined interlocking of unlike keys. departure spanning moons shatters gathered bravado, false wholeness to a thousand shards. they cut deep into my inner substance driving me to the despair of a bereaved dove.

I float in a never-ending story, bound to the suspense of unpredictability as I feed from the hand of fate. bound to the tether of sentiment, I circumscribe my limited world. my sustenance is limited to what is handed me and I cannot take more. in this keep I must tarry, till my keeper grants me the grace of favoured company.

"Songs for Haiti": Crying

I haven't the words to express the grief that I feel in my heart for the suffering that is resounding across this nation. Forgive me my lack of words, instead allow me to offer this...



Video: Jagwire Lexis

Among the Rubble

silence
silence in the heart of a thousand cries
all alone among those whose hearts cry out in agony
the silent pitch gains volume
and she has to press her hands to her ears

she wakes up and stumbles along through the rubble
her dress is tattered, she is covered in white dirt
she is numb and feels no pain in the wound on her left leg
the picture of her mother laying motionless...
she blanks it out and now limps among wailing souls

she feels a hand upon her shoulder but walks on
half unconscious, her arms hanging loose at her sides
she can hear her heartbeat now in this virtual silence
someone dressed in white steps in front of her and stops her
holding her by the shoulders

she stops walking, she stops thinking
she longs to stop breathing; mother...
and she is in front of her, her mommy
her smile comforting as she looks into her eyes
she involuntarily hiccups a stifled sob; oh mother..

it will be all right, her mother says
mom, she calls out
and the lady in white embraces the little soul
as her body is rocked by sobbing; mother..
and she will be all right in time, mother is now with God

Image: Roosewelt Pinheiro/Abr, Haiti earthquake camp
This image is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Brazil License.

Why are you so furious?

Staring at the darkening sky
My mind was wondering why
This had to happen to us ..
happen to us ... happen to us ...

Without a sign you let out your fury
Many are dead now, thousands in injury
We beg you please forgive us ..
forgive us ... forgive us ...

We cry now for the many that are gone
buried beneath the earth and stone
In sadness and mourning the tears fall ..
and fall ... and fall ...

So harsh has been your punishment
anger your many a lash meant
maybe a lesson, maybe another chance ..
another chance ... another chance ...

Mercy mother earth ... mercy please.

Image: UN Photo/Logan Abassi, Haiti earthquake damage,

http://www.flickr.com/photos/37913760@N03/ / CC BY 2.0

---

In memory of those lost in Haiti

Healing

in the golden bath of the plunging sun
the one who is stranger no more
holds her close to still her trembling
and seeks to illuminate her darkened soul

she turns to him, her face a brazen perfection
but her eyes of raw umber a reflection of sorrow
his own eyes a deep sapphire sparkle,
infect her with the calmness of still waters

they bubble up from her eyes,
streaming down unblemished skin—the dew of relief
and the kiss, a plunge into a celestial fountain
and in the softness a burst into wondrous paradise

he pauses—her tears
do not stop, she entreats
the salt turns sweet
and her body yields to passion

he shelters her from the icy breeze
whispering to her in harmony with long grass whistles
the stars illuminate her face ever so softly
and she relinquishes her heart to his warm embrace

Dog Nights.....

by Daniel Njoroge

Mines moonlight tonight, demur not our hearts to unite,
While I sleep, mildly creep and abut me in my dreams,
Agleam my room with your cool softening illumes,
And gently so as not to awaken me, whisper my pet poetry,
String along summer breeze; let her repress my arising body heat,
My bunk by the window, I beckon thee to come and wed me,
Willy-nilly you awaken me, allure me, and besiege me to thy outdoor dwellings,
I raise my blinders to peruse the skies, and as a wildfire you blazed the night,
Your siblings shimmer with a loud but ever flowing glamour,
The beauty that you behold stimulates my mind afloat and wonder,
Brava!!!!! Brava!!!!!! Brava!!!!! beloved night Brava!!!

Alphabetics

dialectic discourse
a frantic race to fine grained writs
without a cause for recourse
a tingle of longing infected my wrists

a disconnect from the fathomable
into paths of alphabetic tunnels
are my discernments veritable?
they overwhelm me, these mysteries I must funnel

this unvented volcanic gen
boils in the bowels of mental chasms
they singe my reality again
denied, they threaten to rend my mind with violent spasms

a stroke, then the train of dominoes
they pour out in semantic floods
seeking blanks to render inky throes
these words much like poetry

Father, Over the Long Years (Revisited)

What more can be said, other than I still grieve his loss.

Father, Over the Long Years



I have struggled, father,
since the conclusion of your account,
and most times, when my eyes opened
upon dreadful way stations, skin stretched
tight over a belly rounded by new life,
hope seemed like forgotten lore,
a tale vaguely remembered from early years
spent in the company of eternal dreamers.

but hope is surprisingly resilient,
and has no predetermined finale,
believers will carry it with them
unto planes intangible to mortal flesh
and will be born and reborn upon this
the realm of our existence, returned
to those of us who have lost faith
by wielders of infinite possibility,
fragile vessels conceived of obliged
procreation, of dutiful continuance.

o father, do not doubt, the long years
have returned hope to me, embodied
in progeny much labored for—son who is
now as a sapling, limbs long and bare,
fresh; daughter who is as the essence
of simplicity and delight, what glory—
and misery be damned! take flight and
go you to reaches beyond, I'll suffer you
not for even one sunrise more!

and father, I forgive you the long years,
I forgive your abandonment of me while still
I moved through the haze of youth,
know that you were as to me a mountain,
all that held me together while you
were still alive.

~ Wamuhu Mwaura, posted on Words Much Like Poetry May 9, 2008

Image: Moses Ndungu Mwaura (1950 – 2002)