http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.co.uk/2018/02/life-of-poet-khaya-ronkainen.html

Extract

I understand Finland has very advanced social systems. What impresses you most about it?

Khaya: What impresses me is the accountability and transparency on how public funds and taxpayers’ money are used in creating a dignified and decent living for all. The accessibility of education, free and everyone’s right, regardless of background, impresses me the most.

Sherry: It impresses me as well. In North America, we are losing rights left and right at the moment.

When did you first begin to write? Did it help you with the culture shock of finding yourself in a new place?

Khaya: Ah! The famous question…*laughs*. I can’t say for sure. As a child I preferred to write than to talk. This means I did a lot of letter writing, you know, more like the Dorothy Osborne kind of writing; long reports about rural life to my cousins and friends living in cities.

But it was when I moved to Finland that I actually started putting meaningful stories down. It was a way of dealing with culture shock, and so words became my friends.

Sherry: I love that: “words became my friends.” They do give comfort. When did you branch into poetry?

Khaya: I don’t think I branched out into poetry, Sherry. I’ve always been in it, even before I attempted to write it. I’ve always been a lover and a reader of poetry with influences such as S.E.K. Mqhayi and Tiyo Soga (Xhosa poets/writers), to name just a few.

I even had a crush on John Keats himself, during my high school years…*laughs* when a boy trying to impress me recited Keats’ Endymion. I thought, wow! I want to do that. But then I went to study business and got swept away a bit, whilst I chased the bottom line.

So, I returned and pursued poetry seriously, when I got stuck in my novel writing; a project that is still pending. Luckily at the time, I was also doing studies in English Philology (as part of a career change), and the process of writing poetry sort of came naturally.

Sherry: I love that you branch out in all directions, exploring all life offers. What do you love about poetry? What makes it sing for you?

Khaya: I love how poetry pushes limits with language and form. Its ability to make us pause, be in the moment, and remind us that water is still wet. The process of birthing a poem; the whisper, the nudge, the build-up and the release that eventually leads me to write with urgency. That like any other art form, poetry doesn’t belong to the creator but to the people.

To quote one of my writer friends, Khutsie Kasale, “Poetry is something more sacred and authentic. It is a gift of words birthed through the artist that come straight from the hands of God.”

So, I love that poetry means different things to different people depending on where it finds them.

Sherry: Such a good explanation! I read on your blog that you come from the Xhosa people, who have a strong tradition of oral storytelling. Do you think that is reflected in your poetry, that you are carrying on the tradition in your work? Do you remember a grandmother or someone in your family, who told great stories that caused you, as a little girl, to dream?

Khaya: I mentioned earlier on that I don’t think I branched out into poetry, I’ve always been in it. By this I mean, a Xhosa child, (or an African child for that matter), learns quite early in life who they are. That is, a knowledge of their origin, past history and culture because African cultures pride themselves on clan names.

So, a child learns about the notion of iziduko/izibongo through chanting of a multitude of family clan names; ancestors and heroes (living and dead) from the elders.

Chanting of clan praises is poetry itself; oral poetry that overlaps with a song. Thus, in my writing I’m always trying to emulate that rhythm and harmony.

Sherry: I envy you that rich cultural heritage. I see it, too, among the First Nations people where I live – such an ancient, proud, traditional culture.

Would you like to share three of your poems here, and tell us a bit about each one?

Khaya: Before I share, it’s important to point that my work often examines duality of an immigrant life; loss and gain. And the “I” doesn’t always mean the writer but the speaker.

Word Roots

Of origins I do not know

Theories varied and accepted

Making sense and no sense

Words are my friends.

Words that go forward

In prose and in books

Words that return

In verse and in song.

Of classical and medieval

Renaissance and modern

It’s Twa, the forage and pastoral

Tshawe, the ancestral heroes I seek

Diminished words found

Not in history books

Accepted words whose

History is esteemed

It’s Nongqawuse‘s words I thirst;

A prophecy from uQamata

Words older than writing

Dramatic and creative

Praise poems of no particular

Historical period. Folk tales

Of Tokoloshe terrifying

Children and adults alike.

Infidel words, beginnings

I do not know but whose

Oral tradition leaves me

Smitten in a trance

Speaking in tongues

Descending the Great Lakes

Borrowing from Khoi

To click a sound.

A tradition of Xhosa poetry

Whose metre measured not

In literary magazines, yet rhyme

Rings loud in Grahamstown

Words murmured teasing

With foreplay, words chanted

Exploding into a climax

Do scratch an itch

Spoken and sung

Barbaric and censored

Roots of word

I seek.

Khaya: This poem examines relationship with languages. It was inspired by a Poetry Festival held in my city, Tampere, in 2015. The theme was Syntyjä, Syviä, loosely translated as “root of words”.

Journeys I’ve Travelled

I’ve been to the north
I’ve been to the south

Journeys —
left me floating in between
(where both worlds depart)
and with no claim to either.

Suburbia no longer white
we sip tea and spend hours
discussing weather, whilst
the sun shines in black rural.
In song and dance we quench
— thirst vanquished.

I’ve been to the city
I’ve been to the country

Allow me the misguided view
with diluted memories, for
I build a world with these
smatterings of my life.

Khaya: I think this one is self-explanatory.

                     Summer

                    What would you have me say of you?

                    Ours is an obscure relationship

                    You led me believe I was your baby

A summer baby―

                    Because down south, October simmers

                    Spring overlapping with summer.

                    What would you have me say of you?

                    As if immaterial, now you tell me I am

An autumn baby―

                    Because up north, October teases

                    Skies weep fearful of winter.

Khaya: And the last is a poem excerpt from my upcoming chapbook that I’m hoping to release in spring 2018. I wrote it in celebration of the centenary of Finland’s Independence.

Sherry: Thank you for these, Khaya. You express yourself so well. I especially love the Xhosa words included in your poem. And we look forward to your book.

When you aren’t writing, what other activities do you enjoy?

Khaya: During my spare time, I can be found wandering in nature, hiking and backpacking, amongst other things, with my husband.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/dec/30/the-healthy-guide-to-being-selfish?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

https://www.themarginalian.org/2023/09/12/virginia-woolf-soul/?mc_cid=b026347fae&mc_eid=d32e4171d3

Snow clouds hang like canopies forlorn,
Tinged with grey from lack of proper care,
While from the Channel sing the dread foghorns

Sailors in the night long for new dawn
Fear boats of refugees may still sail there
Snow clouds hang like canopies well torn

A dinghy holds the Saviour lately born
There is no space on earth safe from great fear
From the Channel sigh the families drowned

From maternal space, Jesu is torn
His father holds his arms around those dear
Snow clouds hang, are lacy wings no more

The hearts of British ” natives” have turned sour
Into Jesu’s side we thrust our spears
Tune the channel.Requiems need scores

All lives now, and all of time is here
Do not mistake the song of silent choirs.
Snow clouds hang like canopies forlorn,
While in the Channel, stuttering are the horn

I didn’t want to leave you in the place where you had died
The doctors heard me singing as I sat by your side
And the people with cut fingers and burns from the chip oil
Wondered what was happening and came by for the ride

You do not get free music on Emergency Ward Ten
Death is just a shadow but we don’t know the end
People wander happily holding broken nails
I was so delirious that I saw round the bend

They take away the catheters, the drug lines and the charts
They expect you to be normal in the grave that was a heart
So wander down to Costa’s and imagine how it feels
Drinking from a tea bag, the cup broke , it’s that stark

The doctors who were frozen by a woman’s singing parts
Feel themselves still melting in the cavern of the dark
They hear the swish of gossamer, the window opens smart
Well, go there if you want to, it’s just a different park

We wander in the shadows of the here and of the there
Stumbling over pavements, taking photos of the Ark
Listening to the symbols, seeing what’s so dear
Rattling all the funny bones and winding up the larks

I didn’t want to leave you but they had no empty bed
There’s no room for the living let alone the dead
The body is dissolving and it flows down from the heights
Goodbye, it’s all over now.Do turn off the lights

For a bit of theatre it’s cheaper than the Royal
Find someone who’s dying and take love to appeal
If it’s your own sweetheart you’ll have an empty bed
Buy a real stone tablet and drink your lover’s blood

Why do the sins of rage return again
When we’d learned of genocidal hate
How do we change the heart and mind human?

Images of children grieving damned.
Has Evil won the war,become our fate?
Why do the sins of hate return again?

Industrial murders, manhood’s great orgasm
Guns and blood and gassing escalate
How could we change the heart and mind of man?

Ethics and commandments have not won
The still,small voice is silent we’re distraught
I feel the sins of hate return again

Goodness is skin deep,it is a sham
God was here but we put him to flight
Who might change the heart and mind human?

When we love, are safe, we feel delight
We must not trust the armies of the night
Why must the sins of hate return again
How do we change our hearts to be as one?

Whatever evil humankind may do

The sun will rise and shine on one and all.

Mercy ,grace and love are spread anew

As apples ripen and the sweet birds call.

What is the mystery of the world we know;

That God looks with dispassion on us all?

And what his wondrous virtues are to show

When wolves attack and murder us appalls

Will heaven compensate the refugees

Who starve in camps when money is withheld.

From those who gave us prophets and great seers

We see confusion,fear then ethics felled.

So often we are blind to wider views

And get mere entertainment from the News

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/48336a68-8d1c-11ed-b24e-c1aaebfbdb8d?shareToken=38e01f68fb9c6b2743f3e45404165993

https://www.themarginalian.org/2014/06/19/adam-phillips-boredom/

Too old for cold,I stand, now ,against the hedge,
Watching the snowflakes in the glare of neon street lights.
Darkness has come early,and I think of country uplands and huddled sheep.
On Salisbury Plain,shepherds watched their flocks
Just as in Bethlehem two thousand years before,
And then,exactly when?
“Between the wars”,it stopped. Now we know there is no “Between the wars”.
And who decided
To cull the sheep and shepherds and the space for kindness ?
Now that same Plain still exists,but banned
And closed to human-kind,
For bombs ,not wombs
Nor for birth of lamb ,nor gypsy child ,nor Saviour
Where would He go today

Winter love comes when we near the end

Yet do not wish for solitude each day.

Cupid wtth his arrows may descend

He jokes with us and invites us out to play.

Winter love may come amidst the snow

When frost bites noses and nips fingers dear.

But despite age a woman out may go

To walk her lover and content appear..

The age of frost has not entered my heart

My mind  has  filled with new desires

The problems come when lovers desperate

Show contempt and start a bitter pyre.

Yet winter love can grip me despite flaws

Hope and laughter circle me uncaused.

t

Now I see the shadows on the wall
And in my heart. I feel the savage loss
Down I come, and with the dust, I fall

Once I scarcely knew bad thoughts at all
I did not think of love and what it cost
Now I see the shadows on the wall

Down amid the weeds I find my call
There,  mixed with dark green leaves, I add compost
As down I come, and to the dust, I fall

Brilliance cannot last and life appals
In between my cells comes sudden frost
Oh, I feel the cracks within my walls

We  love between the lines with all we feel
Then broken by the cold we join the lost
Down we come, and into  dust, we fall

Must we live and what shall living cost?
Is it ours to judge the present past?
As I watch the shadows on the wall
Down  comes Love and  holds me as I fall

The music has voices, people with arms stretched above their heads pulling invisible strings  they move. slightly move side to side

Connected to our  hearts, the rivers in our body the rivers of blood the veins and the arteries they’ dance to the vague unbearable movements of the music of the heart with blank intense eyes open zero mouths

There is something impossibly touching in the harmonies we cannot create: connecting us to the invisible grace of the universe

Traversing the horror :in creative boats are signs symbols,sense,incense

The voices are pure like children’s and faint like ghosts like holy spirits like flowers and thistledown

They slice into our souls, yes into our souls like holy knives

Deep in our body we feel it, we hear the call of the music and we long to go to the place from which it comes

Let there be light in the world

Let there be light in Ukraine

In Libya?

In Morocco

How can we in this unknown dance move together like strings of bones, violence of the ribs, the pump of the heart I want a heart beat to move the entire world

The heart bursts and disappears and we are cleansed into the actual shape of the music though we cannot see and we feel each other in the pulses of our wrists

I don’t want to see reality
But I don’t want to lose your care.
I want to go on being selfish
And having you always there.

I don’t want to feel your feelings.
I am aware that I’ve been somewhat curt.
I want to go on ignoring you,
Because real knowledge will hurt.

The longer I pretend to be ignorant,
The longer I choose not to see,
The more I shall hurt my loved ones.
The more unkind and cruel I’ll be.

I don’t want to see reality.
I’m frightened of what I might find.
I am fearful of demons and devils
When I traverse the dark glades of my mind.

I am afraid to discover reality,
I am fearful of broadening my view..
I hope I can get enough courage
To be able to bear what is true

I have seen many ambulances but this was the worst. There was only one man in the vehicle but two of the three patients hadd serious conditions. One had had a stroke six weeks ago and could not use his left leg arm much. Also sense of direction was lacking so he guided the driver into a cul de sac full of new flats.

It was very hard for the driver to get this man out of the ambulance.

The second one could walk there wasn’t too bad and the third one has got a broken arm and back injury and an infection so was beginning to feel nauseous.

So instead of 15 minutes it was 1 hour.

If it is requested someone with a stroke or other bodily problems can have an ambulance with its own wheelchair which is fixed in ambulance before driving so that they do not need to be lifted out of the wheelchair and put on to a very narrow and uncomfortable seat

I have noticed of the two hospitals nearest to me the one on the North circular road uses the worst ambulances and even when zone 1 patient there must have two men or women in the ambulance

The last time I was in this position I was on the way to the hospital when I got a phone call telling me my appt was was cancelled.

But I could not turn back because the driver was carrying another patient for a similar appointment and then I had to come back again

After 12 days in the hospital I have got home and I have not had a wash since Monday morning.

Now you see they can’t afford the soap so send your remaining remnants soap wrap them up in a positive bag and post them to the East Middlesex hospital. Please enclose a stamped addressed envelope and 25 pound notes.

A few face cloths too…….

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2023/dec/19/modern-slavery-care-sector-england-brexit?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

December 7, 2015
Come back to me,my sweetheart

Don’t leave me all alone.

Come back to me,my darling

I can’t believe you’ve gone.

I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.

I’m crying’ cos I’m falling like a stone.

Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty

And my voice forever young.

Let me tempt you with my spirit

My laughter and my songs.

I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.

I’m crying ‘cos with you I still belong.

I thought maybe I’d follow,

To see where you have gone

But there’s a hand upon this tiller

That is not mine alone.

I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.

I’m crying, I’ve not seen you for so long

The hand upon my tiller

The mystery of the dark

The unknown one who lives in me

And sings like a skylark.

I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.

I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue.

And in the evening play a double bass?
Posted on December 16,
Happiness is compulsory at this time
Xmas parties,alcohol and drugs
Inebriated,I can never rhyme
I sit and watch the mating of the slugs

But surely nothing mates in winter cold
For slugs don’t have a coat like humans do
Perhaps ,despite appearance, they are bold
Need no injections to prevent the deadly flu.

On balance would you rather be a slug
That lives a life of freedom in the grass
Or do you live because you write and blog
And in the evening play a double bass.?A slug can’t sing a song nor speak kind words
This comparison is foolish and absurd

In a large hospital in North London, I have been told that if I want to have a wash I should tell the staff. Then they will bring me some water

After 5 days I have only been washed once but I didn’t realize I have to ask for it even though I have a broken wrist not yet in permanent plaster.

I’m not sure if this is actually true because when the physiotherapist came they asked me how I got washed and I said I don’t know what the normal procedure is but I’ve only got washed once since I came here.

I think the person I was speaking to may have been gaslighting at me but I will be interested to know if anybody else have the same experience.

I have also got a throat infection so I would have thought to protect other people I should be clean and the sheets are not changing regularly. I was very impressed at first but there’s something wrong. No wonder covid is spreading

https://www.google.com/search?q=why+are+people+defensive&client=ms-android-motorola&sourceid=chrome-mobile&ie=UTF-8&inm=vs#cobssid=s&tts=0

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/dec/13/just-say-no-13-ways-to-get-out-of-everything-from-extra-work-to-christmas-parties?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2023/dec/15/you-be-the-judge-should-my-boyfriend-start-clearing-out-his-piles-of-books-?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

I have injured my arm and I can’t write

Eh bien, mon I Q n’a que 65 ans et pourtant j’ai un diplôme de maths

Vous ne pouvez pas les acheter.
C’est ce qu’ils disent tous
Je suis un crétin, vous êtes des crétins, ils sont des crétins
Et moi?
Tu es un imbécile.

Je desire un moron pour mon lit~je suis enchante par les imbeciles comme moi
Je ne suis même pas français
Je ne regrette pas mon oncle est un topologie daemon.Quelque chose desirez vous?
Pourquoi avez-vous cette lettre dans votre main?
C’est un refernce de mon tuteur. “Ce garçon est tellement stupide qu’il ne peut même pas épeler Feck et il n’a jamais entendu parler de Sodome et Gomorrhe.
Pourkwa Sod em and Gomorrow? Je suis auntie bbc supernatural
Je ne sais pas mais je suis un analyst de classi sequel comme epsilon delta et Leib Knits sweaters,Ou est Kant? Kant est mort! Oh,non,non, je suis finnish, I can’t go on like this. I am Dutch.
Double?
Treble!
Kant aime Leipzig.Je t’aim frogs.Ma mere aime le chat et mon pere aimes ma meres.J’ai trois meres
Traumas?
O h Freud again

Hope and the infinite brain of being interact
Faith is for the forlorn
Faith is not scorn
Goodness is always approximate
Do bad and become bad.
Fractals made my home infinite
Kill yourself with kindness, instead of others.
Cruelty runs faster but blinder.
Armed struggles are too weighty with meaning.
To eat or not to eat when you are taking antibiotics
Pause before screeching or swearing
Always get washed before you go to breed.
Buy a big bed for when you are both sulking.
Don’t frisk me. I like to dance

I saw a black cat walk sideways.

I saw a black cat play ball.

I saw a black cat walk on my bed.

I said, black cat,don’t fall.

I saw a light in your window

I saw a light in your hall.

I saw a you go out and then come back.

I thought,why don’t you call?

The doctor looked at my body

The doctor looked at my head

The doctor looked through my eyes again.

I said,I’m still not dead.

The cat is called Miss Willow

She lives next door to me

She never bites or scratches me.

She does that to a tree.

O little black cat,please dance

O little black please play

O little black cat I do love you.

But I don’t like to say.

If we don’t tell our loved ones

If we don’t tell our friends

If we don’t show our feelings

What signals do we send?

Paula Caplan, 74, Dies; Feminist Psychologist Took On Her Profession https://www.nytimes.com/2021/08/02/health/paula-caplan-dead.html?smid=nytcore-android-share

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2023/dec/08/readers-pay-tribute-to-benjamin-zephaniah?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Other

I’d like to die of joy, the shock the thrill

Do you know that love intense can kill?

The beauty of cathedrals lit at night

To some others this is an awful sight

Our legs give way we fall into the dust

I’d like to go that way if go I must.

They say god’s in the details I believe.

Empty, knowing nothing, we receive