Savannen 13 / Skälsö Arkitekter

Reflect

Once upon a time,

Long Ago. Away.

I met a pretty girl.

I smiled at her and she smiled back

I giggled, you’re cray.

You’re cray - she giggled, chiming with

me.

The wind blew at us

Hair blurring our face. We

smiled at it, together.

We grumbled-just a tiff. I flicked

pebbles at her. She hid,

ducking underwater

I frowned.

10 seconds after, she was

back. Patient. Together.

Said stay as I mouthed-

I lip-read her.

And smiled as she did-

She understood.

Now, she won’t be there.

I look for her

She is gone. Just my face.

It’s not the same.

It’s not pretty.

Crazy

A Tibetan skeleton dancer, taken in 1925 by Joseph Rock.

Demizu Posuka  -   http://posuka.iinaa.net  -  https://twitter.com/DemizuPosuka

Taking Root: The Vision of Wangari Maathai. Filmmakers: Alan Dater, Lisa Merton, 2008.

The documentary tells the inspiring story of the Green Belt Movement of Kenya and its founder Wangari Maathai, the first environmentalist and first African woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize.

The U.S.- educated Professor Maathai discovered her life’s work by reconnecting with the rural women with whom she had grown up. Their lives had become intolerable: they were walking longer distances for firewood, clean water was scarce, the soil was disappearing from their farms, and their children were suffering from malnutrition. Maathai thought to herself, “Well, why not plant trees?” She soon discovered that tree planting had a ripple effect of empowering change. Countering the devastating cultural effects of colonialism, Maathai began teaching communities about self-knowledge as a path to change and community action. The women worked successively against deforestation, poverty, ignorance, embedded economic interests, and violent political oppression. They became a national political force that helped to bring down Kenya’s 24-year dictatorship -Kanopy.

For the legs

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Let Myrtle stay a myth

Where did I learn to mourn?

They've sworn it is the thing to do

That grief is growth

That innocence piously lost

Is the right romantic rite

Of passage to the mountain of mature .

I wonder if I never learnt to weep

With wistfulness - an unreal word

That makes mockery of me -

Worn as a worshipped curse,

Duped of its demonic reality .

I wonder if I'm possessed

By pain,

Or is this just mental blame game

Because I find myself

mourning after mourning

It has a crippling clench. Even

Clarity, though plain to see,

is barred from reach

By clouds or ghosts .

I wish — no I shouldn't —

that is the language of mourning.

Let it go

Let me go.