The use of gestures,
The attempt to eavesdrop on her thoughts,
The sun that lies atop his head,
The second-hand warmth we smother ourselves with when night sets in,
The power vested in her breath proclaiming her angelic nature,
The play in the backyard – literally,
The dipping of fingers in all forms of love known to man,
The scorn on his face directed to third-party ailments,
The riddling movements; definitive of emotion flow,
The ego, damn that flipping ego,
The coffee mugs competing for sweetness with lips,
The convex souls and the stories they tell,
The lack of substance in her absence,
The Friday comings and Sunday goings,
The first conversation,
The fathomable idiotism,
The encrypted mindsets,
The erogenous naked pictures,
The overlooked differentials,
The world that knows no better than to smile,
The attempts to separate the smell from the perfume,
The fall at the edge of his mind,
The relentless knocks at heaven’s threshold,
The saying “I love you”,
The ground that shakes when saying “I love you”,
The sentient moments,
Netshitungulu Mutsinda 2012
Originally I wanted to take this photo hoping I’d be able to show how against all odds this dying and withering sunflower is still able to stand up and look to where the sun was shining from. I might have slightly or lightly touched my original idea, however, the photo ended up stealing the heart of he who gave birth to it by its color composition and simplistic nature.
And quite frankly (being on the writers block and all), I had missed posting on my blog so this photo gave an ounce of fresh air directed straight to my soul because right now I feel fresh.
Now listen here, you will stand afar and watch time pass you by…
I really can’t explain everything but it will never disappear from your sight,
Some will observe it through broken windows from the comfort of their shacks,
Some will buy PVRs trying to get a better replay-able view of it.
It will be your curse, your blessing, your usual norms and bore, night and day,
The pen pushers will constantly arm themselves with their inky tridents
and build paper staircases trying to define it,
The scientists will build gadgets and toys, clocks and sophisticated
machinery trying to define it but none of you will succeed,
Instead you will both curse Morpheus, why the fuck is he the god of dreams
If there is no god who makes them dreams come true?
You will stand afar and watch time pass you by,
Witness the mythical Ice Age, Stone Age, Iron Age, Sex Age and the Information Age,
At some stage in your pathetic lives you will break the ice and finally bath off
the remaining sand particles of the dust from which you were created,
stone your fellow brother trying to rule with an iron fist, master the art of sex
and for the love of money you will call it Kama Sutra, but the information age…
The information age will be your greatest curse,
The bigger it gets the less your chances of understanding time,
It will give rise to insomniacs, xenophobes, the rebirth of Babylon
and little Babylonians, self-acclaimed stars trying to cheat time,
Battles between the moon and the sun and digital versions of Nostradamus,
But the more you try to understand time the more you will move
You will succumb to honesty, lies, rains, veins….
Slow down time with narcotics to the point in which you will see rain turn into blood
and feel the same blood tip-toeing within your veins trying to ignite
a palpitation in your heart to get you to kick back, relax and hear the same rain
divide honesty into your side of the story, his side of the story and then the truth.
You will eat and drink sweet and sour hot and cold beverages attempting to gut down portions of guilt but time will always remind you of real time commotions.
You will find joy in weird places and trust me I will be ok with that but…
You will never control time because the souls I gave you are only finite,
This land you walk on is still mine and someday I will reclaim it,
Just because I decorated limbo, gave it night and day, threw in a little green
and called it earth doesn’t mean you will unlock the secrets of its principles.
Netshitungulu Mutsinda 2011
I have ruled Sparta in my mind ‒
Man I’m telling you! I’ve ruled Troy with my mind,
I get the confusion I might be causing you right now for I am no son of Zeus
But a bud of the loamy black sea conceived out of predicaments brought to
this dwindling world to face life’s endless hardships.
Pale to the experience, the assumption was that I will fail,
Like every other soul lucky enough to walk the earthly domain of heaven’s realm;
This virtueless society that resides on a spinning marble,
I had my fair share of psychological conflicts and the instinctive need
to possess boundaries until one day I stole God’s blurry looking glass
with a pen and paper and cleaned it up.
From that day on;
I surfed the world searching for unknown worlds on a carpet plane
with nothing but a pen for a paddle and a confused mind oversaturated with endless emotions whose revelations can paint a thousand Van Gogh’s.
Short lived voyages to and fro the birthplace of art
Paging through blank pages of tomorrow’s poetry generation as my portal to history:
I sought definition and found a colourful modern-day version of the renaissance,
I sought life and found unwritten verses in a crumpled pile under the dusty traces of creation,
I sought love and found unsung lyrics hanging loosely from the famous tree of life
with no trace of complication but divine purity;
These are the three treasures I cached and kept in the mental folders
that supplies oxygen to my existence,
It was never enough though, so I sought yet another ‒
One last voyage deep into the birthplace of art, into unrecorded chronicles of origin,
I sought freedom and found the city of Troy stuffed up in my mind
By the naked hand of God himself,
This is the fourth treasure I live by even to this day;
This is the treasure of poetry.
Netshitungulu Mutsinda 2009
Looking at my previous posts of the moon (future posts as well haha), its quite clear that i love moon shots – possibly because the moon stands for that one desperately needed beacon of light to one’s way out of hoovering black skies, or simply because the moon is beautifully beautiful, either way. .
image taken 09 Jan 2012, 21h04, Germiston, South Africa
And then I forgot –
We were speaking soft and then loud and then soft again,
It all went to a device, tickled its stead and released,
In one jerky moment all became too loose to handle,
I found my soul catapulted to the other side,
On this side my body looked like a silhouette
scenery subject of a frozen instance, unable to move,
Missing one’s soul – momentarily – razor-cuts one’s veins
to lay open the wealth they selfishly hide for themselves.
To a sun that has retreated I pledge allegiance,
The future starts slow – roundabout now!
The next sun will bear a new future-turned present
and ceremoniously hand it to they that live vibrantly,
from them love stems like jack’s beanstalk, destination heaven,
hell-bent on amplifying the soft voices we speak
commemorating the sun that has retreated.
If they can fathom your heart they need not love you;
If they can fathom your heart –
If they can fathom your heart you are their love,
They live in you, live you, live for you and you for them.
And then I remembered –
Morning comes around simply for our exploitation,
to create new moments.
Netshitungulu Mutsinda – © 2012
Frozen moments of a disrupted timeframe,
Cheating the original manner of sequential events,
Time travelling nowhere specific passing through terrains and plains of the south
baked to a golden brown finish by the southern sun,
Time travelling nowhere certain holding a heartbeat in one hand, awe in the other,
Passing through resurrected walls of Jericho where past, future, and present hang
framed on ancient oak that never crumbles, hanging and dangling
reminding me why to begin with I seek freedom,
Passing through miniature versions of heaven where unlike dispositions
of mediocre vessels are the gatekeepers, ethereal and cutting edge perceptions
watching who comes out heedless to who goes in,
Ready to rip out and send to mental dungeons
the souls of those who dare ask unnecessary questions,
Passing through miniature versions of hell where souls knows no discomfort
The ever falling rain soothes the hardest of hearts with promises of eternal silence.
Frozen moments of a disrupted timeframe,
Time travelling nowhere specific vision enhanced,
Passing through terrains and plains where angels depleted of beauty lies dead
scorched by the western sun, lives trampled to wrenches by dictators
all because they failed to scoop a handful of life from nature’s gifts
in exchange for exhalation.
Time travelling nowhere specific passing multitudes of a diverse culture
that preys on emotion trying to justify the existence of love in their hearts
because love is not for the faint hearted yet everyone possesses it,
Lining up taking shots at being granted eternity,
Bearers to undying thoughts and immaterial souls
neatly woven around cunning skins that grows pale to the winter cold,
In them lies subconscious knowledge that heaven and hell are neighbouring states
and a great number of multitudes die depressed on the dividing fence
because they fail to make out which state offers genuine worth.
Time travelling nowhere specific in mind,
searching for understanding.
Taking night walks under various sides of the moon and the stars in their ever-changing shapes’ kingship has always been savoury to my inner self. When one wonders really why they do what they do and can’t find answers, say for example when one wonders why they are poets, artists, photographers, doctors, engineers, architects, chefs and so forth, when one cant find answers one ought to just look around themselves and observe. As for me, I find reasons why I’m a poet when I look at the moon, stars, trees, walls, etc., because all this bodies (earthly or celestial) are poetry in themselves.
So a few nights ago I captured these images of the moon in its stead and since then I cannot spend an hour without appreciating, and I thought I might as well share.
– The chair lady
I’m up here – listen!
In my own space and time, circumstantial states of mind and sense,
I’m the sane one and you’re the insane one,
You see me playing imaginary musical instruments in the air
and deplete the lifespan of your brain cells in trying to understand what I’m doing,
stop – look, listen to the sound of the wind and its voice within –
you just made me laugh; you actually stopped looked and listened,
you’re the insane one.
I understand it’s complicated like the energy behind a broken smile,
The very smile you wear across your pathetic face
every time you tell me you love me,
It’s complicated like the simplicity of light rays as they clumsily fall on mirrors
to compose an image of what you often confuse with the inner self,
The very mirrors you keep me away from in fear of what I tend to see,
I understand it’s complicated, that right there is why I wear fear and freedom,
sadness and joy, love and hatred on the same reality torn sleeve,
You see, I find sense in strange places, none of which the world has yet seen,
Only because what you have known to be insanity is what shields me from your reality
in case my reality turns out to be what reality is not at all,
In case reality turns out to be just a fragment of me and not the whole vessel.
I love you though; you make me feel insane which in turn makes you the insane one,
I deeply love you; to hades with inconvenience I’m still human,
What I hate is the starring eyes this world has to offer,
Every time I go about and around my chair they stare – flip
I’m wailing – look!
My voice will break down the walls of this house you keep me cooped up in,
They have started to crack already, deep cracks like the cracks I bear on my heart
they have started to crack already, the cracks on my heart that came about
when I realised that the beautiful music of my imaginary musical instruments
will never be heard by anyone else except me.
One fine day walking at the mall I happened to come across a mentally disturbed woman on a wheelchair fiddling with her hands and fingers making up what seemed to be playing musical instruments in the air, all I could think of it was “in her own space and time she is the sane one”. A week later I scribbled down this poem
this here first official post on this blog marks an official introduction of me, the blog owner
There are many versions to me – dubbed many versions to self – that exists over- and underneath the meniscus of perception. Every now and then when one’s perception is disturbed and the meniscus starts to move bits of me are revealed and the mind then makes out what the eye assumes to have seen.
What I am thou – practically speaking – is I’m a poet and a metallurgical engineer. The poet in me comes first because thats who I am, that’s who my alter egos relies on to strive and survive. The metallurgist in me just gets paid in order to finance the poet’s ever hungry state of being, hungry to give life to the vessel the mind makes up when one of those many versions to self arises above that meniscus of perception.
every one has hobbies i assume, mine are photography (the art and the deed), reading books that i never finish because i assume what the ending is going to be like and move on to the next book. other minor hobbies includes sleeping (only because ei really have to), eating, living, breathing, wait – are those hobbies too?
This here is my introduction to the many versions to self that hopefully will be revealed along the way as I hope to breathe the breath of life into this blog. Not a chance will I divorce Rhymes and Frames thou