Tuesday, February 15, 2011


THE FIRST ARCHIVES- A poetic journey into and through adolescence


The ground is fresh, as morning dew is on the green.

Breath is visible and the call of bird awake the mountain.

Life has returned.

Call of birds awakens the people.

Simple greetings of “shkamo” and “marahaba”

Echo- o –o.

Song of bird rests, encouraging the cricket orchestra to commence.

In and out of tune they weave the song of night.

Sheets of night blanket the mountain.

Stars twinkle.

House lights below imitate

To form a mighty reflection.

Rains constantly poke the ground gathering in puddles.

The beads of water tap a rhythm on the roof tops lulling the village to sleep.

- Usangi is a mountainous village where my mother is from, as a child my brother and I would be coerced into visiting this mountainous green landscape. In the mornings we saw mist and in the afternoon we would climb the trees and pick guavas, jack fruit and other fruits of which I do not know the English name. I would go each year and each year it became less interesting and further deforested. In my mid-teens when I longer cared for climbing trees, picking fruit or exploring so I put pen to paper and wrote about Usangi.

Usangi is no longer as green and I no longer visit, but this poem conjures ageless memories that need not be influenced by my aging interests.