Creative writing from the Conscious I- thoughts, reflections and ideas expressed in urban literature, Caribbean-themed prose and poetry.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Resilience Through Icestorms
"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." -Confucius
"There is no better teacher than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance next time." -Malcolm X
The thing I love most about lyrical word play is its ability to inspire. Word-Sound-Power. One of my favorite poems of all times is Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise.” The Elder painted the resiliency of the Human I-rit (spirit) with such crimson emotion and golden underlining conviction; I hung her masterpiece in my personal Louvre (Locker 212, along with other works by lyrical artists). Her imagery makes me want to get up, stand up…rise like the Phoenix outta despairing ashes.
Jah knows people need inspiration in these jagged times of socio-economic strife. Some of us looking to the sky for a messiah and praying to heavens that a solution soon fall from above. Nothing nah goh (not going to) drop from the sky, Bredren and Sistren-the Most High reigns from within. We all have an inherent spirit of resilience because Divinity is within us, just tap into it and let the energy flow. Word-Sound drums up Power. Positive lyrics can uplift during the wickedest trials and tribulations… Writers, singers, wordsmiths, better know-ledge!
Tomorrow morning I begin the rest of my life. Man, if you could feel how cold it gets in here, you'd overstand my anxiety for the gradual thawing that my tomorrow promises. As late as the night is, my anticipation for this promise of warmth is what deprives me sleep. It has kept me awake at night, 3,128 to be exact. That's how long I've been exposed to this frigidness. That's a long time-a minute. A looong minute, I know. Something inside me should have died by now, you know-from exposure.
I can barely stand it. Especially at night when I'm on my bunk, alone with my thoughts, the reflections of memories-some vague with the passing of time, others sharp despite it. Only the voice from my radio and solemn songs from the 70's keep me company. This is when the cold is at its lonely worst. It seeps through me, penetrating flesh and bone, until it is imbedded in my spirit, causing my soul to shiver at the steel and concrete and razor wire that engulf it.
Seasons change, but the cold is omnipresent. Something inside me should've died by now.
But, like the sun, it burns continuously in the midst of an algid, empty galaxy, obstinately refusing to succumb to the icy nothingness. And tonight, as I await the dawn, I feel it-this thing that is enflamed deep within me. Is it a ray of emotion ... a spark of hope? ... It is an antiquated remembrance ...