“Why words, when they’re so slippery?”
Whisperings find me standing
At the bridge—
Squinting through light and darkness
To see what’s left to hold as traditions change
My people forgotten or modified.
Fog lifts, and I focus at double suspicion;
Deity with claims to represent balance
Between opposing forces.
Is he a trickster or a faithful?
For I was left with nothing, but words.
An oral tradition; love gentle carried
From generation to generation.
Without a written word—
Would evidence perish? I fear.
Thus, with song and dance I join a world
Where the dead, living and unborn coexist
In harmony through continuity of words.
So, I stand at the bridge—
Not as a vessel of stories nor a praise singer
But to honour love; accept the family heirloom.
process note: I might have taken up creative writing late in life, but I come from a tradition of oral storytellers (Xhosa people), where blurred lines between history and myth exist yet feed imagination. I’ve always loved words, whether written, spoken or sung. The joy I experience when I’m creating, writing, is indescribable.
Many thanks to my dear and talented friend, Magaly for hosting this blog party and an opportunity to reflect at why I love what I do. To read more about the blog party or join in, please visit her blog.