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.