Through a set of wonderful serendipitous events, I have been motivated enough to write some poetry about my stay here in Arusha. I thought I might share a few of these with you now. I have been thinking a lot about place and what that intrinsically means, and the idea of "home" in particular. And how those ideas are different depending on where you are from and what you have access to. Anyway, here:
[Hatari (or perceptions of)]
Jump at car backfire (or deafening gun shots)
Tales of hiding trolls (Lonely Planet dubbed “Mugger’s Bridge”)
Says you who own a car and maintain a salary other than student loans (“Never walk, it isn’t safe!”)
Jump at deafening gun shots (or car backfire)
Lonely Planet dubbed “Mugger’s Bridge” (Tales of hiding trolls)
“Never walk, it isn’t safe!” (Says you who own a car and maintain a salary other than student loans)
[security]
Grown up in the red clay hills among the vineyards and suburbs, the mist and the drizzle surely soaked into my bones to mark me.
Drizzle falls on my skin here and there. In Cork, Kan Tan, Chong Qing, Arusha. Does it move me the same? Does it soak through?
Is it a gift of reminiscence from my home, or a gift of hospitality from this new place beckoning me stay?
May it be a token of security that one day my heart will learn to be at home anywhere, soothed by the drizzle that touches my skin.
[unnamed]
The curves of the land, the colors.
The feel of stepping onto the earth outside your door,
The smells of daily life and the sounds of family gathering.
Separated from the place you love, no matter if it’s a sad circumstance or lustful affair;
These are the things that take your soul back home when your body can’t be there.
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