CHAPTER 4 Good Day Striking: The Key of Life, Birds of God, Lord of Divine Words and Baboon Games, Furthermore The Riddle Zimbabwe July 4th 2016
Red heard hissing, but this sound was accompanied by another kind of hissing, or more hissing other than from the steam of train. This train Red and Scratch unboarded was painted blue, grey and brown, the Rhodesian Railways colours. The train was massive with sheer brute strength and size. It had flags on it, something Red has not seen since being in the south of the United States, but this flag was not a Confederate flag. It was a Union Jack Flag, a Union flag that represents respect for individuality within a closely knit community, so this was something Red hoped to see. The land was on a ridge, and the hill was covered with serpents. Red could not believe his ears or eyes. There were so many pythons. Black smoke, a black train, black snakes and a blackish foggy sky. Red knew too, it was the vibrations of the train that awoke the pythons. He recalled snakes were called a train, and a train a snake, a long black snake. Red watched the train swing into the turn leaving instead of lurching outward like the string on a bow.
Red drew a breath and thought, Land of Riddle, he sensed the place was of slaughter, a place of suffering and rejection. Red remembered this was koBulawayo, Bulawayo, in the Zimbabwe Kingdom from reading a map.
The surrounding landscape was screaming with telltale symbolism. Red could smell water too in the air, from a lake or river. Red saw far away people walking single file. He felt alone with strangers, so he sat down and began to have a sad feeling come over him, a feeling of danger, and he thought of so many things. Was this the place of terror for black men to be examined and shipped out to be a slave? Along with so many other dark things. Was these stone walls of this enormous place not a house but a place for human corralling? The land rock was red, and this place was no joke, Red thought, and these walls were constructed without mortar. This place felt out of bounds, or was he out of bounds. Red imagined the policing that must have happened. The horrors and &c, and no one actually knows Red remembered from studies, if this was in fact, the place of the Queen of Sheba, in the Great Zimbabwe Kingdom... Red thought, This place was behind the times if it was not a slavery hub, and all it needed was a railroad. So many years apart, Red thought. Red got up, and ran up the stone stairs to get inside. The stairs had other climbers too, geckos. Scratch sniffed at them, and he and Red moved onward and upward.
He thought of a song as he walked, and that a song, needed to sound so good to change the world, and singers. Red was wanting to hear songs sung in this day, now. Music of the lands. A chorus. Prehistoric wasn’t even a good term for this place. This place was of Godly proportions. The doorways or corridors in this house or houses were small and narrow compared to today. People ignored Red like he was a ghost, or they feared Scratch. This place was just amazing to Red. Biblical. Then it got comical. Was this Ospir? Red asked himself.
Monkeys appeared looking at Red and Scratch. Where was the tribe of this fortress? Red thought. Were they all dead, or were they to flee with time? These people were different, and Red felt something. These people he saw were leaving. There must have been more people, have they all have moved away?
Red heard thunder, but it sounded like drumming. Scratch noticed an Eagle, a Bateleur Eagle rolling through the sky. Red saw a man while he was making coffee. Red introduced himself, and the man looked up at Red, then Scratch and at the Eagle, and said, “Will be victorious in battle if the Eagle flies over the enemy!”
He looked sad, and Red replied, Who is the enemy?
“Many.” The man replied looking at an Elephant corpse laid out in the field and said, “It’s tough to argue with a corpse, and they are everywhere. I’m a foreman, excellent at keeping things on track.” He pointed north and said, “The violent ivory path. Ivory chopsticks for salt, sugar, and arms. No more, slaves, the Tovakare.” The man pointed to the Bateleur Eagle and said, “The Shiri ya Mwari bird is the alpha and the omega. They are leaving too, and peace will not return until they do return here.”
What does Shiri ya Mwari mean? Red asked.
“The bird of God links to heaven.” The man replied. “It is up there beating its wings, and it sings, Sjweee, Sjweee, and that is not good.”
There are more, look, Red said pointing to where they were.
“If they land on the walls, and spread their wings at sunset, the world will end!” The man proclaimed.
A Bateleur Eagle flew to the ground so that they could get a close look. The bird had an orange pinkish beak marked to its eyes. A color Red has seen on buzzards in Tennessee. This Eagle was beautiful, its blue back wings were impressive, and so was its silver feathers, and Red thought of the silver back Gorilla.
“They know the dzimba dza mabwe and means house of stone.” The man said, and he pointed at a section of the wall, “The great enclosure is mumbahuru, means the house of the great woman.”
So who is this great woman? Red asked.
He did not reply. The man went to chopping wood to make coffee. He stopped, and asked Red if he was a gariempero, a gold seeker.
Red replied, No, a wisdom seeker. Well, let me say this along the lines of wisdom from Chief Isapo Muxika of the Blackfoot tribe, Land is more valuable than money, and the land, waters do not belong to us, they belong to the Great Spirit.
“Nothing but pain and tragedy to those that read secrets of the gods themselves and all that is hidden in the stars.” The man replied.
Red laughed, Maybe so but to me money and gold do the same thing, and Red laughed again. I ’am enchanted by this place. Seems like I have lived or have been here before, a feeling similar to Déjà vu.
“Which is a characteristic of healthy people and psychological phenomena.” The man replied.
Yes, Red replied and thought of Andy.
“Thoth the Scribe, wrote the story of our reality then placed it into grids for us to experience and learn through the alchemy of time and consciousness.” The man said.
So Baboons know how to tell time? Red asked.
The man laughed and got two cups for the coffee. “That maybe so. We find them the Nyani to be evil.”
Speak of the, Red said but did not finish the cliche phrase.
A lone grown Baboon came up to them, and he stopped in front of Red and made a large X in the dirt in front of him. The man looked at Red and said, “That means above and below. He is telling you that Thoth taught writing to mankind.”
Red was impressed by this and moved forward, and squatted down to converse with this beautiful Baboon.
The man threw a little bag in front of Red and said, “There are dice in there, see if he likes to play dice.”
Okay, I am feeling something here, I feel that he feels left out, somehow, Red said. Red opened the bag, rolled the dice, they were of a two and three. The Baboon smiled it seemed and picked them up, sniffed them and chattered. He then placed them in his mouth and spit them out, and they were of a two and three. Red laughed, and looked back at Scratch. Scratch was being lazy, lying down. There seemed to be no conflict, Red thought.
“He maybe, and such be so, as I have said, True, without falsehood, certain and most true, that which is above is the same as that which is below, and that which is below is the same as that which is above, for the performance of miracles of the One Thing.” The man spoke, and something sunk into Red, but remained silent.
The Baboon began to draw pictures in the dirt.
“Medu neter,” The man said smiling, “They are words of the gods.”
Red asked the man his name. “Cosmu,” replied the man. Red turned around to look at him, and he was no longer there. Red stood there looking about, and asked the Baboon while looking for the man, Why is sense called common when it is so rare? It was silent so Red turned around and the Baboon too was no longer there. Red looked at the Baboons’ symbol and he thought of Chinese writing but it wasn’t. Red thought of the royal libraries that were in Alexandria. Red got a bit nervous. He looked for the eagles and found they too are gone. He sat down and thought, Capturing human emotion is so difficult, and the more difficult a human acts, makes them emotionless or heart blocking. We associate words and ideas with emotions and memories; often think of the future.
Red laughed and thought, Don’t look for any Gorilla Shakespeare to come around, but then again, this Baboon just drew some kind of petroglyph that looked like the Bateleur Eagle. The dice were rolled too, and there were each of one. Did the Baboon roll this or was it a message, signaling mankind was of treachery and betrayal? Red remembered so it is above so it is below. Red asked Scratch where the Baboon went and Scratch let out a roar. Ah Red said, and awoke. He laid there laughing a bit, and remembered a Baboon worked on a railroad in South Africa. There is a lot to learn here, so Red got out of bed, and it was to early too meet the team, so he decided to study.
Andy was sleeping in his roomette and in his dream he heard singing, a chorus, a cling and a clang; sounded he knew well- sounds of hammers and spades bang. Andy realized something was mirroring, and there was thunder. The place he came, had no entrances, no windows, the birds flew above them and the wind moved through the place. It was like an outdoors church because of the alter he noticed. Andy heard a man talking, “The only way to pray before battle is for its failure. To pray any other way isn’t a prayer at all, but a petition for murder.” The man walked from behind some trees with a black boy riding piggy back.
The trees were beautiful and big but not like the Bay-Tree the Laurel of North America and the south of Europe but the Msasa trees of Africa and they were retina taking, caused by their red leaves. Andy remembered the bay tree wreath, the symbolical crown of Poets and warriors. The man spoke again, “We are making a Kraal, a traditional African village of huts, typically enclosed by a fence.” The person he was talking to was the boy on his back, and the man saw Andy. Andy introduced himself, and the man said, “I am Arthur Shearly Cripps, the Shona call me Baba Mpandi, or ‘the man who walks like thunder.’ Also they call me ’Francis of Assisi of the African countryside, Chapepa he who cares for people.”
Andy felt this person, and thought about the thunder, and looked around a bit and saw there were no clouds. “So you are a man of God?” Andy asked.
“Yes and a Poet,” Arthur Shearly Cripps replied. “You are a Mufambi, the Wanderer Poet from America, and here in Rhodesia they are going to look at you like you are not like them, and they will, and you will have to prove different. You and your friends.”
Andy laughed and said, “This is grand, a chance of a life time.” Andy thought, “I ’am human, but I ’am not, we are one blood.”
Arthur Shearly Cripps crouched down, and let the boy off his back and laughed, “Andy, doesn’t this give you the sense of having been here before, of having come back to this country?”
‘Oh my God.’ Andy thought. ‘This was the City of Roses, where the Master of Sunshine goes.’ “Yes,” Andy replied. “Man do I, a day ja ja like vu” Andy almost broke time code because he wanted to tell Cripps about the Poet Tammy Jo Ricci and her poem, “Farewell; To The Weeping Rose.” so Andy just smiled and lived in the moment.
“So your path was immune from crocodiles?” Cripps asked. “Andy this is Raphah and he is a good child.” Cripps pulled out calabash pipe. “Transvaal tobacco is my favorite. Did you come by the morning train? The slow down-train I call it. You look damp.”
Andy thought for a moment and replied “Yes, the Crocs ate all the woodpecker pie I brought.” Andy laughed, and replied to Cripps second question. “Yes, and it was a pleasant ride.”
“I was just teaching Raphah how one could use watery roots like crayons,” Cripps said, “Woodpecker pie, that’s funny.”
Raphah was occupied by drawing and coloring.
“Andy are you here too about the theory of Ophir, and Solomon’s gold?” Cripps asked and talked more. “I ask them all, and the script; where is it? And the graves; where are they? If they were Semites, why didn’t they write? If they were Semites, why didn’t they bury?”
Andy replied, “Many folks feel confused about the world. They would like to believe in miracles, and to answer your question, maybe, but not the gold. I already know where Jesse James gold is!” and Andy laughed.
Cripps looked at Andy with a curious expression, and says, “I have heard of the Jesse James. It’s been days of All Hallows and all souls here, so, you must demonstrate one’s principle of barring out the color-bar. Miracles are alive and well, with grace. We are in Danger now, she is here, and her fire seems so inevitable, why not warn about her prospective fuel? That perfect love casteth out fear, but what has racialism to do with such a perfect love as will banish the fear of God?”
Andy replied with a question, “Did Danger start the nightmare? Seems to me she is the master of ignorance. Maybe she’s Poetries evil twin?”
Cripps eyes got big with insight and replied, “She started a nightmare. I wish we could help you to better dreams. I’d like to see what you see now. Let’s go for a walk. I want to show you some beautiful things, and introduce you to some great people.”
Raphah quickly gathered up his art and natural root crayons.
They all three walked and beyond a few railway sheds Cripps shown Andy some bushes of wild cherry-blossom, flaunting a true white under the sky’s true blue. Spring colors dressed the woodland behind them, red and bronze, the two famous colors of Faeryland. Behind that, again, the view was spread out widely diverse, hills standing up very delicately. Near foreground some people were driving their flock between the white-blossomed bushes.
“This is the wilder country of the central tableland,” Cripps said. “Lets take a break here.”
Cripps began to chant in a chorus tone. He pulled out from his back pocket a copy of Theocritus, he sat down, and spoke “They all call thee a gipsy, gracious Africa, lean and sun burnt, tis only I that call thee honey-pale. Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in garlands. Ah, gracious Africa, thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory, thy voice is drowsy sweet, and thy ways, I cannot tell of them.”
A train engine whistled, stopping at the nearby station. Cripps reached for his wallet, and brought out a mini Oxford anthology. He turned over the pages and began to read rather sadly, Elizabeth Barret Brownings’ poem “The Great God Pan - A Musical Instrument”
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
A man came to them from the train, and Andy was in deep thought.
Cripps smiled, stood up, and spoke, “Andy this is Johannes, my own right hand at home. I solemnly entrusted the strangers and their steeds to his keeping. Johannes you look like you had really gone without blankets or food?”
“You are right Arthur, but I made it back home,” Johannes said, and he looked at Andy, and Cripps introduced each other.
Andy was intrigued and asked, “So this theory of Ophir, remains from what we know from the Old Testament, can we talk about that? You also seem to be, but I have not seen of yet, to be friends of animals.”
Cripps laughed and said, “Follow your intuition for it has brought you here.”
Andy smiled and thought about his grandfather, and that humans are more dangerous than wild animals. “I think Moses and Solomon were Masters of diversion as well, the gold is spiritual wisdom, and the arc of the covenant was the goose, or goose egg putting everyone into a chase for it.”
Cripps smiled and said, “I love the way you think. So you know where the gold is of the Jesse James?”
Andy laughed and replied, “Yes, but that is material gold, not spiritual, and not important.”
“Fascinating.” Cripps replied.
Andy got a bit nervous, thinking, “Is she, the muse of Poetry, claiming him for her only, and bade him never have to do with mortal woman ? And what if Danger was Poetries’ sister?” Andy shook off the questions for awhile, but smiled, smiled to be chosen, “But how many others, and beyond death, were they with her? Although, although.”
Drayton, a friend of Cripps came too, sat down and said, “It’s good to see you all again, and I have a new poem.”
’I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.′
’I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she lean,
and sing A faery’s song.
’She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange
she said I love thee true.′
’She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild,
sad eyes with kisses four.
’And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d Ah woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.′
’I saw pale kings and princes, too;
Pale warriors death-pale were they all.
They cried, “La Belle Dame sans Merci”
hath thee in thrall.
’I saw their starved lips in the gloom
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill’s side.′
Andy was tripping, thinking, “The Sorceress.” Andy looked at the ground, and ants were everywhere.
Cripps laughed and said, “Those are Matabele ants of the veld.”
‘Ah’ Andy thought, ‘Ants like the whiteman, and was this a sign, and analogy from the Umlimo Prophecies he has read about?’
A white man came from behind them on foot and he had a walking stick, but a horse followed him loaded with bags, and he was the Elephant hunter Frederick Courteney Selous aka The Mighty Nimrod.
“Excuse me,” He said and introduced himself. He asked for some paper, because he was writing his novel ‘Sunshine and Storm in Rhodesia.’
They all were back offish, because he had a similar Indian Jones slash Ramboish feel to him, and they all knew white mans’ trickery. Cripps stood up and said, “Have a seat. Johannes please go to our kraal and bring us back things to write with, paper, pencils, ink and feathers, furthermore more roots for Raphah. Oh tea, bring us plenty of tea, please.”
“Thank you,” Frederick C. Selous said smiling because he loved tea, “I heard you all reciting poetry, so I was like yes, here we have folks I can relate to. My mother is a Poet. Ann Holgate Sherborn.” Frederick C. Selous looked at Andy and said, “My mother wrote a poem ‘The Prophetic Dream’ and for some reason, you have brought it back to my memory. The poem is about love coming from over the blue sea, for poetry.”
Andy gave Selous a catchy look and smiled, furthermore Andy thought, ‘Selous did not know Andy, why?’
Selous said, “I have an imagination strongly fueled by African exploration and hunting literature, Dr. David Livingstone and William Charles Baldwin. We are heros Andy, fictional character or not.”
Andy contemplated time and memory, and smiled in his mind. Honesty.
Johannes was on the way to get supplies, tea, and munchies. He was stopped by Nehanda Charwe Nyakasikana a svikiro-spirit medium of the Zezuru Shona people, and she looked deeply into his eyes, and Johannes looked shocked and Nehanda said, “Don’t be afraid.” She wore a robe like garment with a skirt, her head was shaved, and she wore ankle bracelets. She walked away saying, “Seize the gun and liberate yourselves.” Johannes did not know what to think, but asked to himself, ‘How can we save our skins?’
Meanwhile back at the resting place Andy was thinking that Selous would kill Scratch if he was here. Andy thought about Red and tossed and turned in his bed, talking in his sleep, “Thou shall not kill.” This deepened the dream, and they wondered why animals seemed to have a bad temper.
Andy looked at the horse and wondered what was in the bags? He noticed the horses hooves, like the horse had walked through ashes. Andy thought about the British empire and what it was and the Poet William Langlands’ dream, and Jack Cades’ rebellion, furthermore the anonymous Pearl-Poet?
Cripps caught Andy thinking into a distant realm. Eagles could be heard but not seen, and the focus became on the boy Raphah because he sat aside his art and looked at Andy and said, “Let me shake you like a train, Touch your nose, Touch your mouth, Touch your eyes, Touch your ears, Touch your paper and root, And let me hear that whistle about and smile.”
Andy smiled and said, “Oh I love that, great poem, so you know what goes on in between our ears don’t you.” Andy applauded the boy, and everyone fell into suit and applauded Raphah. Raphah smiled and whistled like a train. Andy looked at them and said, “Dowel (“Do-Well”), Dobet (“Do-Better”), and Dobest (“Do-Best”) that’s how I came to be here, Poetry has called me. The intense quest and intention of Poetic will. Andy thought back in his time, everyone does not get to read or desire Poetry because they are glued to a television screen or a smart phone, and video games in all forms, we need to create films about Poets, and that is the truth of the matter.
Frederick Courteney Selous aka The Mighty Nimrod looked at Andy and asked, “Where is your Poetic license?”
Andy laughed and replied, “In my heart, but the thing is where did you get yours from, a cracker jack box?” This was about to fire up a deadly sin in The Mighty Nimrod, and Andy spoke. “Hey, love, where’s the love? Your mother loved poetry without murder. I ’am just using my inwit here, are you with me?”
The Eagles could be heard again, and they all looked up, and the moon was in the days’ sky, and this resembled a finger to Andy poking us alive. Humility and Grace came over them along with an eclipse.
Andy started to cry inside, because if Poetry was claiming Andy for hers, then he must face the fact, that a true love on earth was not happening unless he abandoned Poetry and Red altogether, and that was not happening. Andy knew his love was on the other side of the globe, like the song from Led Zeppelin ‘The Rover.’
“Never under estimate the Poets forces, once they unite in full!” Andy said, “You see everyone, I am welding and grinding, time within time, within in dream time, within my inwit life time. The only reason why Poetry is not popular is because, we’d mentally kick some tail bone.”
The Mighty Nimrod was silent but thought, ’Andy was a human being, with a spiritual nature super added which enabled the unseen Deity-Poetry that pervades space to commune with Andy furthermore communicate the wishes or commands of the invisible spirit to the up and coming Poets.′
Raphah created art, a tower, and said, “Look, there is no curfew for Poetry.”
Everyone laughed except The Mighty Nimrod, he scoffed, laughed and spoke, “The world will turn your Poetry Train upside-down Andy, and your character will become a symbol for a movement which the world regard as an evil.”
Poetry th’Diety then spoke to Andy, “Be gentle on th’wind, recall when I spoke to you before, be patient.”
Cripps looked at Andy, and they knew that The Mighty Nimrod was a master bad Wolf who robbed the world of spiritual food, but they had compassion for him, and they were ready to show the blade of forgiveness.
A train could be heard in the distance, was it a train, a cattle stampede, or was it a Zulu tribe on a path to war?
Raphah looked at The Mighty Nimrod and cried and in his whimper he spoke, “You are killing us, do not kill.”
The Mighty Nimrod replied, “Well, aren’t you jolly, ol boy, just jolly?”
Raphah replied, “We don’t care about your Cat, the Queen, we are her nightmare in this dream.”
At this time Johannes returned with supplies and the artist Gwelo Goodman, ‘th’Master of Sunshine.’ Gwelo Goodman unpacked his art tools and spoke, “Look here, I was a clerk for the Railroad, and my father was a British Railways worker. I want to paint a picture for you.”
Gwelo Goodman moved quickly and swiftly and created a masterpiece like none before. It was a storm, lightning and thunder storm. It was magical plunging them again and again into the unknown, one brave stroke of paint followed by another.
Cripps and Andy knew Danger was here, unseen, but she could be felt, and the day time went by into the night with discussions of Poetry.
Cripps spoke to Andy, “You can sleep here for the night under the many eyes of the heavens. You just keep to your fire.”
From behind Nimrod came Nehanda Charwe Nyakasikana, the svikiro-spirit medium of the Zezuru Shona people and reached for his rifle, and Andy awoke.
‘Sing Rad’ Poetry Train Africa by Boet Fritz & music by Ticha Muzavazi.
ya ya way
em em, em em way
We’re only miles away,
and this Poetry Train Africa
Here we go, ya ya
this Poetry Train Africa
Poet bold and free
ya ya way
and this Poetry Train Africa
We’re only miles away,
and this Poetry Train Africa
Here we go, ya ya
this Poetry Train Africa
Boet was in correspondence with Ticha Muzavazi who is a Poet, Author and Teacher for the Blind, to make a book trailer for Poetry Train Africa with his MaJairos PaJairos melody, and all was good. Red was silent reading things online when Andy came to join them.
Beautiful melody and words, Red said.
“It was, play it again for me Boet.” Andy said waking up, and poured himself coffee.
A woman and a man walked by to have a seat in the dining car, and they all heard what they were talking about as they came in.
“You have obviously not lived in Africa... I was born in Rhodesia, a thriving and beautiful nation called Eden and the bread basket of the world. It had such robust agriculture and an amazing economy. Then it became Zimbabwe, over 300% inflation, that is 300%. Starvation abounds, Aids is rampant. Blacks believe if you rape a baby or virgin, it will cure you- Charlize Theron did an ad about it and the Thugament banned it. Cities crumbled, whites hunted and kicked off their land, shot for their color. My god father was one. No food, mines taken over by Thugabwe airline, newspapers, farms, elections, businesses, everything that could profit him and his elite thugs. He does not care about black lives, black nations, black anything other than his black thug culture screaming about slavery. He has taken a beautiful nation, this nation and raped her of all her bounty. He has left the nation barren and starving. I could go on and on across the continent, example after example. Obama said, Zimbabwe was a shining example and he wanted America to be like her- well, he has it, shoot the officers, kill and blame whitey for all your woes, wide spread government corruption, elite group of cronies getting wealthy. Look at America since he took over. We sat behind black people at an event last night, they were the only ones I could see that did not sing the national anthem. My advice, if you think Africa is so great and your Mother land, Come here and see life under black dictator rule. Come! Live in a slum made out of tin scraps, with no running water and toilet paper that takes a wheelbarrow of printed money to purchase. My best friend is black, just for your information, is living this hell. Wake up and learn beyond your hate for white people. I raised my children colorblind. My son was choked for it, my sister had her nose broken by blacks for coming from Africa, my husband was treated horridly from the moment his black boss found out I was from Africa, we have lost black friends over and over because of it. Tell me who are the racists? I hate ignorance. Most black slaves brought to America over 200 years ago! They were sold by other blacks who had conquered their tribes! What happened to them here was horrible, but it is not an excuse for people to use as a crutch for their hatred of white people 200 years later! Most would be found not to even be ancestors of slaves.” The lady yelled out, “HATE IS TAUGHT” and it starts in the home and hearts of parents too busy being jealous of others to do their job and earn their own way. We don’t drive Cadillac’s, my daughter is paying for her med school despite being and honor student by cleaning peoples’ houses. That pesky affirmative action-you know where kids get in just because of their skin color not because they earned it by working hard. She is not going to Harvard on tax dollars that is for sure, just another elite school Obama sends his darlings to, to keep from the riff raff out here in real America. Go see reality before sounding off so ignorantly on Africa and America and what has happened there and here because of class and color warfare.
The man this lady was with replied, “Yes, it is bigotry to target white people, same as targeting people because they are of a particular race or religion or gender or orientation. Yes, it’s wrong for govt officials, cops or anyone else to target based on those things too, it is wrong to target govt employees too, be their agents trying to collect grazing fees, or wildlife refuge care takers or cops trying to do their jobs.
They are all govt employees, some federal, some local, which means they are working for us, and they are us, as in We, the People. An attack on one is an attack on all of us, whether it’s these shootings or those unjustified shootings by cops. It is not one or the other, it’s both.
The train conductor came in and spoke to them, “They say in the U.S.A. the lethal injection is not humane, go figure, remember when they buried people up to our necks and stoned them to death, please. I say hang’ em high. I understand the grief you all feel, but please, keep the volume and tempers down, please. I ask that from you both.”
Andy looked at Red, and tele-thought... “Thank God we are friends, living examples, where we forget one not, out of friendship, respect and love, furthermore Poetry.
“So where are we today in wisdom Poets?” Andy asked.
Chenjerai Hove, Red replied, Shall we say if you want to know about the history of a country, do not go to the history books, go to the Poetry & Fiction. It has clues and is the substance and heartbeat of a person’s life, here, now, and in the past. Not just politics but about love and death. Messages of hope.
“Thanks, place the wisdom Red, while I read and listen to Charlize Theron,” Andy said.
10/4, Red answered and said, Chenjerai Hove, has died last year in Norway at the age of 59. You are going to love his wisdom.
“Already, in studying Chenjerai Hove speeches, comments make me sick,” Andy said. “We are already fighting megalomania and racism. We are not wisdom armed to fight this, but it comes to me anyway, one of the 10 commandments, and wisdom centuries ago, not taken seriously. We or I’ll have to just soak this in.”
Post it anyway Andy, leave the deciphering to the passengers. Red proclaimed.
“Okay,” Andy replied, “I have phone calls to make after that. Then we will study Poet Chenjerai Hove.” Andy was tired, dream beaten, need to return, he thought, ‘Maybe a nap later.’
Andy recalled a dream from last night, bits and pieces, and he thought, ‘If the modern day Queen of Poetry knows the wisdom of roses, and so much more, why was she so reluctant to move forward with her beautiful Poetry, as she is, and allowing Andy & Red and Poet John E. WordSlinger to bring her divine Poetry to this beautiful planet, beautiful Poetry for sure,’ Andy thought as he looked out the window of the train. I must be patient with this Poetry of hers, in bloom time, not humanities’ time, because she hates humanities’ time. She loves water, for sure, but unlike roses, she does not crave the sun, but she asks, “Can you hear the sunshine?” Andy could, can...
Red knew what and who Andy was thinking, and said, Play some Beethoven. Tell her to eat bananas, they will make her feel better.
“Red if something happens, it will do me in.” Andy said. “She thinks I ’am selfish Red, not knowing in full, what we go through so far away from our country, and I know she’s going though way more than we are, Red.”
She knows you care Andy, Red proclaimed. We have work to do. Chenjerai Hove says, Poetry is for everyone. Each of us are unique, once we discover ourselves through Poetry. New voices, new styles.
“Another Poet forced to exile, I read.” Andy said.
Red replied, He is a fighting Poet which insists, through both content and form, Poetry should be revolutionary and popular. Poetry must spring from life’s struggles and not from back-sitting imagination and fantasies, so again we hear this.
“He passed like we shall Red, with being rich in wisdom, soul and conscience.” Andy said.
Red wrote on a piece of paper and slid it to Andy, and it read, International Parliament of Writers and International Cities of Refuge Network.
Andy looked at Red and said, “Serious Poetry is not about private and personal indulgence or about personal lamentations, but about ‘the pain and pleasure of people in struggle’ as they traverse different epochs in history, but personal lamentations or poems, or notes are used against sincere Poets.”
What are you seeing Andy? Red asked.
“They call them scorpions here in Africa, as we call human snakes,” Andy replied. “We never meant to drop a house in the literary river. But I have to admit, it was and is grand to watch the water snakes emerge... Or scorpions. All in all boys and girls, don’t look for a rainbow when you are the rainbow.”
Andy turned over the paper and wrote. ‘We have one or a few amongst us, shhh.’
Andy poured some more coffee and said, “The good news is Constantine Enyo is now Vice President of poetrytrain.com and you know as well as I do, he will make a great spirit to all we have done, as he told us, ‘Due to the vision of this art and our relentless dedication that astounds me and makes me proud to be a part of it. Castalia Press will soon become entirely dedicated to the Poetry Train and our vision.’
Boet laughed and said, “Hold that cup. No, I got your clown make up. Y’all better get your bozo asses to my roomette, like now.”
Boet knew it was time to get them away from what society there was at the moment.
Andy poured coffee anyways, stood up, took a sip, and laughed spitting it out all over the trains’ window. Andy looked at Boet and said, “You have got to be kidding me.” Andy looked at Red, and Red gave Andy that look. Andy sat down, and said, “Hell no, none of you megalamaniacs, prejudice, gonna hem me up.” Momma blind or dead, not, none of you Un-united folk ever going to slow me, or Red down.”
Red spoke, Down.
Andy replied “No. We aint bringing bugs, make up, here, we are Poetry Promoters, ya hear.”
“Okay.” Boet said, “I shall return with make up. It is that time.” And Boet laughed.
“No you’re not.” Andy said. “You are going to sit your ass down, and mind-fight, just like I do, we do.”
Red sat down, looked at Boet and said, Yall have to do it with out us, carry on.
“There is enough make up on this world.” Andy said...
Red spoke, relax everyone Andy is in full blown taking out megalomania and racism mode.
“Andy, you have to stick with the game plan.” Boet proclaimed as he stood up. “Reds’ life is easy to pass off as Zimbabwean, you on the other hand will not. Your life is at stake, so stick to the plan, you know, remember last night, when you decided to look like John Adams instead of Buckwheat?
Andy looked at Red laughing, smircked and said, “I need those circus gloves, those circus shoes too, you got them?”
“Yes.” Boet replied.
“I need them, since we are on the train, and in these circumstances,” Andy said laughing, “No man can pass as Santa Claus, with out gloves, and shoes, a circus clown has to have them, or they ain’t no circus clown. So, we are going to copyright this face art right, as me as the new John Adams of the Library of Congress, and meme stuff? Where and the train tar nations is Mathias?”
Red laughed... Ya ya get the eggs, we don’t have much time. Trademark Andy asap.
And that’s what Boet did.
“Each and every human face is different, as in each Poet.” Andy said as Boet applied Andys’ new clown make up. “Black, white, red, come on give me some blue!”
Red laughed and spoke, “I am typing away Andy at the International Circus Clowns Club, International Parliament of Writers and the International Cities of Refuge Network.”
Andy could see the alterations in the reflection on the trains window, and spoke “Red Poetry Train aint no Vegas.”
I got this Andy, hush! Red said.
Andy laughed and said, “You have to love the 20th Century BS! 18th Century too, look at me, John Adams, Copyrights are governed by the Copyright Act of 1976 contained in title 17 of the U.S. Code. The Act protects published or unpublished works that are fixed in a tangible medium of expression from which they can be perceived. The Act does not protect matters such as an idea, process, system, or discovery. Protection under the Act extends for the life of the creator of the work plus fifty years after his or her death. The exclusive right to make copies, license, and otherwise exploit a literary, musical, or artistic work, whether printed, audio, video, etc.: works granted such right by law on or after January 1, 1978, are protected. This is hilarious. What do they think we are doing? Are we sleeping? One day, Red we will get to see the Queens egg collection, royal and all, ha ha ha ha. Red, trains station attendant was a white man back there, and he stolen my coffee cup! Mathias should we call, the Zimbabwe Authorities or Poetry Trains Axel F, ha ha ha ha.”
Five minutes later the Trains Conductor and two other men walk through the train. Red and Andy both knew these two men were lawmen. Boet finished the face art for Andy, and Andy just put on his last glove as they looked at them as they walked by. The other two people, the lady and the man arguing over American politics, looked more nervous than they did, so this helped.
Andy laughed and said, “I am the clown as I am, but I think wearing a cowboy hat is not suffice, maybe some kind of snake skin head band or something?” Andy laughed harder. He then looks at Red and said, “Mathias must be chasing women and poetry contests.” Andy laughed and said, “He did hear us when we said, good luck with dealing with ghosts.”
Red looked at Andy and said, This has become the train of hunger, let’s have breakfast, and discuss Poets Charles William Dambudzo Marechera and Ignatius T. Mabasa.
“Okay, and I ’am still reading Chenjerai Hove and Thomas Bvuma,” Andy said, “I think I will have this sugar bush breakfast special.”
Sounds good to me too, Red replied, When you order this pancake breakfast a dollar goes to Cedar Rail Camp, humanitarian project for Zimbabweans.
“Maybe we should just eat some poetry, like Charles William Dambudzo Marechera did.” Andy said. “Come eat Poetry, Masses come and rise to power.”
Red laughed, looked at Boet and said, Andy’s suffering from intellectual overflow. You see, he knows now he is part of the Zimbabwes’ underground railroad.
Andys’ clown make up was smearing below his eyes. Tears were falling as he thought in sadness, ’Because of stupidity, a wind of non-respect blew over the planet earth. He saw a parallel between the ignored facts on Animals and Poets, a majority of people were killers by nature... The political and religious platforms spawned this, money dependency too, and true Historians and Poets seem not to be able to stop the downward spiral of mankind. Only the true need for Gods love can awaken the world to do better.′
They did not know what to say to Andy so Andy spoke, “I am just being smoky. I am okay, when this happens. I write poetry. I have written it to my journals. I am good. By the way, reading here something by Poet Dan Wylie, ′We don’t study humans to gain a better understanding of animals, but we do study animals, and very effectively too, to gain a better understanding of humans. Instinct is becoming submerged,′ he says and so my instinct to cry shall not.” Andy played the song ‘Tears Of A Clown’ by Smokey Robinson.
Boet looked around before he spoke, “The reason why African nations are in disaster and lead by bad leaders and dictators is because those leaders have been set in power by the west to serve western interests. That’s why, almost always when there is a good African leader who lead the country to prosperity and who is not a puppet of the west he is killed, think! Now that they don’t directly colonize Africa like during the colonialism era, now the west colonizes Africa, the neo colonization because the west is rich due to all African resources that they pillaged for decades. Aids is also present in Europe and America and don’t forget that HIV has been created by Europeans in a laboratory for to reduction of the African population.”
Red replied, You’re speaking the truth and nothing but the truth for who are willing to look with honest mind.
Boet smiled and said, “This train will become the shadow train, where people will leave Zimbabwe illegally. People jump off of trains and face death, rather than face the regime here in Zimbabwe.”
Andy looked out the window and saw cars were on roads abandoned, stalled or out of fuel.
Andy said looking, “Reading and listening to you Boet to what has happened to Zimbabwe this last decade of history reminds me of America is about to go through in a major way but in a next to higher gear. So most white people here only care about themselves?”
Boet replied, “Yes, you are thinking.”
Andy spoke, “Red I want to go and talk to the other passengers, they won’t know I ’am white.
We are not banned like journalists, to be beaten and killed. Glad we made a fake passport right. We are inked for this”
Andy got up and asked, “So how do I look, jesterish?”
Red laughed and said, Ya Ya.
Andy opened up a bag and got handfuls of Poetry Train flyers and chapbooks to pass out to passengers on the train, furthermore paper and papermate flairs. This was online linkage too so, Poets can unite online. “Boet can we go to this Queens club, where Hove and others played pool and recited poetry?” Andy asked. “These chapbooks and ebooks are made by us, paid for by us, and handed out by us.”
Boet laughed and said “You are pushing it.”
Andy replied, “We can’t have loss combined with a flair for rhyme, when we are traveling through poetry train time! Unlike others, I want to be laughed at, get me. Let those without laughter throat the first laugh, and may it be contagious, outrageous, gorgeous, and clash. Also maybe I’ll find Mathias, with hmm, with us, ha ha ha ha.”
Boet laughed and spoke, “Andy you are going to have to have more of a Afrikaans dialect, you’re all the way U.S.A., we can’t have that. Mathias is with the passengers, schooling up!”
“Come on Boet, I ’am the un-identied clown who came from a UFO,” Andy proclaimed as he stood up. “It’s reading Poetry time, stanza by stanza. Reading very slowy, everyone, no racing. Read, remember everything of the poems. Being under rule should not be frightful. Also Mathias wants more protest Poetry!”
Red laughed, and said, Write Poetry too, maybe about the Africa fauna like John Eppel, and teaching ESL. The good stuff you know. Red laughed again, and said, from a UFO, nice one.
“Hear that noise, sounds like a flute.” Andy said. “Poems about looking after the earth properly.”
We don’t want to scare people Andy, Red said laughing.
“I know, people need to know Poetry is everywhere,” Andy replied.
“Should one stand up when they read?” Boet asked as Andy got up to go to a train car of people trying to escape Zimbabwe.
“Yes there are Poets in this universe, and we must ask, is there a cave or a train to write Poetry in or on? Andy said laughing, “Ha ha Ha ha, I ’am a Jester you all, for you all. Yes there are Poets in this universe, with Poems like orbs, like spinning suns, and like shadows in the sun. There are witnesses, and now you are too. Poets and Poetry are very much alive in Zimbabwe and the world is sleeping, sleeping deeply, beyond the African sleeping disease. Everywhere sleeping, it is time to wake up the world. So what we are going to do today is write Poetry too, flawed structure, and that’s okay, and it is okay for verses not knowing where the story will end. Despite discipline, or lines that are scan-less, we have a plan, so, join us. The word and skill of asymmetrical, no worries, do not let that bother you. Laugh at a current inability to find a rhyme, and if the Poem isn’t right, leave it to be, or add a footnote to draw attention to the point. Get me? Ha ha Ha ha.”
Red laughed and said, Smoken’ train’ so many poems to read by Poet John Randal Bradburne, well, relax y’all, we got this, kickin’ it in th′20th Century Poetry Train Africa Zimbabwe... While Mathias is gathering the class, the Poetry Train is about to bring some folks back down to the grass... ya ya, love this, Boo!
Andy stretched out and said, “It’s so good to be in Zimbabwe, riding and writing in Africa. A dream within a triple dream.”
Red smiled and said, Okay, you all do what is planned and I’ll be right here reading’ Robin Walkers’ ‘When We Ruled’ and by PD Lawtons’ “African Agenda” furthermore reading to Poets of Zimbabwe. Induce some Poetry gentlemen. Oh ya I’ll be making videos for Poets, Awotide Oluwaseun Micheal, Pusetso Palesa, Patrick Walsh, Chummy Chuu Madulanyane, and Grant Steward, furthermore Mathias wants us to help him with his book of Poetry.
Boet spoke, “Also Walter Rodney who wrote the book “How Europe Underdeveloped Africa.” Oh yes, and “African Cities and Towns Before the European Conquest by Richard W. Hull.”
“Nice,” Andy replied, “Fill me in later. What, Mathias does, well, wait until I see him.”
Andy was dressed in fine silk and velvet, he looked blingish without bling as a Jester in John Adams clown fashion, and spoke to the passengers who wanted to leave Zimbabwe, “I understand why you are feeling bound up. I myself can’t stand being bound up, with an unrested spirit. I say though, we have to climb. Allow life to please us when life chooses to. You all have gifts, use them to the best of your ability, furthermore allow them to grow. Learn to trust. Walk into the sun, crawl if you have to, and the same with night. Talk on with what can be done. Bells, build bells, bells of steel, and iron. Compassion, build compassion of heart and soul against woe, penetrate against anything against aglow. Tribal up! Poetry is caught and not taught or bought, imagine that?” and Andy laughed. “Poetry maybe like prayer, and you all have been prayed for, so never give up. Think of immortality.”
Andy looked at everyone stooping in their seats, and on the floors, and spoke again to them, “I am completely convinced that people are against you and as you do feel in your spirit, they only engage in conversations or in your life, and have zero intention of understanding or listening to you. Their whole purpose is to disprove and reject anything you say. I have no idea why you still feel such a deep need to make them understand or care. You don’t need to be understood, because you can do amazing things, and sometimes, too strange for the conservative minds. As Poet Julius Chingono would say, they be Zhin Zhan, don’t let them make you go Zhin Zhan too!”
Andy looked around and found the Poet Africa Makakane and they be like talking, and they talked about Jumpers and Staffriders and &c, And they talked about effort and respect, and Poet Africa Makakane recites his poem Africa, Where Art Thou?
Andy talked to the jumpers, “Ever since South Africa, from Botswana and here, through Zimbabwe you see no staffriders, just jumpers. Did you know racism is suicide. Megalomania is suicide. Life is precious you all. Poetry about Zimbabwes’ nature is what we need.”
Red went to make sure things did not get out of hand from the start for Andy and Boet. As he entered the car, he heard what Andy said to the passengers and spoke too, Racism is murder, and so is Megalomania.
Poetry Train America and Poetry Train Canada: http://www.amazon.com/Mr-John-E-WordSlinger/e/B01AF3E55M