Author Archives: Mangeni W.Obwoya

About Mangeni W.Obwoya

Mang’eni Wycliffe Obwoya is a freelance writer, poet and Author of short stories. He was born on the 16th of January ’91 on the shores of Lake Victoria in the South-Eastern part of Uganda (currently Namaingo District) His poems have found a place in several international anthologies and journals like The Significant Anthology, Cupid: An Anthology on love, The umbilical cord : An anthology on Parents ... Obwoya, is currently working on a his poetry collection 'The songs of a swain', and a memoir 'The interesting narratives of a village boy'and many other online publications. He is concurrently working on his collection of poems The songs of a Swain and a memoir The interesting narratives of a Village boy, At the bale fire (A collection Samias and Bagwe folklore). He prefers writing in his mother tongue (Lusamia-Lugwe) reasoning that ‘He has neither seen a cow bleat nor heard goats mooing’ He is a graduate of Busoga University with a bachelor’s degree in Business management with a bias in Marketing When he’s not making people fall in love with his writings, he is most likely busy massaging his computer, coding and developing web sites for his ever growing clientele.

How does it feel …

How does it feel
To go to sleep and never wake up?
Or just to be – not there for yonks?

How does it feel to fall
But never touch the ground?
Paused – from the pain of feeling;
Mute – to the cracking of bone like wood,
or the shatter of glass dropped.

How does it feel
To sleep and never dream?
And even with no sleep still
In slumber stay ne’er waking?

How does it feel
To travel – to no destination?
where the journey takes forever,
never reaching
and never stopping,
And endless spin.

How does it feel
To be where nothing stays?
In the realm where nothing holds?
Where sleep is sweet and days are aeons long?
Where we watch the magic in vibe unfold,
While our hands are tied never moving.

How does it feel to live in the forgetfulness?
Where memory is black to things our eyes,
Wouldn’t get tired of seeing;
and those that lost their shine and wonder.

How did it feel then,
For the first time as a wean?
How brilliant the colors glittered;
What a jewel the sun was with its flash,
And what charm was held in the smiles of men,
What marvel the stars in the heavens were
and how incredibly alive the trees swayed
With the breeze of the passing wind?

Isn’t it grand for one to be well?
With the affluence of a king in health,
And richness of an empire,
in material possession.

How does it feel
To watch the night,
Full of stars and a bright moons,
The fireflies and the meteor shower
Out there in space,
and surrounded by a humbling silence?

Gone, Gone, Is the country we loved

Gone, Gone, Is the country we loved,
Here time boils the rain,
And memories die with the wind,
When the dawn mist rises;
from the valley that kept our bones,
Peering through the haze,
their images stare, and their songs rise;
And in file they march -leader at the head,
and behind him comes his followers,
to the land we once held,
teeming with life in our dreams,
where pristine rivers run clear,
the grass and trees are all in bloom
the bees abuzz over their blooms,
while the birds drunk in songs sing,
through this world of perfection,
Mine are the elders walking passed in melancholy,
Through a land ours no more.

Sometimes when the evening comes,
and its anger eats the sun-light,
death distills over the water,
when in the shadow plays my imagination
creating the old homes -my people cherished
smoke from lit bonfires curl from their kraals
and in the rivers that roar,
I hear the yells of the mothers
and the laughter of the little children
As in the olden days -the good ole days;
Am I not going mad?

Again, and again and again I see shadows dark
and roars of our antique rivers,
When teardrops turn into icicles crystalline
mourning to moan -the good ole days gone.

My heart is so full of sorrow,
for the generations gone by
And mine still is a heart mournful for those to come,
when a disease eats a village,
It leaves a few to mourn and bury the dead
and through echoes of their footfalls walk
in the absence of their form.
Here lies the country we cherished,
Gone, gone, Is the country we loved.

Every evening, these days

Every evening, these days;
Stars kneel to kiss my face goodnight:
’tis your voice in them that on stays.
When the flowers sweeten the air,
In their beautiful perfume lies the elegant flair,
of damsel so fair.

Day after day every evening;
under the great sky in silence,
sprouts my deathly solitude;
and when thoughts of you flood my courtyard,
I lie awake missing my fortunate days of yore.

Days leisurely spent meant so much then
with every promise sounding nothing but truth-
But now those times are no more,
and the night’s shade is upon my little world:
where can I find such priceless moments again;
Every evening, these days.

Like a shade upon the earth.

To dust and to decay
to solitude and to silence;
like a shade upon the earth,
is loneliness creeping over me,
and to life comes the long forgotten faces
forming like mists from the silent past,
bygone, bygone are the voices of infancy
voices that long ago grew mute
to once familiar songs we sing no more.

Give me that pipe, ye little piper,
while the wind outside weeps,
Bring me that flute, hand me that harp
when the angry beatings of the rain upon the roof
diminish to tranquil patters upon the sea;
to kill this loneliness that creeps over me,
Like a shade upon the earth.

Let’s dance and dance ’til we drop
and one by one bury these noises
of hurrying footsteps of wounded travellers,
Let’s silence their randomness again and again
die to leave no sound behind;
let mine skill pipe-a-tune,
to kill this loneliness that creeps over me
Like a shade upon the earth.

https://www.shutterstock.com/video/clip-1953946-stock-footage-rain-forest-time-lapse-with-forming-mist.html

Blind Lover

Dreaming of a person they never met,

Is like falling in love with faraway Venus.

Lovely to the eye from afar

fitting right in one’s bosom

A blind lover is but a child,

reaching his hand to pluck the moon,

pitiful is the poet

drunken in love thus paint

in his composition to the love he can’t hold close,

one whose eyes can only see in his stupor

but faint is the reality.

Beauty is a word …

Beauty is a word that flows
Smoothly like a drop of water
On a mirror
Every time it’s sounded
It morphs into milk and honey
To the ears that hear

Beauty is a word that silently burns
Bringing pleasant thoughts to the dreamer
Thoughts that mend and heal broken hearts

Beauty is a word that shines brightly
Like a full moon in the east
Whose light evicts darkness away

Beauty is  a word,
Like a red rose
Whose aroma and fragrance wafts
Thus spreading across all roads and ridges

Beauty is a word,
Like falling rain
That washes away all our sorrows
With every drench from the perforated sky

Beauty is a word ,
Like poetry, proverbs and sayings
Only understood by a willing heart
Striking a chord with every syllable muttered

Beauty is the flickering starlight
Prompting lips to compose pregnant tunes
Every time they twinkle

Beauty is childhood
Chasing clouds that roam the clouds
Watching them glide and slide on the blue sky

Beauty in adulthood is —
Finding one who understands you
And one whom you understand

Beauty is love
And love is beauty
And for that; I am grateful to have you-
My little Pigeon

Even stars shall cringe

When I finally opt out I’ll leave,
All living to myself that has once mattered
From this blue-blooded land of the stout
All accomplishments sweet that my sweat fathered
Will be left behind
For it has been a sweet and bitter bite off life’s cake
That will decay with time after when am gone,
And never to be found,
For It has been way too easy toiling to live,
And the fame in the game too fake,
For a base-born that I am
With  grim I have searched,
From all the fine and fair I have seen,
Hand in hand on this rare planet, they’ve stretched
Through memories in a line though faint,
Her name buried deep in my heart,
And on my heart I etched,
Her face on mine I’ve painted
Not with paint and a chisel,
But with words and a quill,
A beaut, a literary blinder
That will make the stars cringe
And the morning sun, grin happily,
When my days finally come to an end

The blow, the glow,

The blow, the glow,

The blow, the glow,
Flashing on the surface flows,
– A drop on a mirror.

The smile I wear,
Smeared with the hurts inside my core,
– A goat’s smile

Time is young,
Life, a briefcase of thought,
– Hiding sad memories time brought.

Frown with confidence,
Ride and rhyme in happiness,
-Hymns to a grieving soul.

Songs, in grief heal,
Tunes from the hill fill,
-The crevice, time created.

Ask not, about the singing you hear,
For it might take what you most fear,
Just listen and sing along,
And forget, those who did wrong.

When love takes a dirt nap

Me alone in the cold bedchamber
Silently, the semilunar moon reflects
Every time it shines on the distant horizon
Coloured lotuses bloom and the sun is bright in day
But, in my life it leaves me lonely
And inside my core, a different kind of feeling sprouts
Nostalgia ripens, and my heart is awakened
I feel lonely and hopeless
My mind can’t think straight
And it’s you, in every flower that spuds
Love sickness embodies my sweet sorrows
Oh, when love takes a dirt nap
Distant memories of glory days gone replay
In the nous and souls of the dearie left behind

When it dies