A Weapon Of Words---The Obit of Mr. Njawe

"A word can be a weapon, and I believe that with the word...we can build a better world and make happier people."

The above quote is from the obituary of Mr. Njawe, which appeared in "The Washington Post" several weeks ago.

Mr Njawe was an African journalist who wrote his values with uncommon courage. He was an independent writer, editor, publisher and foremost, a fighter for truth in the written word in a country that punished such open, steadfast dedication to freedom of the press.He started Cameroon's first independent newspaper "The Messenger" in which he wrote openly about government corruption and abuses. He received many death threats and was arrested more than 100 times.

I am in awe of such courage, such fierce dedication to freedom of the press and to the truth as he saw it. The world is surely better for his having lived in it. His death in a car accident at age 53 is a loss for all of us.

His quote goes on "....So why give up while duty still calls? No one will silence me, except the Lord, before I achieve what I consider as a mission in my native country, in Africa and why not, in the world."

His life inspired me to write this poem.



Elegy to Pius Njawe


You were called to

fight

with weapons of words,

aimed over and over,

arrows to truth,

the courage of a

warrior

silenced by death,

while we are still

listening.

THE INSPIRATION OF PERSPIRATION

The hazy, hot, humid days of summer have us in their vise-like grip. The trips from house to car to destination awaken sweat glands. Lungs fill with still, dank air.
According to Thomas Edison, "Genius is 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration." Alas, that doesn't seem to be true for me.

Although at times, my perspiration levels spike to 99%---lethargy has set in and "the muse is on vacation."

So rather than writing something original and fresh, I am coping out and plagiarizing from my own book, At The Turquoise Table. Here's a stanza from one of the poems in the book called "Summer Heat."

Summer heat overstays,

an unwelcome guest

who lingers and exhausts

with endless conversation,

I long to take its sweaty hand

in mine...

lead it to the door

and in most certain tones

ask it to leave.

I love a mystery

I heard Kay Ryan read at the Library of Congress on Thursday. It was her "retirement" reading from being the poet laureate of the U.S. for the last two years. Many of the poems she read were short, humorous and accessible.


It brought to mind the complaints I've often heard about poetry being hard to understand. So I decided to google her and see if Kay had anything to say about that.

I found her under Poets.org with a link to a panel discussion called "Clarity and Obscurity in Poetry". (interesting read). Kay was one of the panelist and is quoted as saying that she is determined to send her signal as strongly and clearly as possible. I hear the voices asking..."where then is the poetry?"

Kay answered that question by reading Robert Frost's Poem "Dust of Snow". According to her, it is a poem that is quite clear on the surface, yet contains something other, a mystery. "It's clarity points to something that isn't rational."

I love a mystery---so I'm putting the poem below to read and re-read. Join me in the adventure of finding the mystery in Frost's poem.



Dust of Snow



The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree



Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

Honor your own unique thoughts and gifts. It's Spring!

Today I planted a few things in the soft, loamy earth. As I put in a few small plants, I began making a comparison with the fertile ground of the mind. I saw that as I dug, the hard crust began to give way. I pulled out some hard rocks---how like our thoughts. They can often be covered with a a crust of cliches and hardened concepts. We need to soften the mind and dig around, letting the fertile ground appear. Let fresh ideas sprout. April is here. It is poetry month.

Shakespeare's birthday is April 23rd. Honor the bard. Honor your own unique thoughts and gifts. April 29th is carry a poem in your pocket day. Carry you favorite poem and read it to yourself several times. Read it to other people you encounter that day. It even could be one that you have written. Let the ground be fertile!

Suggestion for a sleepless night

Cant' sleep? Do what a friend of mine does. Read poetry. I am not implying that poetry is so boring that it will put you to sleep. But it can be soothing, especially if read aloud---which may mean moving to another room. But the sounds and rhythms can be as calming as deep breathing. Keep an anthology by the bedside. I recommend "Americans' Favorite Poems" edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz.

Beautiful images can quiet a busy mind. Haiku is a garden of beautiful images. One that I re-read often is "The Essential Haiku" edited by Robert Hass.

Of course, there are also many poems that can sprout in your ear buds and are the next best thing to having someone read to you. And we all love being read to sleep.

We are just plain folks that love words, language, reading poetry...

Anne Bradstreet (America's first woman poet)

"These are not the poets you remember from high school who sit in lonely rooms writing maudlin words that few might hear and fewer comprehend."

Willliam Shakespeare

This is the opening paragraph of an article about protest poetry that appeared in the Style Section of "The Washington Post" on March 12th.

Geoffrey Chaucer

It may be the poets the author of this article remembers, but it is certainly not the poets that I remember that were introduced to me in high school. I am sorry that the author had such bad luck.

Emily Dickinson

The depth and power of the poetry of Shakespeare, Chaucer, Thomas, Yeats, Keats, Milton, Hopkins were not maudlin to me. The poetry of Longfellow, Frost, Browning, Emerson, Dickinson, Crane, Coleridge, Carroll to name a few, were very understandable, even to a teenager.

W.B. Yeats

 

The author goes on to say..."Poets you say...Aren't they those solitary creatures, slaves to pen and paper, pulling out strands of hair, beating on unforgiving keys of typewriters and computers, always reaching for the more perfect word."

John Keats

I suppose this is written so as to contrast dramatically with the protest poets reading an antiwar poem near the Capitol.

John Milton

I cheer them on. But please dear Post writer, we are among you in other guises---not solitary, slaves, or hair pullers.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

We are just plain folks that love words, language, reading poetry and sometimes taking a stab at writing a poem.

Thoughts of and hopes for spring

It's hard not to have thoughts of and hopes for spring, even though the winds are chilly and there are blobs of dirty snow looming around us.


To bolster that hope, I bought a small bouquet of tightly closed daffodils, my favorite flower.

True to form, they opened their sunny faces and brightened my life with their utter simplicity.

Here's a poem about daffodils that is in my newly published book "At The Turquoise Table"

Photo by Russell J Smith (flickr)

Late Storm

Longing for an early spring

I sloshed through the slush

to buy

a fistful of bright, yellow

daffodils

who sit defiantly

on my table

nodding in my direction.

 

 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/russelljsmith/ / CC BY 2.0