Tongues tide together by the strings of sweat,
pouring over each of them
as they stear into each others eyes
wondering what would be next,
if ever a next step for their waters to climb
and continue their hendonistic rhyme.

They sing the tune of those before,
who have explored the dainties of the flesh
an unfamilier song yet so familier
their eyes stuck on one another as the rain pours,
from within them sweet sweat drops
moaning the sounds of love.

Carried by the silence of the night,
like Zues and his many mates
the night ever so kind to lovers
embrace them with all its delights,
as they dance through the night
guided by the skys eye.

Tata Nanje

Struck by the hands of love
a pain I cannot forgive
worse than varicose veins
bulging through my skin
driving me insane;

How can I choose to live
when love may choose to leave?
Yet, the pain may subside
through sclerotherapy,
but who can really dodge
a blow dealt by love?

We may pretend to be aloof
and smile all along
and those who know us not
may temporarily be fooled
and sold a painful smile
known by those who have loved.

Weaving dreams
with the movement of this pen.
Movements get trampled
and often met by a fence.
One should then move
with the whole heart and grace,
to keep their weaving
from getting effaced.

This forbidden spell
that men and women binds
sacred like holy shrines
that every breath compel
wheeling arrows of love
piercing, greedy for blood
crimson rivers flood
painful tears from above.
Leave us bleed to death.

Longing for freedom, met by walls
Reaching for stars, met by a ceiling
A pain remains that cannot be conquered
Like freedom found by endless discomfort
I cannot help this damning feeling
Of climbing mountains with a need to fall

Weaving my dreams with threads woe
Reaping a pain I have not sown
I cannot break free of a past
Not my own yet we clash
Freedom and tradition in one home
One full of life one ready for the hole

So every time I make my path
Fate dashes an unfair blow
Crumbling my castle down to nothing
Waiting for me always plotting
To drag me to an endless hole
But my life dictate with freedom’s wrath

The days have returned when the mind flows with thoughts needing to be expressed, stimulate and challenge. It’s been awhile but I have been busy with the opening of a new hostel in Paris and the restructuring of tataPC as a result of new contracts and partnerships. All in all things are going well. That is precisly what I have
been up to. But that’s not all.

A few months ago I announced the completion of my new book, A Traveler’s Diary. I have been busy with that too. The completion of a book means nothing I have come to find out. Finding a publisher is like working nine to five but luckily a friend of mine refered me to DIP Publishing. I have been in contact with them discussing the steps of publication and what they can do for me as a Writer. Again, this is not an easy process especially since I have not been at one place for more than two months since I left Korea. But I got to live! And because of my need for adventure, things have been on hold as far as the book is concerned. The good thing is, DIP Publishing is located in my hometown, Marietta, GA. So as soon as I return home which I hope will be soon, I will be meeting with them. Although things might look promissing, there is more to be said about this process.

Editing and proofing is not fun. In the process you get new ideas, you test them in the story, you erase, you write again, you erase, you call a friend and on and on and on. It gets tedious. The good thing about this is you learn alot about yourself in the process and come up with new ideas about what you want to write about next. For instance, this book is about my journey and my travels from Cameroon, to U.S, to Asia then to Europe. But the journey of life never ends. It continues whether we write about it or not. As a result of the editing process with the much appreciated help of one of my dearest friend Allan, I have come up with other ideas that we think will enhance the appreciation of the material. With that said, here are a few of my favorite poems and I think Allan’s as well from chapter one:

Connections

The grass is green.
The wind is calm.
A voice whispers;
I cannot see.

Who speaks to me?
I do not know.
An inside voice
calms my soul.

This is not a feeling
I have had before.
Should I jump
and dance on this floor?

It was a woman’s voice;
a gentle one.
Full of love yet sad,
saying, “you and I are one

you are my son”.

My grandfather

He walks among men
but I think he is more
than the grass on our yard,
more than the muddy road we take to school,
more than the plank house where we live.

He is more than the hot Cameroonian sun,
than the leaves in the thick forest,
than the wind that speaks to me,
than the night that calms my woes
and the streams that gives us water.

He is more than I can say,
more than the birds that we hunt
and the flowers and the bees
that make honey so sweet.
He is more than the heart that beats within
the only heart that I know;
the only man that I know

to be the father I do not know.

The letter

He smiled at me and laughed a bit;
he looked at the ground for awhile.
I said nothing wondering why
I have never seen him like this.

He sat next to me,
an unfamiliar feeling
ran through my body.
I could not find my form.

I have not found my form,
not in speech and not on paper,
and certain feelings I have yet to know;
feelings that sometimes are best shared by those
who breathe life into this world.

So I could not make him out
until he made well to utter,
“your parents have sent another letter,
and this one maybe the last”.

If you are a lover of art like myself, you will love Paris. There are several groups you can join that offer a cozy environment of like minded people with great artistic merit. One of my favorite events to attend although I am fairly new there is Spoken Word in Paris. It is a very friendly and inviting atmosphere with poets from many countries sharing their perspective in prose, short stories or reading something written by another author that they found interesting.
Here is a photo of me at the last event in September along with my video readings.

The rules for reading are: There is only one rule, you have 5 minutes to read your stuff. David reminds you when your time is about to run out by ringing the bell as you hear in the last video.

For info on these events, follow the blog at: spokenwordparis.blogspot.com
And to meet people in Paris and create social networks go to: meetup.com

I have a collection of more than 90 poems from when I started travelling back in 2008. I don’t know whether to self-publish them or wait for the long and tedious traditional publishing process. I am typing and editing them now along with another novella I started writing months ago that I put aside to revisit for accuracy. But if I was to publish them, this poem would be the first one in the collection.

A Traveller’s Diary

Lost in time and translation,
an alien to the world
if ever I will be found
it will be without separation.

Although longing to be apart
and find my own path,
I have come to find
Such can only be at the heart.

Thus I have come to ardor
the all and its making,
longing to be less
while hoping to be more.

A travelers diary I write
from town to town and country to country
in search of the human heart,
that beats within and outside.

So that I will be whole
through these adventures,
with those that I meet and leave,
a story will be told.

Tata
Want to sponsor my “Starving Artist Foundation”? See:
What say you?

Two points meet, stretch to touch,
but cannot mount enough strenghth to reach.
They have travelled far and long
anticipating, waiting, hoping
that even a finger will reach the other.
Longing to embrace; warm blood below the skin
to flood each body and end
at the finger tip.

Eyes meet full of greed for the other,
eager to be one with the other-
muscles tense stretching to their limit,
although no limit for their love, no limit
for their thoughts – to be one.
They have come so far and
not even a finger can touch.

Inside Le Louvre downstairs

Tata Nanje
Le Louvre Des Antiquairies

If I could make a day
in my own image and my way

If I could raise the sun
to shine, bless and bring light

If I could fill a well with water for all
and quench thirst here and there

If I could move the wind to rock a child to sleep
and their dreams manifest in front of them

If I could move the soil to nuture farmers everywhere
with crops of the brightest green

If I could sing a song to kill the lovers cry
and wash the tears down the drain

If I could shepherd a sheep to bring warmth to all
who seek a blanket at night

I would start with…