Black Looks

“My mother would
Say, ‘those gay people
Are unnatural…’ just a
Product of her time”.
My Attention asked of her
Thoughts hidden behind
Unspoken present angst:
yalo -the masculine woman,
Ito -the Transgender man,
Julio -The transman, the sworn
Fag hag armed with his
Perky breasts to boot
Are examples to us all
Who do or who do not
Inhabit gender variant
Space. Normative gender
In it’s paranoid
Restriction aims to rob us
All of diversity if not our
Very lives. “I love this woman,
Or what is sh…”
“A woman; a transwoman!” said agent
Provocateur, Easel Pastel.
“Sh looks too masculine though,
Don’t you think?” “A woman!” I said
Sternly, almost alarmed.
“Specifically; a woman.
Women come in all
Shapes & sizes. Nobody is
An Island, no man or
Woman, no Island fare”.
Nobody knows diversity
Until they come face to
Face with it without fear.

Here with gratitude to
All transgender, gender
-Queer & gendered Alike,
Listen up people: nobody
Knows anything they do
Not acknowlegde out of
Fear. Do not judge
Anything from a position
Of fear. There is always
Something new beneath
The face of heaven,
Always, always, always.
Here with gratitude to
Say what we have all
Long suspected but darn’t
Openly or outwardly
Speak lest we are found
Wanting & undesirably so.
Under the aegis of age old
Trade in humans for gain
Easel’s new treasures
Emerged for us to see.
On display the imps of ire:
The fear of failure,
onstructed supremacy,
The down turned gazes
At the private viewing
That lay present, proud.
Forever courageously
Flowing within my family:
My gender free brothers,
My gender free sisters,
The gender attached
Others too forgetfully
Unaware of their own
Passionate prejudices
Will talk when their
Guards are down, down, Down.

Un oiseau passe
éclair de plumes
dans le courrier du crépuscule
VA
VOLE
ET DIS-LEUR
Dis-leur que tu viens d’un pays
formé dans une poignée de main
un pays simple comme bonjour
où les nuits chantent
pour conjurer la peur des lendemains
dis-leur
que nous sommes une bouchée
répartie sur sept îles
comme les sept couleurs de la semaine
mais que jamais ne vient
le dimanche de nous-mêmes
VA
VOLE
ET DIS-LEUR
Dis-leur que les marées
ouvrent la serrure de nos mémoires
que parfois le passé souffle
pour attiser nos flammes
car un peuple qui oublie
ne connaît plus la couleur des jours
il va comme un aveugle dans la nuit du présent
dis-leur que nous passons d’île en île
sur le pont du soleil
mais qu’il n’y aura jamais assez de lumière
pour éclairer
nos morts
dis-leur que nos mots vont de créole en créole
sur les épaules de la mer
mais qu’il n’y aura jamais assez de sel
pour brûler notre langue
VA
VOLE
& DIS-LEUR
Dis-leur qu’à force d’aimer les homes
nous avons appris à aimer l’arc-en-ciel
et surtout dis-leur
qu’il nous suffit d’avoir un pays à aimer
qu’il nous suffit d’avoir des contes à raconteur
pour ne pas avoir peur de la nuit
qu’il nous suffit d’avoir un chant d’oiseau
pour ouvrir nos ailes d’hommes libres
VA
VOLE
ET DIS-LEUR…
———-

Tell them

A bird of bright feather
dashes away in
the message of twilight
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM
Tell them you come from a country
built in a handshake
a country easy as one two three
where night sings
to keep tomorrow’s fears away
tell them
how we’re a mouthful
spread over seven islands
like the seven colours of the week,
but that the Sunday of our own days
never comes
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM
Tell them that tides
unlock our memories
and that the past sometimes blows
to excite our flames
because a people that forgets
no longer knows the colours of its days
but moves through today’s darkness like a blind-man
tell them we use the sun’s bridge
to go from one island to another
but that there’ll never be enough light
to illumine
our dead
tell them our words go from créole to créole
on the shoulders of the sea
but that there’ll never be enough salt
to burn our tongue
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM
Tell them that by dint of loving people
we’ve learned to love the rainbow
and be sure to tell them
that it’s enough for us to love a country
that it’s enough for us to have stories to tell
so as not to fear the night
that to open our wings as free men
it is enough for us to have the bird’s song
FLY
GO
& TELL THEM…

© Ernest Pépin
Translated by Rethabile Masilo with the author’s permission

Please visit http://www.lehman.cuny.edu/ile.en.ile/paroles/pepin.html for the full bio.

Gabrielle’s centenarians
Brings our ancestors to us

What can I say? wow
I think of growth and hope
Dignity wisdom and love

I feel the forays
In road from the Impasse
Of youth caught up

In stuff, caught up in stuff
I thought about folk, my
Grandparents, ancestors

I heard all the unvoiced
calls in our minds as we
revelled in their sharing

If only we can emulate
This age old tradition of
Truly living no deception

May we live such full lives
May we live as preciously
May we go beyond

The rigidity of three
Scoress and ten going so
As far s our lives ordain

“Live” I heard these
Strong women saying. I’m
moved, truly moved.

Thank you so, Gabrielle
Mia Nikasimo (c) June’09

OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: “Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens”, a collection of poems, prayers, affirmations and stories for the Person Living with HIV/AIDS.” Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens is inspirational stories, poems and affirmations that opens the heart, supports the soul and uplifts the spirit of People Living with HIV/AIDS.
Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens stories have a beginning, middle and an ending that often closes with a punch, creating emotion rather than simply talking about it. Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens stories have heart, but also something extra…an element that makes us all feel more hopeful, more connected, more thankful, more passionate and better about life in general. A story that causes tears, laughter, goose bumps or any combination of these. A good story covers the range of human emotions
DEADLINE: Tuesday, 1 December 2009, cornbreadfishcollard at gmail.com

Editors: Khafre K. Abif
Guidelines for a Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens stories
Submissions will be considered in the following genres in English
Tell an exciting, sad or funny story about something that has happened to you or someone you know. Make sure that you introduce the character(s).
Tell your story in a way that will make the reader cry, laugh or get goose bumps (the good kind!) Don’t leave anything out — how did you feel?
The story should start with action; it should include a problem, issue or situation. It should include dialogue and the character should express their feelings though the conflict or situation. It should end in a result, such as a lesson learned, a positive change or pay-off.
Above all, let it come from your HEART! Your story is important!

What a Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens story IS NOT:
1. A sermon, an essay or eulogy.
2. A term paper, thesis, letter or journal entry.
3. About politics or controversial issues.
4. A biography or testimonial.
Submission Specifications
1. It is preferred that all submissions are sent via email @ cornbreadfishcollardgreens@gmail.com.
2. Stories and poems should be non-fiction, ranging in length between 300-1200 words.
3. No anonymous or author unknown submissions please.
4. Send only one copy of each submission.
5. We do not return submissions, so please don’t send the original.
6. Please submit only stories or poems that have not been previously published. The only exception to this is if your work has only been published in a small local publication with limited circulation.

It can take up to more than a year for the books to develop. Please be patient, as this is an important, yet time-consuming process. If your story is chosen for Cornbread, Fish & Collard Greens you will be notified and your permission to print it will be requested. Please know that we never publish anything without written permission from the author.

Feel free to submit more than one story or poem. Please do not send me any book manuscripts as these will be automatically discarded

Gender…

A single beer was all
It took the throbs set in.
Pounding headache.

Gender is not sexuality
Paranoid community
Leaders hide behind a finger.

It is always, always nice
To meet old friends after
Moments of idle asides

Perhaps I should pipe Down in insipid isolation.
Barking, backing up

Not wanting out, stay put
Ride the tidal wave of
Vituperative avalanches

Run, run, run for dear life
Isn’t that trying to out run One’s capable shadow?

She who lives by chatter
Dies the selfsame way
As the sword bearer

But for me, Osun
Protects indefatigably.
There’s no more running.

Anonymity has become
Me. Attachments are tags
Of communal coercion.

Fear rules, fear prowls &
Closest neighbours count
On its selfish continuity.

Before u say I don’t know
Your directorships, think
What peril u do the “T”.
Mia Nikasimo (c) June ‘09

Mirrored……

Women, I love women
Born, staged or surgically
Found, pound for pound.
African, Asian or European, Arctic or Antarctic if ever they Were. Women are
Women. I love women. You’d better Believe it. Even when you say we Cast the shadow of inate Prejudice heavily on your Bigotedly bilious brow.
Can you blame our gay
Brothers their self served
Egocentric paranoia? You,
Have you forgotten your
Role in their inflated Egos? I love women, do u?
Women, I love women.
People are people
Separatists seething for
Separate spoils until you
Find yourself in the fire of
Your own making, yours.
You who genuflect at
Another woman’s cost?
How does it make you
Feel flirting with men in
Fitful complicity, all yours.
Surprised? I’m just trying
To have you understand.
When you look in a mirror
I’m the one staring back
At you. Me in you, you me.
What purpose bitterness?

Mia Nikasimo (c) June ‘09

NAIROBI STAGED READING OF SHAILJA PATEL’S BWAGAMOYO (THE FATHER): PART II OF MIGRITUDE
PEN International Kenya Chapter and Wasanii Literary Nights Present:

SHAILJA PATEL

Award-winning poet, playwright, theatre artist, and activist

in a staged reading of:

BWAGAMOYO (The Father) : Part II of MIGRITUDE

Special Guest Actor: MUSIRA

What do Samuel Kivuitu’s neck, Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s ribcage, William Ruto’s abdomen, and the hands of a Nairobi “grease monkey” all have in common?

Shailja Patel takes us on a poetic journey, from colonial Zanzibar to Kenya’s post-election violence, by way of the male body.

A powerful, heartbreaking, hilarious exploration of how patriots become patriarchs, muscles queered break down masculinities, and daughters confront fathers.

An anthemic call for a new generation of Kenyans to reconnect gut to heart to voice.
To challenge icons and claim our own power.
To sing ourselves back from our violent histories to new ways of knowing and living the truth.

This reading is dedicated to Bantu Mwaura (1969 – 2009). Brother, friend, truth teller. Mourned and deeply missed.

“Shailja Patel brings out what it means to be a woman in Empire”
—San Francisco Chronicle

“one-woman poetic explosion”
—SABC (South African Broadcasting Corporation)

“sets her audience on a collision course with what they know and how they learned it. Stunning and politically charged theatre that will leave you moved, awakened, angry…inspired.”
—Daily Nation, Kenya

DATE: Thursday, July 9th
VENUE: Wasanii Restaurant, Kenya National Theatre
TIME: 7 PM
Followed by Discussion With Audience

Event is FREE, with voluntary contributions requested to Kenya PEN.

NOT SUITABLE FOR CHILDREN

www.shailja.com

If…

If you’d place yourself in my shoes you’d spin your lyrics differently,
If you’d dance fire dance to expunge those “rat race antics” go on dance,
If you’d stop yourself rather than boast that your lifestyle is superior to mine,
If you’d think you wouldn’t and mean that you wouldn’t bulk yourself up to make someone feel that you are more entitled than they are,
If you would treat a stray cat like you want to be treated you would live longer,
If you’d see me as I see you in me you’d breathe easy,
If you’d even tried to picture me, you’d walk down the street without hanging your head in dismay before the wor,
If you did, you’d shine despite the attempts to drag you down;
If you try putting yourself in my shoes and see how the going goes in then the future would be brighter,
If you open your mind, you’d find higher consciousness is the goal; life is the vehicle but only if…

Mia Nikasimo (c) June 2009

Why?

Because even you are Human,
Because you are my Sister,
Because you are my Brother,
Because, only if u allowed Yourself, we could be pals,
Because, in a past life, you
Were my mother,
Because, looking through Eons of the ether, you Were my father,
Because you’ve been all Creatures to arrive here,
Because we all Interconnected…

I’ll reach out to you all the
Same, you and I.

Why?

Because all creatures are bright and beautiful no matter their surface seas.

Mia Nikasimo (c) May 2009

1. How did you get into writing poetry? Did any one thing push you over the edge?

no
———-

2. Do you work on just one poem at a time, or do you work on several at the same time?

several
———-

3. Poets spend a lot of time perfecting their craft, and then perfecting each piece. How do you balance this with family life and with little income (compared with the input)?

I work daily. I do not know how long it takes me to complete a poem.
———

4. These are difficult times, and they say laughter is the best medicine. What makes you laugh?

Because I am part of the society I write about.
———-

5. Is there a particular goal you seek when you write? Awake others? Entertain them? Tell the truth? What?

Tell the truth
———-

6. How do you know when a poem is ‘finished’, and do you stop work on it then and there?

It is difficult to convince myself that a poem is complete.
———-

7. You are to encourage poetry students to write a poem. Please come up with a “writing prompt” out of your own experience, or out of something else, using anything that invades your mind right now. Very short and simple.

Put pen to paper and write whatever comes to your mind.
———-

8. What writers, living or not, have influenced you the most?

Pablo Neruda, Charles Mungoshi, Oswald Mtshali
———-

9. How do you write? Drink coffee, wine? Listen to music? Type, scribble? What atmosphere do you feel out of place not writing in?

There is no place I feel I cannot write
———-

10. Here’s an on-going poem. Please add to it.

They stood before me that night
With clenched fists and blown pupils,
Shadowed by leafless branches of a cotton tree,
The moon as bright as the moon and no metaphor

For which image can serve? What simile
Makes sense enough? The ghosts that guard
The tree nod yes, though I’ve not said a thing.
One shade uncurls and crooks a bony finger, calling me.

The voices rise up like be-headed trees
I stumble forward fear at my heels
How did this night arrive and where is wisdom’s heed
“Gone my child is your clothes — face now this thing.”

So strip off your nudity, and learn to be naked.
Release your fears as branches drop leaves
And let yourself see.
The man with an axe stands by
About to chop your ego,
Stand well away.

_______________
Zimbabwean poet, Julius Chingono, has been published in magazines and anthologies in Zimbabwe and elsewhere. Recently, he was detained briefly for reading one of his poems to a public. You can read some of his work at Poetry International.

Untitled…

There was nothing to
Worry about any more:
Pilots were carried out
The early days sodden
With such well meaning
Attempts at maintaining
A semblance of order;
Disorder reigned even a
Thirteen year old boy Gave expectation, a voice.
“How much encouragement do you
Need to end it? How much time to kill yourself once for all?”He said echoing Everyone’s eloquent Expectations of you that they couldn’t. A
Singularity, a minority of
One… A life all your own!
They want you to leave.
There was nothing to
Worry about any more!
You chose to stay, still!

Mia Nikasimo (c) May 2009