I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it ……………………………… It’s a trap an illusion It taunts me clutches me like quicksand, or what we imagine quicksand to be, the fictional kind. It’s a trick, a confidence trick, a lie that changes every so often, like you’re figuring out the path and then suddenly the environment changes up on you, suddenly your senses are failing you, deceiving, the world is tapping incessantly on the dome of your mind, And then they say “no, that’s normal, writers are supposed to feel like that, writers are supposed to be a little MAD, a little cu coo.” And that’s like saying “yes, you’re meant to drown, that’s kind of your job, to sink in the sand, be covered, embrace the submergence, You chose this didn’t you?” But then they say we don’t get to choose, “we are chosen” Writing is a gift, and the writer is merely the recipient, fulfilling his role, obligated to use that gift, obligated to sink. To be taunted by confidence one moment And then the rug pulled out the next, as we slip into self doubt ... again Sooo, that’s the idea then, to just walk this imaginary line traced along the edge of an imaginary cliff; confidence on one side, and doubt down below on the other. With sympathizers isolated in their own world, offering small consolation, all they can do really, a simple frown, a shrug, palms up… “what can you do?” Maybe you can try to not be a writer, maybe that will solve it? Maybe I could try that, try, try to not be it, try and pretend for a while, being stuck somewhere else. I hate it I hate it because this is simultaneously exactly where I’m meant to be and it is exactly… nowhere. Forever nowhere Because the truth is, if writer’s are the observer’s of the world, and this world isn’t or wasn’t good enough so we decided to make their own worlds, to invent or reinvent stories to explore deeper meanings of pure truths that are hard to comprehend on just the physical plain, then what does that mean? The reality is that if we’re in this world just observing then we’re not technically part of it, we’re just stuck here, dreaming of some other places. There we are Back on the edge of the cliff again Confidence in the imaginary Doubt in reality Pitiful. I hate it So that’s it then, to struggle in quicksand and fight your way out… some of us never do Some of us will always be trapped … I don’t like it. There are only 26 letters, more in other languages, but 26 in this one. That's it. we are not reinventing the language, all stories have been told, we only look for ways to tell the same tales in a different way. Every new generation comes along discovering life and the world anew, because they’ve never seen it before, or heard the stories before, so those same old stories get told, get read, get heard and live again in the minds of a new crowd. That’s the cycle. That’s the trap, the confinement of letters and words, because words are what we have, but they are not enough, even though they have immense power, to inspire, create, reconcile, heal, secure and define... Scribbling to paint some vague picture, just an image of what is actually going on here. So we’re trapped, in between letters and words, in between realities… and the imaginary. I’m not stuck. I just haven’t moved much, not in this world anyway. I don’t like it, because those who I want to see me, do not. And what started as a lament on the war with words, a war with time and being, and seeing and feeling, is all of a sudden put in its place... given new context and meaning the root of this struggle... - “We have so many different and conflicting selves within us that you never know which one will prevail, even when we don’t want certain of them to win" "The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us..." The original Greek for "Word" used in John 1, is Logos... LOGOS (noun) the Word of God, or principle of divine reason and creative order, identified in the Gospel of John with the second person of the Trinity incarnate in Jesus Christ. This methodology then proceeds ‘downward’ to the Incarnation, to the event in which the Word or Logos became man in Jesus Christ. (noun) a symbol or other design adopted by an organization to identify its products, uniform, vehicles, etc.. the Olympic logo was emblazoned across their jackets synonyms: emblem, trademark, brand, device, figure, symbol, design, sign, mark, insignia “We are not made for the mountains, for sunrises, or for the other beautiful attractions in life - those are simply intended to be moments of inspiration. We are made for the valley and the ordinary things of life and that is where we have to prove our stamina and strength.”
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* “The foods I’ve eaten, and the beds I’ve slept in”… it was a working title of a book my father never wrote. It was one in a moderate sized list of things he never got around to doing, or goals that remained in the realm of dreams. But, if he were here today, now… he probably wouldn’t list it under regrets. He wasn’t the type to carry them, barring maybe one or two from his youth that he probably mentioned in passing once or twice, in the time I was a part of his life. But even then, the word ‘regret’ was never used. [Contentment] Sometimes I feel like I’m on the brink of something big, forever questioning whether or not I’m prepared for it, whilst other times I feel like I’m paddling upriver. I’m doing some real work but if I look at the shore, I’m actually going nowhere. I'm aware that in time I'll look back on this piece or period, and what concerns me… Well, I think what will concern me then, is what concerns me now. It’s strange when you find yourself on a road you kind of never chose. I know there’s always a choice, but writing was never in the running in terms of my career choices. I’ve never met anyone who said that when they were young they always dreamed of becoming a writer. Now that I am one, I understand why. There’s a saying, I don’t know by whom but it says ‘people don’t choose to be a writer, Writing chooses people’. I believe there is some truth to that. I think that many folks seem to have an idea where they want to go and affix their sights on that and move toward it. For me that never happened with Writing. It’s like God took me along the road, showing me various inviting avenues, that I would ultimately not take… and one day he brought me to this point {a ballpoint, hehe} where, in hindsight, many things began to make sense. It’s a diversion I never thought of. It elicits many mixed feelings, because its like I was going one way (a way that looked right and seemed to fit, but just didn’t feel 100%), and God tapped me on the shoulder and said, “No, you’re going this way”. So I feel honoured to have been “selected” for this road, but the struggles I face brings me to realize why it must and can only be a chosen few to travel it, who have the stomach for it, otherwise anyone would do it. And with that in mind, getting selected to travel down this particular road, although there are exits and options to divert from this course, or so it seems to the “outside world”, from my perspective, there really isn’t. Otherwise it’s like descending down a mineshaft, and the only way you’ll emerge in public again, is if you keep on digging, keep on mining until you hit something of value to take up to be scrutinized. And the thing is that we all feel like we’ve found gold, but the public doesn’t seem to think so, or some folk acknowledge that what we have does hold some value, just not to their pockets. So you’ve found (created) something, now the job is to decipher if what you have is real gold (of whatever purity), or just some shiny metal, or just some plain metal… Although any writer will argue that the market needs all kinds of metals, we just need to ensure that we’re peddling our wares to the right crowd. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure (though I’m not saying what you have is junk, but rather that in someone’s eyes - someone reputable, other than yourself – what you have could be a treasure). And so it goes. We forge on, in solitary self doubt, and often darkness, to find a glimmer of light… And it’s not easy, especially when dealing with that ever present companion I just referred to, called doubt. And he’s not alone either. Not only is there the personal doubt, but the often silent doubt (hand-in-hand with waning confidence) of your fiercest fans and loved ones - your virtuous "true believers", if you're fortunate enough to have some. You might say you’re mining (in a way), but perhaps they think you’re sailing, and that your boat is sinking, and there’s no wind to guide your sails. You might think a great many things, that so what if you’re on an allegorical boat, and that you’re fanning the flames of your own budding career, using what looks suspiciously like wood from your own, very same, sinking boat… - what if someone sees those flames? What if someone wades out to ‘rescue’ you… Because maybe they believe, as you always have, that you have a story worth telling. Maybe your chunk of metal isn’t meant for a necklace or ring… maybe it’s meant for a gun barrel, or silverware or a key To unlock other worlds... and if that sounds like a cliche, then you know the kind of plywood we're dealing with to keep the boat afloat. We scratch, mine, sail, sink and/or swim by our hopes... and NOT our fears. . [Image credits: pixshark.com, Radka Malbeck photography, "boy writing"- Ernest Cole photography, thedirtlife.blogspot.com]
Are we talking literary or literally? Well, I read an article on the importance of writing and storytelling, and the author recalled a time when he was a paramedic… so no, we cannot literally save lives, as in resuscitate a person with words (literally), but we can save lives in other ways. It may seem like a simple realization but it’s one we need to remind ourselves of every so often. Looking at news reports of plane crashes and the military assault on Gaza - what can writing do - those people are dead? But writing can communicate the truth and inform those still living. Educate the present so the future doesn't reflect the past. Then there is also the nobility and catharsis, of just telling their stories. I was talking to a friend of mine recently, and she was sharing her recent trials and quite frankly, life threatening ordeals working with (reforming) drug dealers and gangsters – and her blunt reply about writing when I mentioned to her that it can’t save lives, was simply: “but it can”. One day I will write her story… And I'm sure it will reach out to someone in a dire situation in need of motivation through their struggles, even if it’s just that one person. On a more basic level, how does education work, how do we learn – through books, through writing, communication – without these simple elements - like textbooks, how many lives would’ve been lost? How did the medical profession come about? Someone had to be the pioneer, to analyse the human body and record their findings. Corpses were involved, and would not have been pretty, or perhaps even legal, but in that, in some way, the dead served to preserve the living... hows that for a story? So, I encountered this issue because I am a true believer – a believer in stories, writing and storytelling, and because I’m tired of the mediocre and the dilution and saturation of art. To further put this in context, I’ve been wrestling with an article on story, and the essential organs of it as it applies to a very popular TV series – and thence the temptation to dismiss it all and banish it to the box of “it’s just a TV show/it’s just a movie” – because this is what modern films, especially, have taught us with their lack of quality storytelling.
And so, we’re meant to sift through the dregs, to locate the stories we’re allowed to make a fuss over because there’s a place for the serious stuff, and a place for things like superheroes. Because we’re allowed to take fantasy series’ or books seriously, but not cartoons… Where do you draw the line, because there IS a line? Believe it or not, words are life – language, communication – words feed souls. We are on this journey and yet do not understand how there is a link between health (physical, spiritual and mental) and the power of words. What we see, and hear affects the way we feel, how we act and perceive things. We shall all die one day, and there is plenty of depression, misery and depravity in this world – and you may find that often some will not offer any solutions to the problems we’re facing, but will merely explore the problems further, holding up mirrors to it. I feel that part of being a writer is to feed the soul and in some way provide a light or a way point in the journey of discovering the meaning of this thing called life – for those curios about it – and stories are one such medium of discovering those morsels of meaning, so that regardless of your existential beliefs, it is not all for naught. Stories. They’re the beating heart and simultaneous nerve-center of us writers. They’re in and apart of us just as much as they abound everywhere. The plain truth is, our brains crave stories... "Classical story design charts the vast interconnectedness of life from the obvious to the impenetrable, from the intimate to the epic, from individual identity to the international infosphere. It lays bare the network of chain-linked causalities that when understood, give life meaning.” "In storytelling, the stimulus of words brings about the production of inner images, an extraordinarily creative play involving the entire brain. Each new story requires a whole new set of neural connections and reorganizations of visual activity within - a major challenge for the brain. . . . So neural potential goes unrealized and development is impaired - unless storytelling and play are provided on a regular basis." [Images: via pinterest, unless otherwise stated] Related posts: Why I write What will Matter The Flaw in Game of Thrones Category: Writing "Human beings devised writing to explore why we are here..." A night in Gabarone about a year ago As my now good friend Jonathan pointed out, the lighting was all wrong… it lacked that certain moody ambiance reserved for romantic occasions – despite this not being a romantic occasion. You see, sometimes you just need that option, a certain warmth or glow, even if it’s just “available”. But again, we weren’t here to embrace any quixotic inclinations, despite the unmistakeable buzz of imminent wedding celebrations dancing in the evening air… but still, even the décor was wrong – note to the wise: don’t use dark wood with a light floor tile; it elicits a rather cold black and white tone. Nevertheless, there we sat supporting of a friend of ours who just so happened to be the in-house/restaurant entertainment. The night was decidedly nippy in Gaborone, conveniently inspiring a variety of impulses involving tapping your feet to the beat, patting of the knee and bobbing of the head, even if just to stay warm. Yeah, it was that kind of night, when dancing was also convenient. We knew the music would be good, the food; well, considering we were only there for dessert the margin for error seemed reduced; add a cappuccino and you start to slip into the flow of things pretty easily. Now it must be said that I am known in some circles as a lover of coffee, and was once called a connoisseur of ice cream, so when you tick those two boxes on the menu and throw in some good company; well let’s just say it’s really hard to go wrong from there. But that’s all relative. You see, it’s easy to allow the inconveniences to get the better of you, whether it’s the dust, the heat – which actually wasn’t that bad this time around, generally speaking, I’m really liking this autumn thing – or the flat spider (of unknown species) which scurried across the floor when I dropped my bags in the room where I’d be sleeping… these are just things. Okay I’ll admit, the spider took some getting used to, but I’ve seen worse, waaay worse. You see, when it comes to Africa (more specifically rural Africa), you’ll see things – good and bad (the "bad" aids in heightening the good)– that may send tremors down to your core, forcing a re-evaluation of the way you partake in this thing called life. Everyone needs this kind of meaningful ‘intervention’ every now and then. As another new friend, Lily, jokingly put it whilst in her pyjamas, listening to some sound advice “Hang on, I’m listening… this is a life moment here…” – I don’t feel like explaining the context right now. So what does this have to do with listening to good music and dancing in your chair and laughing with friends and family? Well, “life moments” happens all the time, and often, when we’re not paying attention. I know what you’re thinking. It’s natural; there will be so many moments of subtle splendour to make a fuss over, so if you miss one, you’re probably not missing much, right? Truth is, as I embark on another journey (this one through the pages of a book – something which I haven’t done in a while, I am ashamed to say that), a lesson I’ve just learned again, yes again, is that when you glance back over your life, you only really remember certain highlights, never the whole picture – that’s just the way it is… so it behooves us to make even the simplest moments count, and count again, so that in our flashes of reflection our life’s tapestry, in and amongst the boring bits, the brighter strands will leap out even more. By the way - this month my blog turned 2 years old. Thanks for visiting and your continued support! What lies behind the unexpected? When a stranger talks, what will you believe? Short fiction by Steven Benjamin “Where are you?” I share almost everything with her. And she’s looking at me. And when she looks at me with vague concern mixed with curiosity, and her eyes change colour ever so slightly, with her question still hanging in the air; I’m then conscious of the burden weighing on my shoulders. That she sees this strain, means it’s affecting me in more ways than I know. It’s time to tell. I just need to soak it in and make sense of it on my own terms. My thoughts were with that of another man. A man I’d met earlier that day. One who would not change my life in any major distinguishable way, but definitely in the way I looked at things - the world around me. And so I told her of my day, watching her as she listened, to gauge how my words were being received. “He didn’t give me his name. He wore a shirt buttoned up to the neck but didn’t wear a tie. I don’t remember how we started chatting, but there we were; middle aged, I think we were both distracted by the same thing. I do remember asking him why he’d come to the country. He said that he was actually on a return visit. He’d come to see a man with whom he had a special relationship. He said that this man he was going to meet had become quite influential since they’d first met; he’d since gained many unwanted followers. That was months ago by the way. I asked him how they did meet – you know, just advancing the conversation. And then he said that this man he was going to meet was in prison, and that some months ago, he had tried to kill him. I thought I miss-heard him when he said that , but then he said it again “Yes. He tried to kill me.” He said it, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself, or couldn’t believe what he was saying. Anyway. He said this man had changed quite dramatically since they’d last seen each other in court. I asked what made him change, and this man said that he thought the man found God. I asked if he believed him, and he looked at me, straight in the eyes, and said yes. He was nodding when he said that, his voice a little cracked. I asked what made him believe him. And he said that he didn’t know, but that it felt… natural. He said that little would change if their roles were reversed. I don’t know why I asked this, but for some reason I did; I asked him how the man tried to kill him. He looked at me and shook his head; even half smiled. And then he said he was a tourist, actually no, he was working but had taken some time off to roam, and he was in the wrong part of town, trying to do something stupid and illegal. He said this man tried to chop his head off, with a long blade, like a machete.” “What?” “That’s what I said. He nodded to me. Said he almost succeeded. I didn’t understand, or maybe I didn’t completely believe it. We sat there, not talking for a while, just letting his words hang in the air. And then he looks at me again. It feels awkward, you know. His eyes a bit like glass. So he reaches up and undoes his shirt's top button and pulls his collar clear of his neck. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It was a half inch thick scar running across his neck. I couldn’t see where it started or where it stopped. But it cut across his windpipe, and several big veins. He touched it gently with his fingertips. It’s like he was making sure it was still there. And then he nodded and buttoned up again. I thought I was imagining it. I was blinking trying to freeze it in my memory. He said that he wasn’t the first person to be under that blade. But he was quite certain that he was the first, and so far the only person, to get up afterwards, after it had come down. It took some weeks mind you, to get enough strength back just to stand, he said, but still. I asked him how, how he was still alive. He said he didn’t know, but that what he believed, is not what everyone else would believe. He then asked me something. He asked: ‘Does death happen to us? Can death happen? I mean its only the absence of life. So by rights, life happens, death is just what we call it when life is no longer there... absent. When life stops.’ “’All I know is this’ he told me, ‘death was supposed to come. But here I am, sitting beside you.’ He says the man who tried to kill him looked like a ghost when he eventually saw him again, still alive. He said the man started screaming, acting all mad, before he collapsed in shock, and started weeping.” I was thinking about all this when my wife asked me another question. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” “I know it sounds naïve, but there was no reason for him to lie to me. At the very least it is true that it is a story. But whatever… I believed him when he told it to me” And then there’s that scar. So there I was thinking; sitting, and thinking. Mostly I was just thinking about what to think. Was this Pandora holding my hand and smacking me in the face? – sounds like something my Dad would say. Like I said; it didn’t shake up my life in any visible way, but it did something to my mind. Like you’ve spent a lifetime building something with small bricks, one at a time, and here someone comes and shifts something out of place. Now everything looks the same, but it isn’t, you know it isn’t, but you’re not sure where that missing piece is, or how it will affect everything else, or how it’s all still standing. All I know is; it’s very simple, you see, it’s the way he said it. Something was supposed to happen, something expected, something inevitable even… but it didn’t. So. Now... tell me, what happens? I’ll ask you what I asked my wife; what happens, when something that’s supposed to be inevitable, that’s supposed to occur… doesn’t *** Widely acknowledged as Hollywood’s greatest cinematic accomplishment, bringing Middle Earth to film in The Lord of The Rings trilogy and now the lesser (critically) the Hobbit films (based on the book – consisting of only one modest volume). So, why then has the Tolkien Estate, led by J.R.R. Tolkien’s surviving son Christopher (responsible for the streamlining/completing/editing and then publishing of his father’s early work The Silmarillion) turned their back on the film adaptations? This may be old news to some since Le Monde's revelatory interview with Christopher Tolkien was conducted back in 2012, but the implications and sentiments are just as, if not more prevalent now in light of the liberties taken with the Hobbit adaptations currently in big screens. These latest films by Peter Jackson have famously been the most brazen in adapting the source material, the biggest move being to convert the single volume book 'The Hobbit - There and Back Again' into a trilogy of films. But let me first explain my perspective: I write this as someone who hasn’t read any Tolkien book, ever. I can’t even remember the last time I picked one up… the closest I’ve come is reading the synopsis for the recently published (previously unfinished work – then completed and edited by Tolkien’s son Christopher) book ‘Children of Hurin’ (2007) – this may not sound like much because it’s only a synopsis, but I must say, the several page affair read like a short story (as full synopsis’ should) and made for some fascinating stuff. It manages to draw you in enough so that, partnered with your already developed knowledge of Middle Earth, culminates in a very captivating and involved experience… but would I buy/read the book, knowing what I know about it – perhaps, but I’m in no rush. It’s a curious case. That ‘must read-but don’t really want to’ scenarios. This is partly because I’m not a major adventure fantasy fan. Now before you go on about how the books overlap genres and involve a whole lot more than those two elements, I’m fully aware of that, and I’d probably enjoy the books once I got into them. The truth is, I just lack the motivation to do so, my immediate literary interests lie elsewhere, meaning I’m more than content to preoccupy myself with the films (as lazy as this is, mind you). I enjoyed the films and have even seen the latest two Hobbit installments, but I still would not call myself an out and out fan, as in fanatical. Tolkien and his works however, remain a fascinating subject, and the fact that it is so, even for someone who has no immediate will to read said works, is testament to their magnitude, influence and impact on contemporary literature and the media in general. So, now that I’ve mentioned that I enjoyed the films, taking into consideration the understandable compromise that needed to be made – alluding to many scenes, stories and elements left out from the books because they are quite long – in bringing these them to cinema, it did surprise me to learn that Christopher Tolkien (and the entire remaining Tolkien Estate) does not support these well-loved films, which have been so effective in introducing this literature to younger generations. The Lord of the Rings trilogy in particular is an amazing feat, and there is a growing consensus out there that it is Hollywood’s very best offering (more than just as far as adaptations go). Considering the magnitude of production, the logistics and the previous sentiment that such a story was impossible to bring to film (or un-filmable) – they merely proved what is possible with celluloid. [picture credits: stylefavor.com, hdwallpapers.com, walldaz.com] So with such a virtuoso undertaking, lauded by fans and critics alike, why have the Tolkien’s turned their backs? Well, in part its due to the fact that they were largely excluded (by New Line Cinema) from the creative process and could do what they wanted with the films; and Credit to them for not straying from the source material. However, the recent Hobbit trilogy is a greater indictment of the fears the Tolkien’s expressed… since there was only one book – but the studios could not pass up this money spinning opportunity. And then there’s the issue of adding an entire character to the films as well (despite most lauding the decision – it simply highlights deviation, which fuels discontent). By the way, zero of the proceeds of this film trilogy and merchandising go to the Tolkien Estate (in fact they haven’t seen a cent from the LOTR success due to the old and liberal contract signed by Tolkien when he himself was cash strapped). You can read more about it in this interview with Christopher Tolkien, and it’s not sour grapes either. Here’s a man that knows the works like it was his own and who has dedicated his like to completing his father’s work. Hence it’s not surprising that he would be so passionate about the films, but that he would go so far as to label them simply action films. Does this revelation diminish the accomplishment of the films in any way – I don’t think so, but it does add a sad note to the works mainly because its a timeous reminder of the times we live in. As a film critic myself (and a writer), I can only judge the films - and they are a magnificent achievement (but of course film will never be as timeless as the written word). "They eviscerated the book by making it an action movie for young people aged 15 to 25,.. And it seems that The Hobbit will be the same kind of film." That sadness though is not surprising since we are at the business end of things. In a way it illustrates that moment when art and business can coexist to produce something great, but such coexistence will always be temporary, and despite the harmonious amity, sacrifices and compromises need to be made… so not all will be happy, and in this case, its those at the heart of the work in question, those for whom the work means the most. So ultimately if this is Hollywood’s best yet, then it’s come at a cost – a very deep cost – in typical tinsel town fashion. What’s more, and this is strangely often the case, is the vaguely prophetic writings of J.R.R. Tolkien as they apply to his works and his legacy as a whole. Here we are, or corporates at least, nudging and fighting over who receives the material wealth… kind of like the fate of the Ring in his most famous trilogy, and then there’s the case of his family… Who will continue upholding the Tolkien name after Christopher dies – he is an old man now but is the most outspoken about his father's work – and though I’m sure nothing as tragic as his character experience in his stories will befall the Children, or child and grandchildren of Tolkien, the corporate snub and creative cold shoulder is perhaps akin to echoes of those fictional distant tragedies, transformed into those of a different kind, resonating in this money driven world. We may not have the enemies of old, or even of fictional foes like that of Smaug, Morgorth or Sauron, but in the literary sense, in these modern times where good and evil are often hard to distinguish, we are witnessing the battles in the corporate realm, and this is one the Tolkien’s have lost. This is due to the brand that is 'Tolkien' - it is no longer a family name denoting an artist and deeply, vastly imaginative creative genius of an author, it is now a corporate monster - a money making machine, grown beyond humble control and/or opposition. Despite this though, the family retains the moral high ground. It is a position of slight, a faint glimmer of the remaining but eroded artistic moral and ethic - but was this not the same sort of faint glimmer of integrity in a dark world that Frodo faced before his epic quest? The odds are rarely in your favour. Here's the link to the translated Christopher Tolkien interview with Le Monde, via thetolkiensociety.org "My Father's 'Eviscerated' work' - J.R.R. Tolkien's son breaks 40 year silence. You're welcome to share your thoughts on this in the comments... {*** Happy New Year to all, wishing you a blessed 2014. This is going to be a great year! God Bless and thanks for visiting the first post of the new year... Regards Steven. ***} I thought of posting this video/song simply because its cool, but as so often happens, it does tie in well with a broader message and theme permeating in South Africa today, Madiba has been laid to a much deserved rest, but a huge part of his legacy remains within us - a part he fought and was prepared to die for: FREEDOM. Additionally, mandela always said that music and Dancing put him at peace with the world... The 'free' sung about in this video (by Rudimental featuring Emeli Sande) is complete in its openness - its the freedom we yearn for but so seldom exercise. We have been liberated, so don't live like you're still oppressed... it all starts in the mind. An African Myth A poem by Steven Benjamin From humble hills A heart starts to beat Walking begins From humble teachings Breaking a branch “Troublemaker” is born A mind grows No boundaries found, but what he sees. A man of blood and bone, and of the earth. A tormented land, thirsty Quenched, only with the blood of its own people. Within the division, He grows He is armed The land knows his name Shackles now, and resolve In the dungeons kept Land and frigid sea, between His blood, from youth, and love Reformed in the cold of night and blinding heat of day Behind high walls and in rocky quarries A brotherhood is sealed. And through the wire and the stone, his voice grows His spirit remains. But the body withers His name is known Bullets fly, bodies fall A nation walks to the edge The bloodied hand of the Abyss beckons The gates open with the chant of the people for the cage must be unlocked The man steps forth The world takes a breath. One last brother falls The Abyss steps closer... But, the boundaries seen are broken, My heart beats as yours To kill you, is to kill me His heart beats For his people, and rampant land. Peace He broke a branch once Perhaps from an Olive tree And extended his hand gracefully, To his fearful enemy ... - Years pass That fearful day nears When the land will reclaim a man The people will cry tears to soak the once bloodied ground And the heavens will cry too An old man’s heart stops beating... And the world stops, for a moment. He is sent back His body taken, Back into those humble hills - This is the story of a boy, a man, a husband, a father, a Chief, a lawyer, a leader, a soldier, a freedom fighter, a prisoner, a peacemaker, a reconciler, a liberator, a president, a humanitarian, a King, a legend, a hero, an icon… the father of a democratic nation, the son of an African land... the closest incarnation of that ancient African myth, where all hope, is in but one, an incorruptible one. Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela 1918 - 2013 ... [God Bless all, 2013 is marks the first full year of publication of this blog, here's to a waaay bigger 2014. I'll be a little preoccupied in this end of year festivities and travels. Be safe, be blessed, hug your family and friends, and keep on reading and writing. thanks to all my first time visitors as well as dedicated loyalists, Cheers - I take my proverbial hat off to you!] |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
WRITING
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