WTP006: Poetry rather than prose.

The last weeks has somewhat got away from me. I’m attempting something of a pattern by trying to get a new something out every Wednesday(Although I do acknowledge it’s Thursday). I had planned to end a short story, which I started before going away, but job hunting and shinier things taking my attention from that this week. Perhaps I’ll translate the end from head to paper over the next couple of weeks.

Thus I’m raiding my Tanzanian journal for today. Been a long time since I’ve shared poetry with people, but it’s primarily what I got chance to do whilst away. I’m always a little worried about poetry, in that everybody reads and stresses in their own way.  So there’s a couple of ways to play with today’s offering.

  1. You can read it, in the same voice as this.
  2. Or following breakfast I grabbed my Dictaphone and recorded it for a raw audio vibe.
  3. Or indulge with both in an order of your liking.


Down and Alone

“When the dreams stop,
and all you can do is cough,
That’s when you’re Alive.

When that bulb in the roof blows,
but you still see it as bright as those sepia summer days,
we never trod.

Turning in this bed,
trapped in pale arms,
snowy white and cold,
a deathly pallor,
that glows where you’ve touched.

Once a rush,
icy blood on a hot day,
hits the heart,
with a pragmatic pulse,
head sleepily sags in acceptance,
as surely as what’s gone up comes down.

When everything’s looking up,
times ticking and the breathes still burning my lungs.
These tears that streak my cheeks,
cleanse my soul.
Does the storm mean I’m really alive,
within the walls of this dive.”

Ndapo Village, 12th November 2015.


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