A blue speaker with a happy blue dolphin perched atop
Five candles
Two intricately sculpted by dripping wax
A sacred rattle
A crouching leopard 
A flute woman giving birth
A temple block
A drum key and wrench next to a pile of foreign coins
Kuan Yin at the center 
She sits next to a tree of feathers planted in a little clay pot
A round ocean drum hangs from L 
A square drum hangs from O
A resonating gourd from V
A feather and a puppet hang from E
Deities abound:
Ganesh...
Krishna and Rhada lean into one another next to a blue orb
Saraswati
A Mayan god
Jagged crystals and smooth stones 
Sculpting body stones
A pipe, a wooden drummer
Two shiny warbling birds thirsty for water and breath
Three elephants (if you include Ganesh)
A lantern
Kashaka balls in a clay vessel
A diminutive Guanyin rests by the V
The archangel, Michael peers through the O
Three cycles of twelve - sacred sound geometry art 
Two of them framed in gold
One leaning on the L
Bells
Two square wooden boxes 
One with a bearded man carved on the lid
Wire
A gold frog
Half-burned Palo Santo in a tarnished leaf
A cast heart decorated with smalls stones that rattles when you hold it

Today’s prompt for day six of NaPoWriMo was to find a poem from Poetry International in a language you don’t know and then, “read the poem to yourself, thinking about the sound and shape of the words, and the degree to which they remind you of words in your own language. Use those correspondences as the basis for a new poem.”

Because isiZulu was listed as a language, I of course went there. It is a beautiful language spoken by the father of my 5 children, Mbuso Cele. I know only enough to recognize when it is being spoken. I posses a small vocabulary and can sometimes identify the subject a Zulu speaker is speaking of, but not the details. I spent almost a year in Pietermaritzburg, and regret not having learned more. I was able to get by with English such that I didn’t attempt Zulu for fear of making a mistake.

In 2015, composer and friend, Dan Lis wrote the piece, The Places of the Past. and dedicated it to Mbuso. It was written for the student string orchestra at the Music School at Sound Crossing. Dan incorporated the poem, Umlando Yinto Enzima (History is a Heavy Matter) by Gcina Mhlophe into the composition and recorded Mbuso reciting a portion of the poem. I have held onto that recording just as I’ve held onto the fondest of my memories of the time Mbuso and I were married and raised our children together.

The bittersweet inevitably draws the poet’s heart. I’ve included the recording of Mbuso’s recitation below.

Iqiniso (Truth)

Of course that would be the poem I find 
on the sixth day. 
“I miss his voice” she said when you left so suddenly
A parent’s voice is planted deep.
History is indeed a heavy matter.

And this, these words,
they capture more than just the timbre,
low, sweet and rich.
You still have a captivating voice
so I played it over and over for her 
that winter.

Did your worst memories leave you so 
perplexed, speechless?
Your voice is still golden to her.
Khumbula, don’t forget 
to honor your sweet maiden, nkosazana yakho
with the sound of your voice.

The words rise and fall like the beat of drums.
izigubhu, zithi gu gu! Gu gu!, they say gu gu!
a click of the tongue here and there
I’ll play it for her when she gets home today.
I am still thankful for such 
places of the past.

He spoke of his friend
Laughing at the comedy
Love and joy graveside

I see myself now
My intentions unfulfilled
I can only laugh

Through the screen I smile
His system in need of breath
I should have said breathe

Watching with my child
Funny silly videos
So disconcerting

The sounds from the phone
Cacophony of sweetness
Tingling my ears

I think about a bath
flowing hot soothing mmm,aahh
coaxing out my ache

The ritual of buoyancy 
Stopped cold for sake of safer sounds 
Perhaps when in our infancy 
The ritual of buoyancy 
Composes certain symphonies 
The new world harmonies abound 
The ritual of buoyancy 
Stopped cold for sake of safer sounds 

The sentinel of the bois-D’arc grove
silently sailing
through the cathedral of winding
branches
tempting us
shhh, listen
come closer
enchanting us from across the distance
he perches hidden above

Dripping golden tendril trees
seductively glisten
as fingers of light drawing
limbs
looking up
mmm, reach
resurface
drawing us from the watery deep
dark clouds prophesy from a distance


A long, lofty teapot grave
quickly teeming
where the deciduous rotting
offshoots
decay
decomposing us
aaaah, release
return
steeping our very substance
torrents of rain sink into the dry earth


The flicker of light up ahead
luminously darts
while the dusky paling
boughs
becon
exhorting us
oh, follow
seek
remembering the pulse
that held my great, great grandmother in the womb.

Response to Day 2 of NaPoWriMo 2023