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Year eleven is biding your time, playing Kelly Pool and stuck on the problem of the square root of minus one, which sounds more like poetry than maths. I get poetry but not maths pretending to be poetry. And not the teacher looking at me like it's funny that the boy who thinks he can do anything is defeated by something. Enough of this. It's time to catch the freezing midnight train to Coolabah. We make it to the station via a cigarette-smoked taxi. Here comes the rolling, banging contraption, nicknamed the Midnight Mole. I make my way to a dog box with a foot-warmer! So love these huge steel encased cylinders—full of acid and sand. I wrap my whole body around it to keep warm. A banging, shunting night of sleep passes. A station sign says Coolabah. It's just me with no brothers this time. Dad takes ages. It's hot. There he is: in his new Toyota smiling under that big hat. ‘Had some good rain,' he says, throwing my gear in the back with petrol drums. ‘Uh huh,' I say, looking around at red dust. We get into a cabin that's layered in red dust and smelling of gun oil. The ABC news is up loud and we're hammering our way along the red gravel road home. I doze off and wake just as Dad stops and gets out. ‘Look at this,' he says, examining some fresh green shoots. ‘Reckon we might have more rain on the way. ‘Reckon so,' I say. Another forty minutes and we're home: passing hundreds of acres of green paradise, kangaroos and sheep. A piece of livestock bliss that astonishes my sleepy sixteen year old eyes. As usual, while we've been at school, Dad—the magician—has conjured beautiful farm land out of thick masses of box and mulga scrub. Audacity is what this is. Mostly what I'm remembering is drought, dead sheep and misery. And then this grand plan: Dad bulldozing trees, windrows of dead timber and a green paradise. And field days with crowds of admiring block-battlers from all over. Dad parks the ute in the big shed. Days of stock work and fencing pass. Bruises and cuts accumulate. Clothes are torn. The lovely smell of red dust is in everything. A quiet day comes. I'm on a step in the shaded side of the house, facing the dam and the big pepper trees. This is a good think-time spot. The old black tom cat brushes past me. A thousand thoughts rush by. Just can't seem to get my head around it. Mum's gone. And look at this place! The filthy kitchen, the greasy dining room. The grime. Those old wheelchair marks against the door frames. This monster of a world seems to have a thing against us. Dad walks past and—in his friendly way—wants to know what's on my mind. I ignore him. He keeps walking. I'm sulking: rivetted on that red and green expanse and beyond that, the shadowy secrets of the box flats and the mulga: my painkillers. More days pass. We talk of plans for our other block, up north. ‘We've got some mustering to do at Bre,' Dad says, smiling. ‘Okay,' I say. The block at Bre is the one that's saving us. The ute is loaded with bikes and, of course, rifles. There's always plenty of pigs there. We make the hundred and sixty kay trip and set up camp. The stars come out. The fire is lit, the steak cooked. Such juicy steak! And we talk. Do we ever talk. The sulk fades. This big, fat beast called the world isn't so bad after all. If you have a go. Just jump in. Nothing lives long. Go hard as you can before it dies too. Even if you get killed in the process. Might as well. What else is there? Dad falls asleep. I'm by the fire, taking it all in. Especially the shadows and the way they play with the moon as she touches the skin of the trees, and those dead-pan, dead-still leaves. This my real home—here in the dark with the silver. Kookaburras announce a new day and away we go. Me on my bright green motorbike with a rifle and a pig that's going hard through deep grass. This is more like it. Bang! We've hit something. Up in the air, high over handle bars. The bike falling away. Crunch! Headfirst at a low angle. Face ploughing through dirt like a cow-catcher. Everything blanks out. I wake up. I'm alive! Tasting dirt and blood. Lying here for a bit under a hot blue sky, waiting. It's okay. Just need to find water, to wash the mouth out. Time for school. Back on the train. Feeling silly with this great scabbed face that's scrubbed the surface of the planet. What will they all think? And now, we jump decades into the present to a room and a chair by a fire: me, the old man growing old, together with his wife. Astonished at how Dad won my heart. And how he, the moon and Bre turned the shadows into a wonder. And even now, over there on the wall of this room: a photo full of shadows. A woman in a long dress (my son's wife) walking through a glade of trees like some great queen. And three children running and laughing: one of them—caught in mid-flight—her feet off the ground, like a faery floating on air.
King Legx King Legx is a Ghanaian dancehall,afrobeat,Afro dancehall and reggae artist. He was born on the 27th July 2000 at Afufe in the Volta region and his real name is LAWSON BRIGHT AMEN. He attended St Francis Xavier Roman Catholic school at Accra Kotobabi and completed in the year 2017-2018. He continue his education at Accra senior High school from 2018-2021 and his current city is Alajo (A.J City) Accra. He started his music career way back in 2016 but wasn't serious to it, he started writing his own songs in 2018 whiles he is in S.H.S one (1) KING LEGX love anything which is pleasant to his ear. Aside singing, he also plays drums and piano.
THE BURNING SUN I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews, Hearts are my friends I live in the city of sufferings Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history I sculptured man silently – Wings that carried birds Did not bring them back; I am drinking thick darkness In the haunts of those forests Which cry out in agony for the birds That did not return; Clutching at the garment woven of memories I twine myself to the feet of my country. Heads that were hanging to the trees Smile as flowers today in the branches Hearts that received the bullets Ring in temples of our land like bells; Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered By how many to bring forth this day; They are hanging like icicles On the ridges of our roofs; Look, it is an iron fist I have; I shall excavate the flame of light From the rocks of time – I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries – To the rivers that run in passion after the sea I cry halt, command them To paint the colourless arid lands in green, Invite back the smile which fled away In terror from this land, To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower I shall give a garden – Come children, eat Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight, I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day; If he wakes not on the horizon of this land I shall tear my burning heart And put it in its place With the scarlet of my living flesh Illuminate the earth I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews – - Seshendra Sharma http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/ -This is the 1st poem in Seshendra Sharma's second anthology of prose poems titled “The Burning Sun “ - In his intro to The Burning Sun Seshendra says there has been an uninterrupted undercurrent in his life as a poet , that is his life nerve and that has assumed total expression in this poem
I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews, Hearts are my friends I live in the city of sufferings Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history I sculptured man silently – Wings that carried birds Did not bring them back; I am drinking thick darkness In the haunts of those forests Which cry out in agony for the birds That did not return; Clutching at the garment woven of memories I twine myself to the feet of my country. Heads that were hanging to the trees Smile as flowers today in the branches Hearts that received the bullets Ring in temples of our land like bells; Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered By how many to bring forth this day; They are hanging like icicles On the ridges of our roofs; Look, it is an iron fist I have; I shall excavate the flame of light From the rocks of time – I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries – To the rivers that run in passion after the sea I cry halt, command them To paint the colourless arid lands in green, Invite back the smile which fled away In terror from this land, To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower I shall give a garden – Come children, eat Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight, I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day; If he wakes not on the horizon of this land I shall tear my burning heart And put it in its place With the scarlet of my living flesh Illuminate the earth I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun Rising from the hills of human sinews – - Seshendra Sharma http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/ -This is the 1st poem in Seshendra Sharma's second anthology of prose poems titled “The Burning Sun “ - In his intro to The Burning Sun Seshendra says there has been an uninterrupted undercurrent in his life as a poet , that is his life nerve and that has assumed total expression in this poem
Visionary Poet of the Millennium An Indian poet Prophet Seshendra Sharma October 20th, 1927 - May 30th, 2007 http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com/ https://tribupedia.com/seshendra-sharma-memorial-tribute/ https://seshen.tributes.in/ https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/ eBooks :http://kinige.com/author/Gunturu+Seshendra+Sharma I could not rescue him from the clutches of that nymphomaniac and vampire. There may be an exception or two but an average Indian woman desires from the depths of her soul that her husband should live long and she should pass away before him. She performs prayers and fasts on auspicious days for this purpose. She in spite of being 3years elder to him did away with my father in a planned and premeditated manner and I was a silent and helpless witness to it. He suffered 1st Heart attack in November 1997. Cardiologists performed angiogram and advised open heart surgery. Because there were blocks in vessels and one valve was damaged. But she successfully thwarted it and without my knowledge or informing any one got angioplasty done in Mediciti (Hyderabad: AP; India) her plan was to do away with him and live long, and establish herself as his wife through his books. He was succumbing to her blackmail. My overwhelming hunch is that she was threatening him with social insult and humiliation if he parts ways with her. Between 1997-2007, she played football with his body. He used to be hospitalized every now and then with swollen body and heart pain. Because of damaged valve pumping was impaired and water used to accumulate in the system. Every time I used to force her to hospitalize him. He used be in ICCU for a couple of days and recover marginally. After each visit to hospital he was getting debilitated gradually. He was put on wheel chair. He was virtually under house arrest. He was not allowed to speak to friends and family members. Visitors were kept away. He was taking Lasix (Tablet: is a diuretic that is used to treat fluid accumulation, caused by heart failure, cirrhosis, chronic kidney failure, and nephrotic syndrome.) to flush out water accumulated in his body. This creates a painful dilemma in me whether my interference in his health matters was just. As his son it was my moral duty to protect him. But I sometimes feel if I were not to interfere she would have put him to death long ago and thus he would have escaped from physical and mental torture quite early. Towards perhaps end of the month of March she withdrew medication. He got swollen suddenly and that condition continued till the last day i.e. 30th may 2007. Each time I visited I used to tell that witch to take him to hospital. But after a couple of visits I got convinced that she made up her mind this time to do away with him. I requested a bastard who was feigning to be a friend of mine, who incidentally happens to be a legal luminary of this region to send a doctor friend to that place and ascertain the exact condition of his health. But of no avail. I kept on telling him to come out of that place and lead a normal and healthy life. Her blackmail gained an upper hand and I lost in my efforts to restore health to him and bring him back to civilized society. O God pardon me for not being able to outmanoeuvre her machinations. Pardon me father.
Visionary Poet of the Millennium An Indian poet Prophet Seshendra Sharma October 20th, 1927 - May 30th, 2007 http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com/ https://tribupedia.com/seshendra-sharma-memorial-tribute/ https://seshen.tributes.in/ https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/ eBooks :http://kinige.com/author/Gunturu+Seshendra+Sharma Seshendra Sharma is one of the most outstanding minds of modern Asia. He is the foremost of the Telugu poets today who has turned poetry to the gigantic strides of human history and embellished literature with the thrills and triumphs of the 20th century. A revolutionary poet who spurned the pedestrian and pedantic poetry equally, a brilliant critic and a scholar of Sanskrit, this versatile poet has breathed a new vision of modernity to his vernacular.Such minds place Telugu on the world map of intellectualism. Readers conversant with names like Paul Valery, Gauguin, and Dag Hammarskjold will have to add the name of Seshendra Sharma the writer from India to that dynasty of intellectuals. Rivers and poets Are veins and arteries Of a country. Rivers flow like poems For animals, for birds And for human beings- The dreams that rivers dream Bear fruit in the fields The dreams that poets dream Bear fruit in the people- * * * * * * The sunshine of my thought fell on the word And its long shadow fell upon the century Sun was playing with the early morning flowers Time was frightened at the sight of the martyr- - Seshendra Sharma B.A: Andhra Christian College: Guntur: A.P: India B.L : Madras University: Madras Deputy Municipal Commissioner (37 Years) Dept of Municipal Administration, Government of Andhra Pradesh Parents: G.Subrahmanyam (Father) ,Ammayamma (Mother) Siblings: Anasuya,Devasena (Sisters),Rajasekharam(Younger brother) Wife: Mrs.Janaki Sharma Children: Vasundhara , Revathi (Daughters), Vanamaali ,Saatyaki (Sons) Seshendra Sharma better known as Seshendra is a colossus of Modern Indian poetry. His literature is a unique blend of the best of poetry and poetics. Diversity and depth of his literary interests and his works are perhaps hitherto unknown in Indian literature. From poetry to poetics, from Mantra Sastra to Marxist Politics his writings bear an unnerving pprint of his rare genius. His scholar ship and command over Sanskrit , English and Telugu Languages has facilitated his emergence as a towering personality of comparative literature in the 20th century world literature. T.S.Eliot ,ArchbaldMacleish and Seshendra Sharma are trinity of world poetry and Poetics. His sense of dedication to the genre of art he chooses to express himself and the determination to reach the depths of subject he undertakes to explore place him in the galaxy of world poets / world intellectuals. Seshendra'seBooks :http://kinige.com/author/Gunturu+Seshendra+Sharma Seshendra Sharma's Writings Copyright © Saatyaki S/o Seshendra Sharma Contact :saatyaki@gmail.com+919441070985+917702964402 ------------------------ GunturuSeshendraSarma: an extraordinary poet-scholar One of the ironies in literature is that he came to be known more as a critic than a poet HYDERABAD: An era of scholastic excellence and poetic grandeur has come to an end in the passing away of GunturuSeshendraSarma, one of the foremost poets and critics in Telugu literature. His mastery over western literature and Indian `AlankaraSastra' gave his works a stunning imagery, unparalleled in modern Indian works. One of the ironies in literature is that he came to be known more as a critic than a poet. The Central SahityaAkademi award was conferred on him for his work `KaalaRekha' and not for his poetic excellence. The genius in him made him explore `Kundalini Yoga' in his treatise on Ramayana in `Shodasi' convincingly. His intellectual quest further made him probe `NaishadhaKaavya' in the backdrop of `LalitaSahasraNaamavali', `SoundaryaLahari' and `Kama Kala Vilasam' in `SwarnaHamsa', Seshendra saw the entire universe as a storehouse of images and signs to which imagination was to make value-addition. Like Stephene Mallarme who was considered a prophet of symbolism in French literature, SeshendraSarma too believed that art alone would survive in the universe along with poetry. He believed that the main vocation of human beings was to be artists and poets. His `Kavisena Manifesto' gave a new direction to modern criticism making it a landmark work in poetics. Telugus would rue the intellectual impoverishment they suffered in maintaining a `distance' from him. Seshendra could have given us more, but we did not deserve it! The denial of the Jnanpeeth Award to him proves it The Hindu India's National Newspaper Friday, Jun 01, 2007
From the day I was born till now, I've always known my father as a businessman. I mean how else could he raise 15 children, right? The first business my father ran, as far as I can remember was our bakeshop. But after the sudden price hike of flour and sugar, we had to close the shop and think of another business. Making hollow blocks was then my father's next business venture. And even though he only had very little knowledge about construction and engineering he still managed to run the business for a while; up until a lot of construction companies opened up. Not being able to compete with other competitors my father had to think of another business that can sustain and provide for us. Then came our piggery farm, and again my father had only a very little knowledge of raising pigs, but we were still able to manage to run the farm for a couple of years until we have to move out of the place where we lived in. Unfortunately, we move to a more urban side of town where it is harder to raise swine because of odor/smell control issues. So, my father had to think of another business again; v-hire express services, which is what we currently have now. You see, I grew up watching my dad ran a multiple of businesses. That's why most of my childhood memories are related to his businesses. I remember having fun watching the mixing of cement, sand, gravel, and water. I remember watching a sow giving birth. I remember one time, I, my older sister ate Liit, and younger sibling Arniel had to attend a sow gave birth at midnight. We all went crazy when we thought we heard the sound of a manananggal or something scary. I remember we used to climb at the top of the brick oven, we even used to hide inside then come out covered with coal. I remember making dough, which was a lot more exciting than playing with clay dough. I remember being scared of the huge rolling pin machine in our bakery, it had caused a couple of finger injuries. I've seen fingers being rolled in it. It was traumatic! Most importantly I remember how amazed I am to my father having been able to shift from one business to another. I always admire my father's work ethics and his dedication on something he is passionate about. He is always a risk taker, a leader, a dream chaser and above all my father is a businessman. Other people think that as a businessman, my father is a failure. As because none of his businesses lasted very long. For me though, he will always be a true successful businessman. He may not have a big and solid business to pass on to us and later on to his grandchildren; but he gave us more than that. He gave us the heart of a true businessman. Not only chasing for the profit but to actually do it with joy and contentment; not to give up when something goes wrong but to work harder and think better. My father have always wanted to see us, his children, make a corporation. I always dismiss the idea before, for me it sounds so ambitious. But seeing my siblings running their own businesses now, I can't help but think that my father has actually a very good vision for us. That it is actually attainable for us to work or rather to run a business as a corporation. As I am writing this down right now, I actually think he didn't only say it because he have confidence in us but actually in hopes that we may do it in the future. But, why? The same reason why he started to do business over and over again. He wants us to be able to stay and have time for each other, for our family. He wants us to be able to pursue our own interests, passions and goals in our own pace. The road maybe far for the corporation dream, or even if it may not happen; but the fact that I am able to see that we can actually get there makes my heart really happy. And that my friend is the story of my father as a businessman.
I'm just a regular twelve-year-old African American kid, or at least I try to be. I have always been convicted to higher knowledge, wisdom, and discernment that sometimes I didn't even want. Some parts of history, philosophy, and morality have always interested me and even affect my life and decision making. But there was one lesson they didn't teach me. Black History has always been my forte'. I have been making it my job to learn the material that isn't in the history books like the forgotten verses of the national anthem, the thousands of lynching's the early 1900s and the experimentation and exploitation of black women and men. Recently, it has taught me a lesson I'll never forget. I was on YouTube watching videos of the lynchings of Will Brown, Emmet Till, and The Hanging Bridge when a song came into my feed. It was sung by Jill Scott, so I couldn't resist. The song was called “Strange Fruit” and was originally written by Billie Holiday. The Lyrics and delivery of the song shook me. Southern trees bear strange fruit Blood on the leaves and blood at the root Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees Pastoral scene of the gallant south The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh Then the sudden smell of burning flesh Here is fruit for the crows to pluck For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop Here is a strange and bitter crop I thought of the picture of Will Brown's body as I heard the lyrics. A twelve-year-old was immediately brought to tears. I ran downstairs to my parents and told them what I had seen. I wasn't scared that this would happen to me, but I was haunted by the truth which I thought I had always had the maturity to swallow. My mother explained, “Son, that's what happened, and it wasn't pretty, but don't let this become your reality now. Think about how much we've overcome and the things we achieved.” My Father told me, “That's powerful. And I'm glad you're getting exposure to it, but knowledge is power. Not fear.” I didn't know how I would sleep that night, but I learned that my ancestors didn't fight and die for me to walk around fearful and lugubrious. For me to go to bed haunted and scared. They sacrificed that I may walk strong, fearless, and confident in the blessing of Abraham of which I have been ordained. The dark past of our ancestors shall not be forgotten therefore now I will forever walk in the conviction, discernment, morality, and confidence that they fought for me to have. I went to bed fearless that night. My son loves writing and wanted to enter this contest. I love him so much! This is his story.