Suffering Agony, suffering, hurt, anguish
Sadness Depression, despair, hopelessness, gloom, glumness, sadness, unhappiness, grief, sorrow, woe, misery, melancholy
Disappointment (Dismay, disappointment, displeasure)
Shame (Guilt, shame, regret, remorse)
Neglect (Alienation, isolation, neglect, loneliness, rejection, homesickness, defeat, dejection, insecurity, embarrassment, humiliation, insult)
Sympathy (Pity, sympathy)
Wenn ich rauch,
Und mich in Rauch tauch,
Mir egal die Wirkung auf meinen Hauch.
Wenn ich schlaff,
Nicht Aufgaben schaff
Mir egal was sagt der Chef.
Wenn ich fahr,
Betrunken, 300km sogar,
Mir egal wen ich treffe, im Verkehr.
Wenn ich Raves geniesse,
Und guten Sinn ausschliesse,
Mir egal, ob meine Eltern zu Hause unruhig schwitzen.
Wenn ich endlich sterb,
Mein Geist verlässt seinen Korb,
Mir egal wohin ich gehe, beobachtet wie gut ich gerade leb.
(c) Nyonglema
I’ve seen mirages, images of bright joy,
But they were just images, like child toys.
I found blessing, but little did my eyes see,
And I found a curse within and my heart bleeds.
All I sought was smiles on my face and theirs.
Laughs from peers and a happy tomorrow, my prayer;
Leading the right way, and stopping all from straying,
But I’m not he! No not he! I’m lost in life’s string.
As my last breath bathes my philtrum, leads to my coffin,
I think: “Had I but made my soul a better home,
So it could run in glee like a school of dolphins
And yield aught! My existence can now be labelled ‘Nought’.”
What singular body of the spheres is missed at night,
As the orchestra plays starlight beyond the moon in its might?
Substitution for failed parts, that’s all I crave,
And comfort on all who’ll stoop at my grave.
Colourful dreams, thoughts and hopes I knew since!
But new pain digs deep and I’m a fish without fins;
The current is strong and I can’t swim home,
The current events prove I’ll soon be lost in the foam.
Not so it is (I believe) to hurt the mettle.
But my frail meddled interior weeps to settle
He hurt us, and now she hurts me worse!
Is being trampled upon and abused part of the curse?
You my Maker who masters the clay and blows the Breath
Grant to all daily bread beneath Heaven’s hearth,
But to the lifeless only eternal rest;
When I’m gone may joy reign at last, for gone is the worst.
(c) Nyonglema
…..sometimes writing down the hurt can help you get out of it…this is where I was at that time.
The soft wind combed her silken hair,
She stood there
Looking at me; a mere mortal she saw
Looking at her shawl.
I saw the accursed bruises she bore
Like a slave at the oar;
Her silver skin striped in black and blue
(She wished I knew).
Her wilted lips losing their colour,
Cut; what horror!
Her clothes told not of misery, but of fights;
Even through long nights,
The clashing of metal. “Oh! Such is not woman’s mettle”,
Myself I said to.
Then she uttered a ghastly echo, as if in strain:
“In vain
I’ve tried to cross, and have suffered like He on the cross”
I was so cross!
I stood wondering at the sight at Earth’s borders.
But worse yet are the plights of my earthly brothers
Who shunned this beauty. May Destiny forgive us.
(c) Nyonglema
What happens when karma turns right around?
What’s clapping to demagogues’ speeches as they mount
Lie on lie,
Promising Sugar Candy mountains,
Each word thought as false as the applaud of the crowd
Gathering round?
What happens when arms turn your life around?
What’s laughing at demographic decay as bombs amount.
The sun’s less bright;
Dust, blood shoveled on rotting corpse mountains,
Each door wrapt in pain, writhing in tears at the shrouds
Which will cost heavy amounts?
What happens when mama’s turned down to the ground?
What happens in your heart as that man strips and mounts
Before your eye,
And rips and rakes; all those shrieks you hate mounting,
Each bone crimped in pain at so sad a sound
Tearing your tears out?
What happens when the army toss your dad around
With laughing? With machete slash his mouth,
Burst his eyes,
Chop him and put another piece to the corpse mountain;
Each part calling your sorrow as flames on the mountain fume in their bout
And your fingers are gripping the ground?
Mama Africa, can’t you see the arid ground
Soaking up the blood of your children?
Why are you so deaf to the sound?
Why are we cleft so profound into hateful factions?
…
So many questions,
No answers.
That leaves me pondering:
What happens when we’ve stomped all our brethren underground?
(c) Nyonglema
Round the table we sat four,
Rejoicing; how pleasing it is to pass an exam.
Joy from the heart of paradise in our core
And wallets ready to vomit pleasure:
Four bottles to feast
Pop the flame out of its cyst,
A trail of dehydrating pleasure down my throat,
Flooding my sinews like a broken-down damn;
So it all began: one glass.
One bottle, four bottles empty;
I feel my pulse climbing higher,
My temperature, yet second bottle is tempting.
Whirlpool waking within, reaching the land of plenty,
Are the other three hit?
They look pretty sober.
The black beauty kept slithering down my throat,
Tickling sensation spreading speedily southwards.
How long before I finish this second bottle?
Two bottles, eight bottles empty.
Is it really the floor I feel under my feet?
I am on a Zeppelin, now I’ve the heart of a beast!
Speaking from the heart, inhibitions rended:
Louder, louder, higher.
Singing, shouting, screaming.
Control still within, I wouldn’t break all oaths.
For sure, I was losing it, my liquor loosing the brain;
How long, before I realise I should stop?
Three bottles, many bottles empty,
Are all three of them floating too after these three?
Looks like; listen to the parley!
For loud hawkers we were,
No wares to hawk, but how loud we revelled.
I dared not turn round, look at the onlookers.
No! Gather your spilled senses together;
Hearing, seeing, touching, tasting, smelling
All confused in burning honey on my palate.
Spending, why did I get a fourth?
Four bottles, or how many?
Dilated pupils, my Zeppelin was taking off,
No need to ask anybody: we were four and drunk;
Rapping rowdily on the table,
Babbling. Today I pity the bar owner.
However, it was no surprise to him,
We started to laugh, one is throwing up.
Bet you would not comprehend,
Why the barmaid brought the sixth.
Many many bottles on the table,
We start discussing politics,
Our parliamentarians could not have done better.
We switch to football, argued about lawns,
Started a debate on ants, about the Queen’s pants!
Oh God, here goes the, hmm-th…bottle…?
We drag our weight out, zigzag on the street.
My door is over there, somewhere there,
In fact, our homes aren’t far.
Hmm-th bottles to our lips, the stream flowing in,
Four blind men aiming at nowhere.
I got up in a gutter,
Trousers soaked in urine,
And next week I’ll go for one more glass.
( c) Nyonglema Pisoh
Count your blessings
Hit the mark more often
Reading, Writing, Hearing and Tasting the Art of Life
When reluctance gives in to the urge of expression....
waghni 