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An Opening Eye: Poems by Chris Msosa

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I visited the Poet’s house.
At the living room they had a picture of him
wearing glasses hanging on the wall,
wide eyed lurking from behind the transparent lenses.

A man whomsoever he is; is strong in his own house
but here was no man
only a picture locked inside
a frame hanging on the wall.

His lovely wife greeted me warmly with a sturdy arm.
As if wanting to tell me some secret,
she leaned forward and then back
perhaps whatever she wanted to say
ought not to be said to a child.

Her son followed behind her closely
confirming his mother’s gratitude
he gave me a similar hand shake nothing like his mother’s
but firm enough that I got the message; that here was a strong family.

I waited to see the Poet.
To feel the firmness of his hand shake
but there was no Poet to be had.
Only this picture of him hanging on the wall
accentuated by his watchful eyes.

Eyes that see nothing today but everything that was there before.
I wondered in my mind where the Poet was.
Where the man responsible for this lovely family could have gone?

He was not such a man
to forget his family and leave it at the mercy
of a picture’s protection.
So many questions flooded my mind.

Was he busy writing or editing something in the study.
Had he gone to work for the day
perhaps to a recital some function he was asked to come to.
I searched for an answer on their faces
but none was revealed
nothing for his and their sake was mentioned,
nothing was said not even in passing.

So we ran outside the two of us to play to be kids again.
I was later to find out that
the Poet like his picture had been imprisoned
for writing insightful poetry


 6:30 TRAIN

When she passes
through these parts
The Iron serpent resting
the ground
Violently comes to life
morning becomes
A noisy Trap
interrupted by her careless churn
A raging bull ranting below her
And the onlookers will tell you
nothing less
They have been witnesses
to their consummation
So even here the need for explanation
ceases to exist
Because by now
you must know what it means
As for me
I am still waiting to see her
Pass through here
hopefully in my lifetime
And surely the next time I come here.



She whisked them away
quietly with love,
like people do at funerals
the little devils
I envied so much
for she had given
them allowance
to taint
her angelic beauty
to gaze into her
big eyes
these seeming
guiltless little devils
clinging on
to her silken cycles
had no idea
the privilege bestowed
unto them
for they fathom
nothing more
but the kindness
she had shown
By freeing them
from Jerusalem’s walls
to the jolly yells
of sundae school tales
these battlements
that imprison
mine actions
also free my mind
to wonder other factions
surely I had one reason
for coming to this place
to give him
his praise
to glorify his grace
to be mystified
by his comforting words
surely I had
one reason
and that reason was God
but she was a god too
she leaked
of grace too
she received praise too
she also had me mystified
by her words too
by the way
she carried herself
my thoughts of her
took me
from this heaven
to that hell pool
took me away
from God’s shell
to Devil’s romantic tale
she had me
and I had lost all
that was from the cross
I had somewhat become
a sinner of some sort
or should I say
I had taken upon
the opportunity
given to me
to wander with glee
and see the things
I had wanted
to see
to exercise the will
Given to me
to appreciate God’s will
the will that now
leads me
to a path so alluring
the Devil does
take advantage
of God’s creation
and I have
taken advantage
of them both
and lingered
into my sinful sundae.



And so the eagle comes
No flap in its wide wings
Just diving in
Like a hot knife through butter
Grabbing our kith and kin
And we watch it leave
We have not made a move
We have not learnt a lesson
We the cowards are just watching
Our hearts calmly beating
Doesn’t that eagle coming in
Grabbing our kith and kin
Remind you of some old scary tale?



(for James D. ( Rubadiri )

It is worrying,
that I must learn about you,
soul brother
from eyes looking through
a blurred vista
that contains
your virtuous and beautiful mind.
It is worrying,
that they have everything else
but respect
for your rigorousness,
that the prophet will not
draw blood of respect
or an honest ear
from his own kindred
it is worrying,
that they take the new man’s wine
even its bitter dregs
without a fret.
It is worrying,
how comfortable they get.
How comfortable they have gotten
In another man’s skin



White walls.
Empty beds waiting occupation.
Angels some ugly some beautiful.
Some ask me odd questions,
Some I ask the odd question.

Wide rooms filled with emptiness.
Gloom smiles at me.
Should I smile back?
Will he not refute it?

The stench rises.
Sometime in my life
This was familiar place.
She was in its baptism.
And I required
Such baptism to get to her.

But now there is not a thing
That respects her.
Nothing speaks of her
It is all empty and I am afraid.
Who will save me in her absence?


– (c) Chris Msosa

– Image courtesy of

Chris Msosa
Chris Msosa
I am a poet Naturally.

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