Existentialism
[noun] [ ɛg zɪstɛnʃ(ə)lɪz(ə)m/ ]
a form of philosophical inquiry that explores the problem of human existence, focusing on the lived experience of the thinking, feeling, acting individual.
why is it called earning a living?
is it called earning a living?
it called earning a living
called earning a living
earning a living
a living
living
living but
living but do
living but do I
living but do I truly
living but do I truly
feel
living but do I truly feel alive?
Ars Poetica
“The poem, sometimes, is like an idea, a seed, and with time it grows inside you.”
– Nome Patrick Emeka
It no longer matters how I got here
the years have gone by I have found true love here
there is no love as unconditional as the poem
taken in by verse it lives at the pit
of my stomach & it has lived here
for a long time now
eyes have watched, swallowed
mind has processed & stored
I have acquired my own taste for
stanzas I have swallowed poems whole
I have become many
people I am only one
I barely even recognise myself
one host to the dualism of twins: both antagonize each other both fail to
comprehend their oneness one true self one poet’
one dream of separating both blame one another
adamant that the other is trying to kill them,
in the end one poet buries one
self under a refrain that says,
there is no love as unconditional
Icarus escaped Crete
only for wax wings to melt beneath the sun,
perhaps the imprisonment would have made
for a better poem & then suddenly it hits me
that could it be that these poems are wings?
Buried Alive
a golden shovel after Seitlhamo Motsapi’s poem ‘Trudgel’
of the movement forward always regardless of how I feel under
all the weight under sands of time under my
troubles under my blues under my dragging feet
the car horns the taxi horns the bus engine the
street lights the always red the seldom green our lives in orange
the urban sphithiphithi of traffic of radio anthems
muddled beaming blaring blasting chaos that I am tired of
deceptive appearances like mounds in the distant
steep road severe swelling at the pain of my city
of pulses never returned lifeless bodies walking under artificial lights
a moon morbid enough for a mind to latch from the inside
the moving parts like a tremor inside my
chest I’ve always been a coward my hand over my heart
to hold it back like the blues sped up sound of the
cymbals the collapsing drum the pata pata of the urgent
feet sidewalk gliding dancing to the sound of a violent thud
a heel song dance from the people of
the carry-on. Seitlhamo, was there ever a choice that straddles
strings of moral measure the compass turning gears inside
your mind, to save them or to save my
self & would they do the same for me? a lot goes on in the head
at the sound of this conundrum dance to a lost song that is
so monotonous, that one can consider the conscience shelved
the city has taken so much but does it really give back enough
what good are legs moving when the feet feel like clay
in memoriam of all hope surrendered to
corrupted hands plague of viruses that rend
hard work & dedication useless & it all happens under the
watchful eyes of stars there will be no sirens
here, natural light is offensive here sunrise as belligerence
and so Seitlhamo, were there ever so many dreams buried & caked
beneath the asphalt zebra patterned painting across
a road floor for heel song dance & then it becomes clear that the
movement forward no different to our dreams buried beneath tarmac
*In Italics, Seithlamo Motsapo’s poem ‘Trudgel’