Poem: Ode to the New Year

Ode to the New Year

Here’s to the sound of popping bottles

And loud intoxication.

Here’s to kisses and laughter

And tears and wailing.

Here’s a toast to all that can be hoped,

And to naïve blindness.

Here’s to the fathers and mothers

Whose prayers a stork might answer.

Here’s to the unlovable,

May your heart be nurtured.

Here’s to the sinner,

A clean slate to flout.

Here’s to the hops and barley

And all the other good things.

Here’s to you and me,

May we be more than we are slated to become.

"SAKABAKA"

New Poem: Grateful Profession

I wrote this poem a few days ago and it's dedicated to my former co-workers at the International Community School in Decatur, Georgia. I had lots of fun there and I miss it greatly. Here's to those brave souls that give so much of themselves so the future is a little brighter for some child.

 Grateful Profession

Sing a hmyn to joy,
Let its course weave through
Lips as airy an autumn breath.
Hail the brave
And their work
As shining souls skimp, elated
Through halls devoid of character
but filled with grateful shrills.
Leave the hive
and prepare honey
for them that seek the journey forward
with hopes of setting hearts free
in a world criminally discriminant.
My hat I tip
For unabashed love
of years of nurture bearing meager wealth
but great personal reward
to them that make children laugh in life.


This is the first draft, I will edit it and figure out what to do with it later, but I wanted to include it here for reasons listed above. The title "Grateful Profession" does not match, but that's all I can come up with at the moment.
Enjoy and visit the school website for more info here.

A Poem::: A Reign of Joy

I started Exile Calling in hopes of eliminating posting my work on this site or on Facebook, but I have so much material now that if I keep releasing one poem of mine in the monthly Exile Calling, I would go years before I would run out. The good news, however, is that I'm compiling a list of poems chronicling my journey in exile. So far, I have selected 32 of which I'm very confident and have edited a few time already- at least for most of them.
In the meantime, here's one I came up with and hope you like. It will not make it into this particular compilation, but I will need to edit it a few times before I can think of doing anything with it.

A Reign of Joy

From the wispiest breath

Is born the gayest of laughter

When the brightest light

Of an ebony sky is borne

By a dejected firefly.

A lover’s caress bears

To fruition the skipping of a heart

Tender and longing for a return

On its investment of kind.

The laughter and light;

The breath and the fiery fly;

The lovers and the night: All

Join in harmony as joy

Reigns for a moment in time.

A Christmas Reunion

Usually, there is nothing for me to be excited about at Christmas. I have no kids, wife, or much of an extensive family to gather, celebrate, and get excited about the gifts under the tree. This year, however, Christmas can’t get here fast enough, and that’s because I’m getting the greatest gift anyone could give me: my mom.

My story begins in the former Soviet Union with the meeting, and falling in love, of a Rwandan student and a Russian woman. He was the son of a pastor, she was the daughter of a KGB officer. He believed in God and she did not. However, they both shared a spirit of independence and persistence.

Her father kept her under house arrest for six months to keep them apart, but they still managed to see each other during that time. My father was threatened physically, but my grandparents also saw their careers’ demise in their daughter’s involvement with a foreign, black person from a non-communist country.

My grandfather died a few months after my mother told him of her plans to marry my father, and she was blamed for his death by family, friends, and associates. Her mother told the director of the prison where she worked that she had no daughter, and refused transportation that he had offered to take her to my parents’ wedding.

Five months after I was born, my father’s student visa expired and he elected to go back to his native Rwanda, find a good job, and send for my mother, who still had a year left to finish her studies.

Twenty six years have passed since, and they never saw each other again. My father took me because he didn’t want his son growing up in an overtly racist society. They communicated for a while, but soon their communications were being intercepted. He thought she had left him, and she thought he had found another woman. Her friends, remembering my father, told her he had forgotten her with his drinking and womanizing.

Years passed, war came to Rwanda and I was separated from my father, too. I was eleven years old when I left my father and set off on a flight that has taken me through four African countries and the U.S. I have not seen my father since, but I’ve always hoped to see him again sometime.

A few months ago I received a message through an online social website about a woman looking for her son, and asking if I knew a man by my father’s name from Rwanda and who left the Soviet Union in 1983 with his son. I was dumbfounded. Everything was a haze for the next few days. I had so many questions, and she had so many tears. We tried to talk by phone but she was overwhelmed by emotions. We decided to chat online, instead.

She told me everything from the very beginning. About how they met, how they fell in love, and the hurdles they endured. She told me everything between then and now. About the death of both her brother and mother, and her mother’s prediction, before she passed away in January 2009, that we would meet again soon. My mother stressed her mother’s love for me, and I had no doubts about that.

She had already made plans to come see her friend in Los Angeles, but we agreed she would come to visit me in Upstate New York and her friend in L.A. would come here, too.

Meeting my mother is much more than knowing the story of what happened, however, it is about knowing where I come from and how that is manifested in my behavior. I learned things I had not bothered to find out in the past, such as my blood type and the fact that I’m anemic, which explains my constant tiredness. I learned my mother was as much a nomad as I was, constantly moving from place to place (I have lived in 14 residences, 8 cities, and 4 States in my 10 years in America). I also saw the similarities in the way we sometimes tilted our heads while posing for pictures.

But I also learned that I had a lot in common with my grandfather than I thought I never knew who he was or what he did until a year ago, but my interests were etched in his DNA. She also told me about my Ukrainian, Moldovan, and Polish roots. Facts I couldn’t have known otherwise.

All those years of not knowing and fear of asking seem so far away, their memory slowly fading with time, but they help enhance the feelings currently inundating my heart. Now I know I have a mother who’s always looked for me; who’s always loved me. I believe that’s what Christmas is about- an undying love- and I plan to give my thanks for all this year has brought for me- including my first Christmas with my mom.

A Charlie Brown Christmas

Some of you will remember the purchase of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree and the ensuing idea of creating the house, Snoopy, and Charlie Brown from a pile of styrofoam I had hanging around from all the items we ordered after we moved here. I didn't want to waste the styrofoam and, being an artist, I figured I could do something nice from it. If you don't remember the article, here it is.

The Kernel
I considered this to be the hardest of the three, so I began with it. At first, I wanted to glue different smaller pieces of styrofoam together, but the glue ate away at the styrofoam and didn't bind anything.

However, I figured I could use twigs to bind the two...and it worked.

I went away from putting together a bunch of small pieces of styrofoam and settled on using four larger pieces for walls; two large triangular ones for the roof support, and two large ones for the roof. I cut out the space for the door and put them together using twigs.

I wasn't worried too much by the ragged edges as the bright lights and decorations would take the attention away from that later on.

Next, I actually used tape to hold the pieces closer together as I planned to put the exhibit outside, and it had to weather the wind gusts common to the area.

I drew the lines across and wrote Snoopy at the front. I really didn't intend to keep the lines straight either...the decorations would take away from that.

Here's a video of the finished kernel.

Snoopy

The next in line to be created was Snoopy. I selected a large piece of styrofoam to draw him and then cut him out.











Charlie Brown

I wanted to make him taller than Snoopy, but it wouldn't have worked because I had drawn Snoopy about as high as the styrofoam piece was--which was the same height as the one I drew Charlie Brown on. So, I added an extra piece for his head, and a sm
aller piece for the tip of his cap.

















I put them together with twigs and reinforced them with tape.
The end result of the cutouts were like this.

The final exhibit through my patio window looks like this:

I would like to put them outside, but it's too windy and they are too flimsy...I have to figure out a way to make them stay, then maybe I will put them outside.




It was fun making this project, and I'm glad I got to put to use the styrofoam that would have been otherwise thrown away...I still have a lot left over, but I hope I have minimized the senseless waste of our resources...I hope I can come up with some other project so I don't have to waste these...makes me feel bad.
Merry Christmas, folks, and I wish you the best in the coming year.

A Charlie Brown Christmas::: Update

I talked about creating a Charlie Brown Christmas exhibit for this holiday and now I'm almost done. I really just started a few days ago- true to my procrastinating soul- but I should be done later on today (Sunday evening). Here is the article I wrote before.
Now here are a couple of videos on the update.



The next one is the latest.



I will post finished product later on.
And here is the finished cutouts to show size.

Charlie Brown is about 5'4 and Snoopy is half that or so.

Christmas: Redemption from Exile

I have announced plans to invite other writers in exile to contribute to both the blog and the Exile Calling journal. I will include a poem in the February issue from a mystery writer (he/she will be revealed, of course) and today I'm including a piece from another writer here on the blog.
I hope you enjoy, and thanks for visiting.

YOUR WORTH!

By Edna Nakalungi

“ 'Tis the season…”what happens when you hear those words?
For some it's a reminder that their loved ones' may measure their worth according to the presents they will give them come Christmas
Others are reminded that the year is coming to a close and begin to measure their own worth according to the accomplishments they have achieved during the past year
Yet others deem themselves not worth much as they take note of how they failed to even fulfill their new year's resolutions within weeks of making them
What of those who measure their worth by what others think of them?

If we fall into any of those categories then we are missing the real reason for the season
A little play called "All On A Christmas Day" presented as part of The Living Christmas Tree brought this point home for me
(http://www.livingtree2008.com/drama.html)
In it, we follow the life of a man who, like many of us, strived to leave his mark on this world so that his life would have been one of value
At least that is how he saw it
His desire to do something that would forever leave his name indelibly printed in others' minds as a Hollywood star or a war hero was great
Needless to say he failed miserably at these attempts and was not content settling for being a husband and father;  and hence abandoned his family in pursuit of this elusive dream

Decades later we find that this man is still just "Rufus" and no one is asking for his autograph
The only one who thinks of him as a hero of sorts as he sits helpless suffering the debilitating effects of a stroke is his great grand-daughter
Ironically Rufus was born on Christmas Day
After years of striving to do something with his life that would make him think of himself as someone of worth we in the audience come to the realization that Rufus would have lived a much more fulfilled life if he had realized that to God he was worth everything
It made many of us think like Rufus

This Christmas (and every day), let us all remember that our value lies not in such things but in the fact that we

have a HERO to emulate by our loving service to others, not expecting accolades or our name in lights 

This Christmas (and every day), let us spend time worshipping and praising God for the gift of His only begotten

Son who died so we could live;  who came down so we could rise up;  who became a Servant so we could be called

children of a King.

This Christmas (and every day), let us celebrate the One who was exiled in human flesh so we could be set free

from the bondage of sin

For God loved us that He sent His only begotten Son that all who believe in Him may not perish but have eternal

 life. (John 3:16)

'Tis the season to celebrate the beginning of our redemption story.  Merry and blessed Christmas everyone to you and yours and may you always remember what you and others are truly worth!

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART SLEEPS

I have been asked, even by family, what it is I left in Africa for me to always think about. What could be so overwhelmingly enthralling that I wouldn't focus on getting a good job here in the States and just living a long life of luxury here in exile?
I have given this question more thought than people realize, and I have come to the conclusion that my heart, simply, is not here. I am here physically, but, spiritually, I'm sailing the vast savannah, scaling the beautiful peaks, and flowing with the majestic rivers. My heart's feet beat down on the dirt paths well-etched on the fibers of my mind, pounding on the compressed memories, each one reminding me of a giggle or tear of long ago.
The Africa I knew as a child was a paradise. It was charming but it's belly rumbled with overflowing venin. I can't claim it as the land of my birth, but it raised and nurtured me the way my birthplace would have done had it had the opportunity to. As it was in my personal life with my mother birthing me and not being able to raise me, so it was with the land. Africa, which had given its blood to me through my father, took care of me the best way it could.
It showed me its beauty and its ugliness; its charm and its repulsiveness; its head and tail. It bestowed upon me the ability to see beauty in all its ways. To see order in chaos. I learned to expect reward or chastisement with every action. All this was engraved on the walls of my heart.
Today, should you ask me what I like most about Africa, I wouldn't tell you that it's landscapes, nature, or even people; but rather the idea...its essence. Africa is an Idea that beckons, challenges, and brutalizes should you not be up to the challenge. It requires nothing short of a selflessness and humility that is often touted by foreign religions. It's a feeling that all will be alright even if you are not physically present to see it all well-aligned.
That is the hope that drives many in exile whose hearts, like mine, simply have not left that beautiful landmass. Soon, I hope to visit the land of my mother - the land whose ears felt the feeble first wails of my bewildered soul- but, even that, will not change the love I feel for my mother Africa. Every night, my heart leaves my body and sails on the night breath to the land of my ancestors to sleep and renew for the rigors of the next day.
That is why I say home is where the heart sleeps. Africa is where my heart sleeps. Africa is my home.

Humorous Tombstones

I haven't posted anything for a few days, now, as I have been busy with house cleaning and we had a visitor over the weekend. I rediscovered the joy of playing monopoly, but, unfortunately, I kept getting in financial trouble...much like my personal life. Anyways, I've had an article I wrote about culture, and another one about how special this Christmas is for me, but I was going through my old photographs and editing them with a new software I just downloaded when I saw some pictures of the fake cemetery at Stone Mountain Park in Stone Mountain, Ga.
I found them amusing, so much so that I decided I would share them with you...I will put up the culture one later and the Christmas piece sometime next week.

Jackson's Funeral Parlor

The Epithet reads: Jackson's Funeral Parlor. Open year round for your convenience.
In other words, they will be there when you need them...they couldn't make it any easier for the departed than that.

Georgia Native

They forgot Georgia Lynched!!! jk, I love Georgia.










Lead Hunter

Shouldn't have checked your guns before you went into that saloon, buddy...tough luck!!!








SURPRISE!!!!
Can you find a better example of an ambush???










Unbelievable

Well, you shouldn't have cried wolf all those other times.









Totally Gone

Aptly named.










Name is Everything

Lester's brother...true to his name even in death. You have to give it to their father, an insightful man.









Consequences

I'm tempted to go Tiger Woods on this one, but I will restrain myself...I don't know whether to feel bad for Pa or not...you decide.









Private's

Poor fella...I have a feeling he was prone to peeling potatoes!!!
















Shelled by God

At least you're in a better place!!!










I hope you enjoyed them as much as I did...and if you are able to, visit Stone Mountain Park. I used to go and take my boys when I lived down there, and I will go soon as I visit Atlanta again. The park has a thousand and one things you can enjoy by yourself,or with friends or family.

Identity

It's hard for someone in exile to find a category in which to place himself. Many times, the exile wants to distance himself from his past, its pains, and its baggage, yet is unwilling to fully embrace the present, whether or not it welcomes him or not. Exile is a dubious place to be. No matter how accepted you might be, those open arms can be withdrawn at any time, leaving you friendless in a hostile land. So, for the exile, life, dreams, possibilities, and future are all constantly weighed against the approval, or disapproval, of their new communities as well as their old.
I have found it is even more precarious as a writer. I have to determine who to hawk my writings to. Who do I target? My people? My adopted brothers and sisters? Do I classify my work as Black or White? Does "American Literature" describe it? Do I have to write in my native language in order to be perceived as a Rwandan writer?
I write my stories and the people here say it's too African, while the Africans say it's not African enough. I am told I speak with a foreign accent by both sides. Not American enough, and too American. I try to diffuse the sentiment; to make them understand how it is to be in exile; to see the lens through which I am forced to view life.
So, I write a short story about a teacher- an African teacher- who came to America and focused on his work. He is an exile, haunted by past memories, yet trudging on forward at his task. He is successful and doesn't burden the system that has opened its doors to him. He shares the pains of both lands. He shares their identity. He is born and groomed in Africa, but he achieves his success and dies in America. Well, the story is written through his eyes, so he is not dead yet- but will be soon.
I want the story to appeal to both groups, but it does to none. It might lie in the story itself not having the qualities of a good story that I addressed in an earlier post, but I am wondering if it might not be a detachment of sorts by an audience unable to relate to the protagonist.
That's a poor example, besides the story just came out yesterday and only a handful of people have seen it, let alone commented on it. My poor mother thought it was true and almost had a heart attack - she should have read from the beginning where it clearly stated the subject's age as seventy-three. There have also been many exiles who write stories about it and who have garnered a lot of support, so it's not impossible to accomplish, but it's a lot harder than I previously thought.
I am up to the challenge, though, and I am working hard to project my experiences the way they impacted me. God-willing, I will accomplish that to the enjoyment of many...myself include.

Fanaticism

Growing up, I remember crowding the radio as a soccer match was narrated through its lone speaker. My grandmother would sit in a chair, away from the radio which perched on the mantle above the fireplace, listening and cheering, though not as anxious as I, for her team. I don't recall exactly which team won when, but I figure they broke even over time. I was young but I could have gave my right thumb for my team to win...okay, maybe not my left thumb, but definitely my cherished bagel. What baffles me now, however, is that I liked the team because it was my father's favorite team and, I think, I did it to make him happy. To emulate the man I wanted to please and in whom I wanted to place my loyalties.
What's also interesting is that this kind of ignorant fanaticism spans many areas of life, even turning docile churchgoers into semi fire-breathing dragons (or dragos) at the slight perception of slight against their religious beliefs. My focus is not on religious fanaticism, however, but rather on the literary kind.
I profess, without misgivings, to be afflicted by this impediment. There are authors whose work I can't help but adulate in the most impudent of manners. Writers like Edgar Alan Poe, Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Mark Twain, Chinua Achebe, Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, Dan Fulani and Zane Gray. These are not the only writers whose skill I admire, but I noted these for a reason. They are the ones that nurtured my love to read and write in its infancy.
I first attended school in the English language in Zimbabwe. I was a raw, 11-year old Rwandan refugee in a foreign land doing his best to fit into his new community. Ever since I crossed into Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) and saw a fly, I had come to realize that amahanga (foreign lands) were the same as Rwanda. For some strange reason, I had previously thought garbage and flies were only found in Rwanda, as amahanga was "paradise." What these authors did for me was to bring amahanga into visions of my mind. Visions that I could understand and relate to. I could see poor Oliver Twist enduring chaos with an impressive will to survive; to see Matigari and imagine myself in his situation, trying to bring unity among my people; to see the American West through eyes as adoring as the heart that created that rugged landscape. These authors, as I was learning the new language, taught me the art of storytelling- weaving emotions, disguised as people, through a vast array of situations that, in the end, alter those emotions to a desired mold. I was mesmerized.
It's only fair, however, to point out that there are other authors I read, as I was a voracious reader, and I want to thank them for the path on which they placed my feet. Nearly every English teacher I've had has always encouraged me to write, so I would like to thank them, too. I would love to thank the writers, teachers, family, friends, colleagues, and strangers that have seen a promising flame in my work and goaded me on. I, also, hope one day I will instill a certain sense of fanaticism in a young reader as those before me have done. At least, this type of fanaticism injures no one...I hope.

Sakabaka: What's in a name

Today, the third issue of Exile Calling has been released and, in addition to the other works included in there, there is the announcement that I have chosen "Sakabaka" as my nom de plume. Traditionally, we Rwandans have carried only one name, but the Belgian colonizers forced people to adapt "Christian" or "civilized" first names to be baptized. Our names, however, always had meaning.
My last name, MUTABAZI, was inherited from my father, who received it from his parents for a purpose. The story goes as such: My grandparents' firstborn was a girl, followed by a boy. The third was a girl, and the girls teased the boy and he felt overpowered. When my grandmother was pregnant for the forth time, my uncle (the second born) went to the hospital carrying flowers for the sibling he hoped was a boy. Unfortunately for him, the child was a girl and it's only fair to say he was crushed, but he, nonetheless, gave his newest sister the flowers.
From then on, he prayed for a boy. A few years later, my father was born and my uncle named him Samuel, "Asked of God." My grandparents, however, called him Mutabazi "savior or helper" because he had come to save his brother from the girls.
Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, I was born in a society where people take their fathers' last names. I love my name and it means a lot, both to me and in meaning: Edouard "Guardian" Samuilovich "Son of the one asked of God" Mutabazi "Savior". So, I'm a guardian savior who is the son of the one asked of God. I wouldn't call it bad.
But, I want a name that I feel represents me. Sakabaka is a raptor bird found in Rwanda. We feared it as children growing up, but we were always amazed to see it soaring in the skies above, relaxed and, seemingly, exuding  confidence. Sakabaka, folklore has it, also knows everything. You ask it whatever you want and it will give you an answer. I don't claim to have all the answers, but I have many that I haven't been asked yet. I would love to point out that, although we do have them in Rwanda, this was not picked because it is our clan or lineage totem.
There's much I still need to learn about my culture and I hope to be able to compose works in Kinyarwanda soon, or, at least, have mine translated. I would love my people to read my work. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my work and the messages it carries.

***I have come to find out that the proper English name of sakabaka is "black kite."

A coupon for a free book

As a thank you to people that visit this site, I have decided to offer my short play, Nogood, Nowhere: A Play, on smashwords.com and even generated a coupon code to use to read it for FREE. This is a limited time offering and I hope you like it. It's an e-book, but you can get it for your Kindle, as a PDF, or in different formats.
If you like it, please check back for the release of Where Flies Flock, due out in February 2010.
Visit here and enter this code when you purchase it(not case sensitive): GC73Z.
Also, the December issue of Exile Calling comes out tomorrow, be on the lookout for it.
Thank you, I hope you love it, and keep visiting.

A Good Storyteller, I Am Not

I have come to conclude, after much contemplation, that I am not a good storyteller. Yes, I do write and, yes, you might find some of what I write interesting, but that, I must confess, does not establish my mastery of storytelling. I have my reasons for saying so, and it is not, as might be thought by some, a concoction to entice you to ready my work, but rather an admission from one who has failed to attain that which his profession most demands.
See, a good storyteller will invite you into his world and have you make it yours as well. He, or she, will dazzle you with mirages, fooling you into springing them to life. The effects are amazing; your palms and pits drool, your heart palpitates, your eyelids omit their purpose, and your over-excited mind has to be calmed of its anxiety to know what the next letter, word, or page will unveil. That is a good storyteller.
I, on the other hand, will tell a singular story in a singular manner with neither straying into the forays of welcoming nor those of accommodating. They are from a single viewpoint; with myself as the principle subject and the narrator, a fact dearly despised by my friend and author, Rob. I must admit that it hobbles my ability to totally project others' feelings and secrets, but it also enables me to palpate the inner-most of my muses, and bring them out for the world to weigh. My loves, hates, fears and ambitions are laid bare for the reader to witness and judge accordingly.
All in all, I admit I do lack possession of what it is that would make me a good storyteller, but the thought of ceding my place as a simple storyteller is one which I have no notion entertaining. So, be vigilant of a story by me and, should you happen to come across one, enjoy it keeping in mind that it is NOT by a good storyteller.

Staying Focused

I don't know why I feel as if I can accomplish more tasks simultaneously than an eight-armed superman, but it might lie in the youth that still sizzles in my veins. My head is about to explode thinking about the promises I've made, the obligations I have to fulfill, and the dreams I hope to accomplish. I have to admit I have a hard time saying no, but I also know that I can accomplish a lot of things if I can learn to allocate time to tasks in a much more disciplined manner. I waste a lot of time, and the bad thing about that is that once you lose it it never comes back, so I am constantly in this cycle of highs (when I accomplish something) and lows (when I waste time and do nothing).

Next Monday will see the release of the third issue of the Exile Calling journal, which has seen readership steadily increase, and I hope to take a few days after that getting a few contacts together to help get some of my articles published some time next year. I also have to keep up with the numerous forums I belong to online in order to connect with readers and other authors...it's a way for me to win their minds and affections before I swoop in for their purses...I kid , I kid...Anyways, add in the fact that I have to cook at home and you see that I need at least 6 or 7 more hours in a day to the allocated 24. I made the deal to cook while my girlfriend cleans, so I brought that last one upon myself.
Anyways, I am trying hard to keep things in order and stave off the madness I feel rushing to devour and feast upon this hapless creature that is me. I will not let it, however, as I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I'm about to employ one of them right now...the impregnable nap.
Thank you for coming, and I encourage all of you struggling with balancing the date book to find a few tricks to help you right the ship and keep going to reach the next port in time. Best of luck and keep writing!!!

ps. I just like the photo I took and thought I'd post it here even though it has nothing to do with the post. Enjoy both!!!

Kanyana: A poem

My previous post addressed the subject of writer's block and what I do when I've been blessed by such an abomination, as folks in my profession doubtlessly regard it. I mentioned that I switch to poetry and hope something comes from it. Well, today brought me a few things: cold weather, sunny skies, life, and, you guessed it, writer's block. Being a seasoned pro at this, I quickly focused on poetry and I started writing whatever idea came to mind. To build upon yesterday's topic, I figured I would post a poem that I just wrote out of my encounter with that bitterest of enemies of writers renowned. Here it is, titled Kanyana in my native Kinyarwanda and addressing the 1994 genocide. I will most definitely edit it as this is the rough draft, but I still hope you enjoy.

Kanyana***

Rivers empty tears

No longer choked by ignorance

Reigning rampant across the land.

Kanyana stands on the bank

Searching for her family

Amid the flotilla of emptied shells

Cruising at the speed of the current.

Her cheeks are devoid of tear tracks,

Her calf eyes dehydrated by sorrow.

Life, like the river, moves past her

To empty into a distant memory

As heartless as the hate

That orphaned her so early in years.

Her little soul unable to understand

Or bear the pain tearing at her heart

Shudders and flees her weakened corps.

The little body rolls towards the brown liquid

Where it might find its parents in time.

Her spirit remains rooted at that final spot

Unable to flee from her vigilance post.

In time a blue rose sprouts forth

From the spot between two ancient

Tiny footprints. Kanyana’s sorrow

Manifested for theworld

To see and never forget.

Edouard S. Mutabazi

December 2, 2009

1^st Draft

***Kanyana means little heifer. In Rwanda, calves are highly prized and a symbol of wealth.

To Write or Not To Write...That Shouldn't Be The Question

Often, I feel like I'm writing to a deaf world. I sit and pour whatever flows from within onto a screen and put it up for the world to judge. Sometimes, it feels as if the world has already left and I'm the only one remaining in the vicinity of my story. I'm sure this happens to a lot of writers, especially beginners, such as I, who have to prove themselves as legit. I have no problem with making the rounds of submissions and playing the waiting game...I've become a pro at that. I, also, have no problem observing and learning from other readers and writers I interact with daily.
What I have a problem with is the gray expanse of time when mind and fingers refuse to plot together to make letters appear on my notebook screen. I huff and puff but I feel like I've encountered the brick house of the literary world. During a time such as this, you can find me sullen as a desert slug, frustrated by circumstances I feel are beyond my reproach, at the mercy of a power higher than I- a muse as inconsiderate as wedding-day rain showers.
I, however, refuse to be fooled by the perceived absence of my muse. To write or not to write is never an entertained dilemma in my realm. I find it easy to start one or more poems to see what kind of creativity they might awaken, and this usually works to unclog ideas that had been previously stuck.
So, if you find yourself facing the proverbial writer's block, switch to poems and see what that might do for you. I find that poetry usually flows out of me easier than short stories or plays, so that might be the same for you, too.
If you have something else that works for you in such instances, please share. Thanks.