I fervently believed there was power in the written word
When the pen scratched a sign that translated, after being deciphered, into an intelligible idea
Communicating across the vast oceans of time, culture, between individuals
Those that have treaded these streets, and may fly over these roofs.
Yet criticism came and with it academics
Destroying the structure, implementing their own concerns and ideas.
Suddenly it became a vacuous sign, to be raped, impregnated with our own designs
Ideas, beliefs, reinterpreting, translating
Until language became an arbitrary concept, wholly undefined.
The stench of black coffee, the dent in cushioned sofas,
the hail of rain stroking the window-pane
And the elucidation that none of it exists.
I believed there was something more
When I found myself in the writings of Austen, Ba and Crashaw
when Shange’s spoken word brought me to a new rainbow
and Atta gave voice to a city that existed in the realm
Of something I yearned for.
I believe there is power in the written word. I believe it is more
Where did your passion go?
When did I turn into such a bore?