Poetry Train Africa: Ethiopia

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CHAPTER 6 The 6th Season of Shiny Throats, In Search of the maSwati Epic Poem In The Valley Of Reads Swaziland 10th January 2017

The valley of the Reeds had a feeling that came with the place, and being on high alert was necessary. A stray dog was running in the opposite way. Red, Andy and Scratch were walking, and they heard an older person whistling and calling out “Hector, Hector” come here boy, we must go home, but the man could not be seen. The bugs were louder than they had ever heard anywhere. The southern states in the U.S.A. have no amplification like these insect singers here is Swaziland. The land smelled of blood. Crocodile tracks were everywhere along with ant hills. Red, Andy and Scratch were tired, but they had to move on. Bad vibes were felt. They had not felt this vibe in a long time. Andy knew what it was too, white racism. Andy knew it anywhere. They were in the land where they say, ‘There is an old woman with long teeth, who eats white men.’ There was no wonder as to why, it was about to be evident. The Rietvlei River was beautiful but staying clear of it became mutual intuition between them, but something caught their attention ahead of them. There were three children making clay toys. One white boy, a black boy and white girl, and they were getting along fine.

Red looked at Andy and smiled, because they were innocent and not a sight of racism was between them. They moved on to not disturb the kids. In their thoughts, this was a beautiful thing to witness.

Ghostly orbs moved through the trees. It seemed to be a ghost horse, and rider walking ahead of them. Scratch walked ahead of the Poetry Train duo, and stopped. The path ahead was not good. Thorn trees were everywhere, but there was a path cut ahead, so, they walked on it. It was the only way to move onward and forward. The thickness of thorn trees kept out the light.

Andy whispered, “We must follow the horse and rider. Maybe another Boer ghost reminds me of the Haunted Tennessee plateau, and civil war ghosts.”

This was cool they thought and a ghost horse too. They came to an opening and it was not a pretty sight. Dead bodies were everywhere, women and children and the elderly. Their wagons were destroyed too, looted through it looked like. This was a massacre. This was a terrible thing they both thought, and decided to pick up their pace to find a safe place. They came upon an empty sawmill in this well wooded area, and this was not a place to be or to rest so they moved through the woods. They heard the horse but could not see them. Scratch lead the way, his instincts were better because shock was upon Red and Andy from the carnage they had just seen. This was a ferocious campaign, and buzzards could be heard in a nearby cave. They knew where people hid, and never made it back out alive. They both cried, and Scratch rubbed his body against Red and Andys’ legs. Scratch too was sad about this. What a shame, they tele-thought.

Scratch picked up on a path that seemed to be army tracks, but what army, the Boers or the British Union Jacks? The tracks were not tribal. They would be invisible they thought. They came upon block houses. They heard life, men working. They were building the Komatipoort Railway Bridge, and it seemed to be patrolled by policemen. Not too far away men were building a hotel too. The bad vibe increased so, they went back through the woods, hoping not to see the ghosts again, even though it was a magnificent sight. They looked back again to see if they were seen. They noticed men dancing, and drinking tawala, kaffer beer, so it must have been break time for these railroad workers. One person yelled out, “Before we blow up more of the ground, and move ore to Japan, that’s the life of us men, the mens’ tole for coal, and complete control.”

A mile or so of walking, they heard birds; but these were not birds. They were the calls of the Dlamini clan – beautiful and powerful whistles! Red, Andy and Scratch were surrounded by them. They had scars on their foreheads, and this meant how many men they killed. Even the women warriors had them too. Their scary tribal marks were impressive. They all cloaked leopard skinned cloaks. They carried an assegai, a spear and some had rifles, aiming those at Scratch. They made Andy and Red strip naked to see if they had weapons. They kept saying ‘Muzungu’, meaning white man. Andy and Red kept their hands up. The King Buno was with them, and spoke, “You may get dressed, and we have un-registered guns” and the King laughed, and so did the clan. “It is a good thing Theophilus ‘Offy’ Shepstone, and his right hand man Rider Haggard, a Union Jack did not find you two. They would have taken you to Robben Island at the Cape, and that is a prison. Old John told us that you were coming this way. He is a friend of ours, and the only white man we can trust. Queen Labotisbeni wants to meet you, so let’s go to the palace and have a celebration. Relax! You are safe with us. Can you interperate the sounds of war and peace? You will have to hear. I do wish you two had brought some dynamite but I know you are men of peace and poetry.” The King laughed.

Thank you, your majesty the King, Red said, and they both bowed to the King Buno.

“Nkoos” King Buno said, “Nkoos.”

Andy finally spoke, “Zeni mini andine bandeen, you are the grandest Chief I’ve seen.”

“Thank you Andy,” King Buno replied. “Take the rifles off from the cat. The cat Scratch is the muse, and he’s such a beautiful Mountain Lion. I am glad you brought the muse.” The King looked at Red as they began to walk to the royal home and said, “Red it is great that Andy has never thrown you to the wolves, like white men do here, and they would throw us in Blood River, if they could. It is also a good thing that the old woman with the long teeth has not found you two, you’d be dung in a day or two.”

Red and Andy looked at each other, and swallowed their spit.

King Buno looked at them and said, “Never be alone, never. This way you can fight together, and have a witness. Without a witness the white men will take all they can from you, even your soul.”

You do what you can with a kind heart, Red said, You get a liar, a damn liar and the whole train is on fire.

“Humdrum sort of life on the farms after the live wire,” the King said laughing, “Trying poetry, not too bad. I like it, I like it. When we get there you must drink our miraculous water. It will cleanse you of the fever. You don’t want the fever.” The King looked at Andy and Red and said, “In case you are wondering. I am sure red-boned Red can see the differences but you Andy may not know that we do have features which tell us apart from each other.”

The clan walked with them, but boxed them in as they walked. This was to protect them from Danger, Doom and Dreads sister, and Whitemen. This type of marching told them why wild animals did not do harm, because no one was alone.

The King spoke as they walked. Tutsis tend to be tall, and thin. They have long noses, high pitch voices, and relatively clear skin. Hutu tend to be short, strong and have relatively broader features. They have big noses, and low pitch voices. Tutsis and Hutus have been living together for many years. Although some families don’t like it, there has been many inter-ethnic marriages. Some are known, others are not. None of the differences justifies mass killing or discrimination of either group or another. The conflicts are mainly due to the pursuit of political power through propaganda. Although they have slight cultural differences, I can tell you that morally speaking no ethnic group is better than the other. I say this because someone once told me that Hutus are killers and Tutsis liars. Don’t buy into that. So, Andy we have issues too within our race like white-men. Cultures are the only differences we have.”

“Okay, thanks,” Andy replied, “You all are beautiful. Love is a bridge, I know well from grade school.”

The village was huge. Many people looked at them as they made their way to the palace. This was epic, Red and Andy thought. Queen Labotisbeni was amazing, tall and her smile was beautiful. Her spirit was very powerful. She looked at Red, Andy and Scratch, and said “Your throats shine!”

King Buno laughed and said “You two never let society or critics stand in your way. You are the Renegades of Poetry.”

“Red and Andy you are not cowards,” The Queen said, “You two have not abandoned poetry with all that you two have been through over the last six years, and being here signifying this. The battle fields of poetry and the royal courts need you.”

Thank you, Your Majesty Red and Andy said in sync, and bowed.

Red spoke, The words ‘upsurge, and eschewing,’ are shackling the art of Poetry here too, and the turf of Poetry. The maSwati & siSwati, ‘Tibongo’ heroic Poetry and ′Temdzabu’ traditional literature is important to us.

King Buno spoke, “Let us celebrate in full costume with a great fire and a great feast. We will speak with you about our mother tongue, and folk tales. The lore of the land and our people, wisdom, and animals; Qur Impi- Ways of the Rhino.”

Andy and Red awoke. Andy came to Red and said, “We forgot to chant, sing a Imbongi to the King and Queen.”

Red laughed, and said, I can barely remember but I do remember some.

Andy laughed and spoke “Here is what’s up, even though we have already known this Red, Children, the children of Poets, need to know what is our own, their own which means Poets who do not sugar coat their lives or their Poetry. Their Poetic culture for the status quo, the street or the academics, and the Poets who fight for Poetry and the Poetry audience. Poets of all lands, including Swaziland Poets need to break the vicious circle, and create their own culture based Poetry, new forms and all, regardless of some market or assume to be marketed for Poetry. Educators can’t do diddly squat if the world is brain washed, sleep walking in some form or the other. Ink and Paper, Ink and Paper. What kind of Poetry is in demand? No one knows, because it is assumed it has all been done before; why is that? Because they are following leaders from the past, and can’t get a grip on their own beat and tune. Poetic forms, Critics, Panels, Want-A-Bes, Annalists, all that bla bla bla. Poets should become snake charmers with words, they will freaking love it. Blend languages, create a new language, to be a ’no fear pioneer.”

Red laughed and said, Alright I am just waking up. Where’s Boet?

“Oh ya, he’s in the dining car, where else would he be.” Andy replied. “He is like us you know. He left us a letter, saying Mathias left us high and dry.”

I sort of figured that, when he mentioned unity can’t be done, Red said, Hey I found a visionary Poet named Teddy Fikre and he’s in the states. He’s originally from Ethiopia.

Andy laughed, “We had fun at the palace... Ha ha ha ha, come on Red. We have to catch a train soon, and some mambas, ha ha ha ha. This is getting good Red. Okay cool.”

Alright wait until you read Teddy Fikres Poetry and story, Red proclaimed, You will love it, and he’s helping.

Boet and the waitress were talking about the crocodile clan, and mamba snakes, black or blue, they are all the same. The drought is bringing them out and about, furthermore electric snakes too

forcing globalization.

“Good Morning fellas,” Boet said as Andy and Red sat down, and he had much to tell them. “I received a phone call from the Ministers of Tourism. They have made an apology about matters informing me that the policemen have been identified, and action will be taken. He also mentioned starting a campaign to stamp out this behavior to educate officials and locals alike on the value of tourism.”

Andy said, “The world is haunted by ghosts because of murder and war. The police, good lawmen anyway are stuck in the middle, or proclaim to be. Animals too, and all the slaughters. Why are people suffering from the disease of hate and racism and not the outcasts? Why are we, the poets, outcasts? It’s getting on my nerves.”

“Maybe because love is outnumbered right now, and the scorn is at large.” Boet proclaimed. “I was watching a show on the history channel and news in the U.S.A. and racism from all sides has gotten bad there.”

Andy and Red shook their heads, and tele-thought we tried to help, but what can we do when people choose to lose that way. So Red began to read Enongene Mirabeau Sones’ Swazi Oral Literature Studies essay. Red and Andy knew how important birds were, to be of signals from the afterlife and the invisible realm. They tele-thought about people suffering from these issues as people looking at humans as not important as birds, life not regarded with respect. It’s all there too, the birds appear, sing and migrate for reasons. Buzzards, and vultures love the remains of scorn too.

“The big drum is going to roll one day, and down by the deep river, the good of the world is going to make the bad come out, and play.” Andy said.

Red laughed and said, You mean the 99% is finally going to take back true life against this so called 1%?

“Hopefully in our lifetime,” Andy proclaimed.

“And all the birds will sing, and be more merry once again,” Boet said.

Animals too, along with seven hundred plus species of birds facing extinction, Red said. I was talking to my cousin the other night and he’s mad too about animals being vulnerable to extinction because of humanity. Take, for instance, the Giraffes now, and guess what, they call it the red-list!

“I hear that Red, disgusting is what it is,” Andy said. “Lust, porn must be killed! Something weird and evil is happening like Human Okapi or some shit. Unbelievable man, unbelievable, the sad kind of unbelievable. There’s way too many chicken shits in this world. We all need to fight, and put a stop to this. And who cares what societies think; seems to me they don’t think!”

Boet was feeling the same as they did, but he was already scoping out Poets and their wisdom from the place, Swaziland, to go over the days work.

Poets need to stop being like Zebras and come out, and stop being difficult to count, Red proclaimed, When we get to Tanzania we need to find wildlife biologist Tim Caro, and meet him. This way the Poetic audience can eat Poets alive like flies do to other animals, and Red laughed, It’s a great analogy.

Red got to thinking about his past, when he was a teenager in Chicago, but Boet interrupted his train of thought.

“You two are affiliated with BMI.com, correct?” Boet asked.

“Yes,” Andy replied, and memories came back to him when he and McMurty were there and they were treated with royalty, back in 2003. Then in 2014 Andy felt a cold presence, like the world had changed there, but the place was going through renovations in Nashville, Tennessee, U.S.A.

Andy, Red and Boet ordered coffee and peach pie. They thought and spoke about “The whole Poetry pie online spectrum, in how all Poets are getting screwed outside the Poet Igloo. Poet fees are missing completely.” Andy laughed and spoke, “The bars and clubs that bands play cover songs, and they are getting away with it too.” Andy and Red always thought about this, and brought this to the passengers’ attention, and it’s been there but promoting these Poets has been more important.

“Mechanical Society needs in place for the Poets society,” Andy proclaimed, “The Poets Jukebox and the Igloo. It is their trade, their passion not a hobby, so get off your asses and lobby, bobby. What about Bob alright! Ge whiz fizz, it’s a word biz.”

Many people have, and are leaving their Poetry futures up to chance, Red proclaimed.

Boet spoke, “Something has to be made with power about this and technology is there, as you all proved.”

It’s finding the right people with time to work, Red said. Most Poets like literary grouping orgies Boet. They are scared so, they get in where they fit in, and most get rejected. Red laughed, Then there are ones for whom you spend weeks and months preparing their work for free because you believe in them, and they leave you hanging. It makes you wonder what they are up to. It forces other Poets to just think and do things for themselves- this is what causes Poets not to unite. Chicken heads, and history will repeat itself for the Poets not yet born.

“The Poets Igloo is alive!” Boet said.

“Skippy, yep, true that.” Andy said.

“So who are the top 40 Poets of this planet, does anyone know?” Boet asked.

Red and Andy laughed, and Red said, We have an idea. Then they use the train and bail out giving no thoughts to the Poetry passengers, the audience or the Poets just below their status.

Andy and Red thought about Geo Thompson, the Great Poet from Canada, and every time they hear ‘Jump’ by Van Halen, the Canadian journey will come to mind. Still waiting for the world to awake, and shake the Poetry Jukebox. Geo passed away from cancer. He was a great support during the Poetry Train Canada journey.

Andy spoke, “The mission of all Poets, of color or faith is to love one another, as the great Poet Jesus spoke, and to show the world how beautiful we all can be. The only way to do this is to stop all sorts of evil in its tracks, furthermore teach people ways to ways to recognize and stop scorn, and for Gods LOVE, stop killing animals. We are at war for no reason amongst ourselves. Stop dethroning one another. Respect one anothers skills and inclinations, and there is no I in the word Team, or even he or the word me. Can people get that through their thick skull bone? Death is nothing to be afraid of, so, stop antagonizing people with death and scorn. Decade after decade of this nonsense! Look real good in the past, and stop repeating it all.”

The waitress returned with coffee and peach pie, and spoke, “I believe cooperative peace can be.”

What is your name? Red asked.

“Swanda,” She replied.

Thank you, Red replied, and introduced her to some of the Poetry Train Team.

Swanda spoke, “I read poetry from everywhere too and every Poet writes about peace. Peace is only in Poetry, but not in the world, so, peace is there. Poets need to be magicians’ maybe, but not bad ones or cheesy ones. They need to show the world how beautiful it can be. Maybe they don’t know how. Who does, and that’s why politicians get away with things? Money and media are the problems. We don’t need it. We need to go back to farming and horse and buggy.”

Andy smiled.

Red replied, Poets need to touch the world, wide consciousness of this world. We call it the realm that should be.

“Yes,” Swanda replied. “The world is frightening for no reason, because miracles are everywhere. Suffering is uncalled for. People of the past allowed this to fall on our laps! Poets must remind the world of so many things, and implant a new world of beauty, not this new world order death machine. Poetry is not bankrupted, because it never had a bank and currency, never.”

“Who is one of your favorite Poets?” Andy asked.

“Jacob Glatstein, a Yiddish Poet.” Swanda replied. “He knew oppression and what kind of tongue a Poet should have in these contemporary times, and they must move forward and unfortunately look backwards. Not because of accomplishments and competition, but to find the safe paths. As he said, Poets have a frightening career and work to do, frightening.”

“Found one!” Boet spoke loudly, “The Poet Bernard Fonlon and hear ye! As Noam Chomsky wrote, “The responsibility of the intellectual as a moral agent,” I add the Poet’ is to try to reveal the truth to interlocutors who are able to intervene. Fonlon symbolized what Fabien Eboussi calls ‘exotic intellectual’ in a universe where ventriloquists triumph. Also I found Poet Stephen Neba-Fuh.”

“I will return soon with more coffee,” Swanda said, “Remember Poets should never surrender their intellectual domination to the world, never!”

Boet looked at Red and Andy and saw the great cost they have given themselves to the Poetry Train.

They were indeed true friends of Poetry and Poets world-wide, past, present and future. Boet also knew that they could not stand flattering and flatterers. It was not necessary. They were masters of Poetry Faith & Patriotism, powerful as water.

Andy started laughing, and said, “We have rope, the longest rope in this globalization world, ya ya.”

Great for traveling for sure, Red replied laughing. We do have a spare too. Giants toes or their shoulders did and do not matter. We are going to rope Danger!

Andy looked out the window, and watched people get on the train. They all looked fierce, or what they wanted people to believe anyway. The train wasn’t moving until loads of bananas, and other fruits were loaded onto it.

Swanda returned with more coffee but gave them each a bottle of Menjunga, red wine, and assured them, everything was fine. “This is for you, you three are genuine Poetologists. True wisdom collectors through time.”

Swanda spoke as she walked away, “He who fights and runs away, May live to fight another day, But he who is in battle slain, May never rise to fight again. By Oliver Goldsmith.”

Andy laughed, “Poetologists, also maybe Poetry Specialists Boet. We also love Railroad folklore galore. The E-Train wants some more. So European predecessors made errors with Poets and Poetry here on the continent. They call Africa too along with all the other crap inc.. Into which Scipio Africanus fought Hannible during the Punic wars and defeated him. The Romans subdued the continent and renamed it Africa, and tell Teddy Fikre thanks Red.”

You are welcome, I will, Red replied, The whole continent was called.... ETHIOPIA!

And everyone on train yelled out YA YA!

“Red I told you,” Andy replied, “It all comes down to those Romans, how many times have I told people through the years. Romans, I see the Judas kiss too. A double mindset world killing machine.”

Andy thought about all his wasted time over love with nearly two handful of people in the U.S.A. In his life time, not divine love, but human love, and how precious time was, and is, and the new iz. He always felt his heart and intellectual mind was smothered, and thought stick to the guns, another day is coming. So, it was unique in synchronicity with Swanda, and Red knew too, and as Charlie told them in Poetry Train America, silence. Home to them was Poetry and the Poetry E Train. And Freedom was from God and the Angels not some unhand cuffing motion notion.

Red thought and his thinking had to come out. He thought about his youth in Chicago and what is still happening in Chicago with his kinfolk and people there. My father left me, us. My mother had to have a new man, who knows why. He had to be the center of attention, and he hated the truth no matter what she said and done, or me- he could not stand the truth of it all. Home was no place for me so what was left: the Streets. I was beat up many times. See this scar on my ear? Grown men robbed me, and tried to kill me, but I ran away. The police at the hospital asked me if they tried to cut my ear off. I said no, but they did not believe me. They thought I was lying because I was scared for my life and I was, but it was because I ran away, and fell into debris in the alley as I ran down to the hospital. That life went on for years until I found writing and Poetry. A white man in jail told me to keep writing, so I have since, and I collect Poetry books, and I do this for many reasons but the main one is for my grandchildren. I want them to hold and see how beautiful and genuine, these books at home I have, are through time! It is and has been a struggle to keep them to own one day, and say, Grandpa fought for Poets, Poetry and these books.

“Red we shall prevail, even though Red we are going to need some Poets as big as Elephants here,” Andy proclaimed.

We are going to have to be like comets again too Andy, Red replied. Maybe like Rhinos too.

Boet felt the pain Red has been hiding all this time.

Andy thought about the previous Rising Realms on these e-railways!

“Red man, Red-bone, Red blood, Red-List, Red-dress, and Rediscover,” Boet said as he read about historian Eric Rosenthal. “You two, Red and Andy are not two thumb sucks but two thumbs up, never forget this!” Boet read, “Rosenthal was too clever and too successful for his own good or for the good of his legacy as a writer, so think about all the failure to build your Odyssey gentlemen, with a capital O’.”

Andy laughed, and thought about the law of the straw up by Poetry and Divine law!

Red, Andy and Boet were learning new things about Poetry Here, with a capital H.

Andy said, “As in the beginning and so it shall be in the end, Poetry will outlive sciences, because it was and always will be the breath of humanity.”

The Train was ready to move, and a postal man brought Red, Andy and Boet, all of Olive Schrieners books they ordered from Amazon.com. It took a while.

“May the Great Spirit bless you, and we all thank you,” Andy told the post man, “You are appreciated and we are charm’d.” Andy looked at Boet and said, “Yes, I know we should have sent them home, and we will, but we had to see these books with our own eyes. All of the hard work, and brilliant heart it took to create them.”

Boet smiled.

Red proclaimed, Andy and Boet let’s spend this day and the next on the wisdom of Djelloul Marbrook, and the body language of Poetry, Cursive Writing, Signatures, furthermore Banking Technology online.

“Also the fear of why people are afraid to buy things online,” Boet said.

The Train was moving again, and the conductor spoke like an American, trying to be funny, using Railroad slang from the U.S.A. Swanda gave them a note saying the Mambas are watching and listening. The Poetry Train Crew looked at her, and she knew they already knew.

Boet spoke, “Welcome to globalization, the whole world is a spy, can we have some more peach pie please.”

Andy spoke, “To gesticulate in Poetry or gesticulation in Poetry, I can’t recall to many Poets we have read and listened to in Poetry from U.S.A. or Canada. Spoken Word Artists do, but not sure what to say about it, other than, deriving from rap and hard-rock metal and &c. This study is based from Djelloul Marbrook: The Body Language of Poetry: I do recall us telling Charlie in Poetry Train America how important this is in Poetry and historical writing so, we studied the ying and yang out of it. They say Presidents are taught to learn the art of body language too. Break dancing is still the bomb, and yes this is the school of traveling Poetry, the one and only Poetry E Train. I love the aggressive Toxic Waltz song by Exodus. Mr. Smooth Fred Astaire, he says he has a dance patch, love that, and some of his body language is a finger snap, and pull forward the ear.”

In break dancing you have to define the dance, with no fronting, Red proclaimed, In negative times do positive things. Sad. The movement got no love in breaking down the beat by clapping your hands and stomping your feet. The lock n pop, every move has a definition, and they say break dancing was created by God. B-Boy, B-Girl and oh ya, on the Windmill dance move there were only eight penny moves done the most. That is where you grab your groin during the windmill move, and how many turns or flips you can do with no hands.

“As I am looking online as if I was starting out to find essential information about ‘How to Design a Poetry Book’ I am finding great comments, and I have to mention these for those who would need Poetry back up.” Boets laughed, “I have to, because I am sure Poets have naysayers around them.”

Poetry is very important and will always be.

The issues I’ve encountered are lack-of-knowledge and quitting because of that.

“How good do you want it, if you want it good, then you’ll take the time to create a good book of Poetry.” Andy said.

Boet, we like to buy old books of Poetry from Poets we admire from all over the world for this reason, and use the ‘Look Inside’ feature on Amazon.com, Red explained. Like anything else Boet, trial and error, and lots of feedback. We use “Open Office” great tools once you get use out of them.

“Matching interior and exterior is important I gather, along with eye catching but readable font.” Boet said.

“Themes, and sections are important too Boet,” Andy said, Think about Poem arrangement too, like your favorite music albums. Why is song order and placement important?”

“To keep the listener interested.” Boet replied. “I like this, seems so relaxing.”

Andy laughed and said, “Yes, said that before, and it’s fun too. The designer of a book is like the unseen band member, and that would be the recording engineer, who captures and brings out the best of the art-song. Same principles. Charlie helped us too, so we know how important it can be for Poets.”

“Mathias says you all have a knack for this, and I have to agree.” Boet said.

Andy and Red smiled and thought about the future.

Andy spoke, “How well is the dancing industry? Musicals are slim these days, except for VHS tapes of musicals, they still sell, regardless of times that change. Yes, like in Poetry, keep it smooth, like dancing, Poetry with your feet, maybe a spotlight on you where it’s shown, and no one dares to compete. People in America when it deals with Poets, they can make them, and break them but they sure can’t take them! Ya ya!”

Boet was taking notes, and he was improving in handwriting. Red and Andy noticed this and spoke about it.

Red spoke, The decline of handwriting, is it proof of the decline of civilization. My answer is, only to those who let it. Handwriting, forming letters, engages the mind, helps children pay attention to written language, and so much more we know. It helps children with neurological benefits, ha ha ya ya.

Also to develop cognitive skills. It engages the person to creativity, and has done so much more in testing in schools. They say.

Andy laughed and asked, ha ha “Who’s they?”

Red laughed and replied, Children were asked to come up with ideas for a composition, the ones with better handwriting exhibited greater neural activation in areas associated with working memory, and increased overall activation in the reading, and writing networks. Imagine that?

Andy laughed, “Cursive writing identifies you as your physical features do. In other words, spoken or written, our script reveals something unique and ineluctable about our inner being. Handwriting is a link to identity, maintaining focused attention, memory, tradition, draftsmanship, design, and fine-art. To learn to read more quickly when they first learn to write by hand, but they also remain better able to generate ideas and retain information. In other words, it’s not just what we write that matters, but how we write.

“What about reading skills, don’t they go hand to hand, mind to mind with handwriting?” Boet asked.

Andy spoke, “You got it Boet. You are seeing and reading the straw. People are School damaged, Politics damaged, Rich damaged, Prejudice damaged, Internet damaged, Love and Hate damaged, Damage everywhere! Damaged worldlexia. Also and mayhaps more important, the art of listening.”

Andy took a breath and shook his head and yelled, “IT WILL NOT BE OKAY if no one knows how to do hand writing. What is written is FELT! What is typed is typed. Click click. You have to have soul! Tyranny of text cursors and no webmaster wants to create the best text editor. They can’t get this through their skulls, th, th thick ick, because maybe they do not do handwriting, an essential skill taught for the survival of humanity! Wake up, folks! With the high school graduating class of 2021, you will see dramatic shifts in student cognition, then you will feel it. If the last pencil factory in the world was destroyed, could we build another? Worse yet, what if Papermate was no more? Flair saves Poetry. Flair is painless, ask John E. WordSlinger he knows all about it!”

Boet smiled and spoke, “The legal power and value of a unique, written signature is high. Legal assistants need handwriting. What is your signature worth?”

Red spoke, Pharmacists say that good hand writing saves lives. Because most Doctors have sloppy hand writing.

“Imagine that, Rampart 2021.” Andy proclaimed. “If schools stop teaching it, teach your kids how to write both print and cursive, furthermore read, read and read. Did I ever mention when I was nine years of age, I wanted to be a pen salesman? Yes I did. On my terms, like a rolling hotdog stand.”

The Train Conductor came to them and said, “I am going to have to ask you to keep your voices to a orderly tone. The conduct is disorderly.”

Andy looked at him and thought you mean, disturbing the peace, and he said, “The peace of knowing everyone is going through some sort of psychological warfare that was put on them by forces of mind control. There is peace but no one wants it, Dave Mustaine wrote about that, with a song called “Peace Sells But Who’s Buying.”

The Train Conductor gave Andy a look, and walked away. Andy thought it was a look for back up, it must be nice to have that kind of authority. Make sure you make a note of it. Andy thought too, just to get everything working wrong, the left fusiform gyrus, the inferior frontal gyrus and the posterior parietal cortex. Andy spoke about the studies, “See I told you all, Poets need their own air and sea forces. Ask any Handwriting Scholar. These professionals start by looking for differences between samples, although non-professionals tend to base their conclusions on similarities.”

“Fingerprint analysis,” Boet said. “Legible. Digital fingerprint analysis.”

“Uniformity. Please indicate whether you are a forensic document examiner,” Andy said and started laughing. “Pop quiz time? No-one goes to prison on the basis of a badly argued academic article. Poets should expect more rigorous demands. But there’s Scilens’ aka silence. It is reasonable to accept ‘cautiously’ a scholarly identification of handwriting which depends on a balance of probability.

Rapid writing,” and Andy laughed and said, “Poetry is not chicken scratch. Handwriting is subliminal power.”

Boet free styles Poetry,

“Where and when and what, how-wow and why

Is the hand quicker then or than the eye?

Beautiful or ugly

Identification personality

As they teach, you can take this to the bank

Graphology or Handwriting Analysis

You are never ever, to the ever blank

When I am signing for Poetry I’m like signing

like I’m signing for meds,

oh ya ya there’s so much Poetry in Poets’ heads”

Boet washed his tonsils with water and said, “The loops on the O’s seems weird, I do loops on my O’s

like a pseudoscience zeros. Extroverts slant to the right while introverts slant left or vertical.”

“Let’s attend or start a handwriting study group with Edgar Allan Poe, the instinctive gesture.” Andy said and laughed, “Skills, we got skills. Now we are forensic document examiners. Six years like that, trained as an apprentice under the supervision of a recognized forensic document expert, named Poetry,” Andy laughed again, “Poetry Train America, Canada, and Africa aka Ethiopia. History of writing is memory Red, memory, Rediscovery.”

They were in between embryonic writing and proto-writing through time in Swaziland. What’s going on in the worlds’ upstairs, heads, caves, and on paper, furthermore books? Word grain from the human brain.

“Ink on modern day receipts fades away, so what are fading taxes today.” Andy said and laughed but pissed off. Ink of Poets never fades away, never. Mind your P’s and Q’s too, because all of the alphabet is gunning down to pen and pencil dude.”

Boet sharpened his pencil, and wrote again.

Andy and Red posted a nice note to passengers about their autographs and the importance of a persons signature. So many reasons why, so many. Plus they were Poetry fans.

The signature of Boets was beautiful, no strike through, no camouflage, no trace back, an average size with no scribble.

“So that’s who you are Boet,” Andy said, “A beautiful person with values and honor codes as a professional Poet. Your signature shows knowledge, approval, acceptance, or obligation.”

I agree with Andy, Red said, Your artist’s signature is super, you can do whatever you want, because you are great.

Posting and asking for Poets’ autograph has shown the Poetry Train Team meaningful things- how some are skeptical, and that’s because of online Poetry tainting, furthermore the public arena and forgers maybe at large, but the Poet Gabriella Duncan got the main reason. Poets protection, and identity, extremely for safe Poetry Site’ verifications and how important it is for every Poet, and the Poet Igloo.

“Look at these autographs, they are beautiful, just like the Poets who posted them,” Andy said. “Thank you Poets, you are our favorite thing, wisdom for sure.”

Autographs and signatures say a lot, and so does dotted lines, Red proclaimed.

Andy and Red knew about the Rhyne Sandberg disease, and that’s a case of megalomania. When Andy was a boy he, and his brother went to a Cubs game early to get autographs from the team. They got them all….quickly to avoid kids. He was talked about bad right there in front of them by his team mates. He was an I in the odd spelled word Team.

Andy read aloud some of Lao-tzu, Tao-te ching “The Book of the Way and Its Power.”

Fame or integrity: which is more important?

Money or happiness: which is more valuable?

Success or failure: which is more destructive?

If you look to others for fulfillment,

you will never truly be fulfilled.

If your happiness depends on money,

You will never be happy with yourself.

Be content with what you have;

rejoice in the way things are.

When you realize there is nothing lacking,

the whole world belongs to you

The Knights Templar came through time, and created banking, and just bail out with no trace, sounds so familiar Andy, Red said.

Andy spoke “Trickery, plain freaking evil. I want to hear “Blood on the Plow,” by John Cougar. Farm aid days. I was young at that time, but I remember how important it was, is, iz. The farmers have more power than any. Joseph dreampt this way back in the day. Boet play some “Blood on the Plow,” regardless of truth pollution. They’ll dig it,” Andy laughed and adds, “They are all on their cell phones and ear pieces anyway on this train.”

Red laughed and said, One song Boet, then we have studies to do: the United States.

Andy added while the Electric Owl spoke via wifi on the rough bumpy train ride. “When I look at the photo of Sarah Gertrude Millin I see the true heart of a person who sees how powerful racism is, and there are so many forms of it nowadays. When you look back through time, and you have this distinct person, persona that knows how much racism should be extinct. That is the instinct I see, and feel here. I am so glad to be alive to have you all to even see and hear about this person. There is not much to read, but these books are listed. You have to love the word stir or its force stirring. Mingles. Such a beautiful life you all.”

All I can find are dust jackets Andy and Boet, very interesting, Red said, That’s why books are important. So one has her books and soon we will.

Boet laughed and said, “I just thought of something. How many bridges do you two think you have traveled over since Chicago? It has to be a flourishing number.”

Red and Andy laughed, and Red replied, More than moons, that is for sure. Makes me think of Mad Bear.

Andy looked at Red and that meant something. Andy never gave him this look. A decade of this was about to be, and a bigger gap was coming. The dreams were coming true. Andy looked at Sarah Gertrude Millins’ photo, she looked concerned, full of life but sad. It looked like she was on a train, looking out the window, and people began to live, because that is what this is the beginning over and over again. Andy smiled.

Boet found wisdom and spoke, “Sandile ‘Nkondlo’ Nxumalo said the Poet industry in Swaziland does not exist. Poetry is not something taken seriously in the country as Poets continue to struggle. Poets have no way to showcase their talent, and they do not get enough support. It is all up to Poets to work this up because they are the ones feeling the pinch. He also said aspiring Poets should dig down into their dreams and imaginations. They must follow their hearts and should know that they have to be inspired one way or the other.”

“Nice,” Andy said, I found a massive list of names of Railroaders who have built on this continent. This is going to be grand. Queen Wilhelmina where ever you are please give us a new coach.” Andy read the names Johannes Rienk Burg, Dan Margadant, Pierre Cuypers, Al van Gendt, Wim de Zwaan, Jacob Klinkhamer, J van Cittert, WJ De Zwaan, LM Geers, HT Gradon, JJ Kesting and that Klinkhamer, I like that last name, roofing, and Andy laughed, “MEH Bruening, ME de Wildt, C Groll, RAI Snethlage, WI Steinmetz, C van der Made, A van Lennep, W Werweij, and A Westernberg.”

Boet spoke, “I like that new coach idea, cozy, suitable accommodation, and mobile housing. I have a Poem happening,” and Boet laughed.




Wagons, wagons, 6m wagons


Let’s build the railroads and bridges

The Crocodile River Bridge

Joes Luck Bridge

Wiles River Bridge

Kaaprivier Bridge

Komati River Bridge

Grootspruit Bridge

Apies River Bridge


Fish belly, fish belly

Roll in position

Assemble on site

We have Poets to meet and read

Everyday and night

The Fig Tree Creek Bridge

Olifants River Bridge

Fish Belly, fish belly

Roll in position

Assemble on site

“I like that Boet, well done, fish belly is classic,” Andy said.

Red laughed and spoke, I have peace peach pie belly.

The Poet Majaha Nkonyane from Swaziland came to the dining car, and asked them to help with his Poetry manuscript. They looked it over, and agreed to help, for free, no strings or chains attached.

“Swanda, please can you get, Majaha Nkonyane anything he likes for breakfast,” Andy asked. “See you all, this is what it’s about, helping with all wisdom known. There is no I, me, or he, or she in this team. We smooth like that, ya ya smooth! Intuition skills.”

Very powerful Poetry Majaha Nkonyane, Red proclaimed, Blessings are in many disguises; do not tell anyone. The reasons: because some tend to have a desire to become a rain cloud and come to your parade. It’s best to let the sunshine on.

Boet spoke, “Dzelisile Mdlulis’ poem “Where Is The Train That Moves Me Through Time?” is grand, so this is what kind of synchronicity you two have been explaining about. I love it!”

Red was reading aloud from online, Karen Zamberia said, ‘That some Literature teachers are afraid of the new exams because Poetry is compulsory and they hate Poetry. Zamberia has long been aware that many literature teachers run away from teaching Poetry and that their fear of Poems is passed onto their pupils. The schools who love Poetry are the ones that usually do well.’ Imagine that, the fear of Poetry is passed on, and that is so sad. So, those who fear Poetry, do not let this fear be passed on to the next generation.

“I found a croc!” Boet proclaimed.

Andy looked at Red with a confused look, a crock pot, a croc of shit?

Boet laughed and said, “You and your lingo brains, Cro E Moses, a Poet, a crocodile Poet. His slipnet interview is amazing, and so is this video,” and Boet played his ’What do you say to those who say Poetry doesn’t sell? And Cro E Moses the trick is, how it is presented, either way commercial or not, Poetry will always be there.”

Andy and Red smiled.

Let’s go see Pitika Ntuli sculptors, Red suggested.

“This is the land of peaking...” Andy proclaimed. “This country too is grand and wise.”

You too read this article by Seth Barnes, Red added, If you find a Poet whose work is real artistry, then you want to hitch him to a bunch of engineers and you’ll change the world.

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