Sometimes I Write Poetry…and I Read This One For The First Lady Of Malawi.. At A Tea Party.

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What is it that fuels you? For me, it’s the unbound plethora of sentiment and complete power to be able to be our absolute self to communicate, share, love, feel, cry, and bring joy to those around us. Poetry does this for me and thus, I in turn want to share with you.

I am Malawiana (The Poet). I come from Blantyre, Malawi; a small and vibrant country which I have always called home, alongside being raised in the United States, England, Zimbabwe and Canada. I am intertwined in the challenges, possibilities and roots of globalization, development, womanhood, humanity and Africa’s diasporas and influence. Born a free spirited thinker, I have found my joy in writing since the age of 12, having always found comfort, clarity and strength in sharing my creative side in the form of poetry, short story writing, music making and abstract painting.

I love writing about my passions, belonging, and sharing all of my thoughts with my readers in the form of prose.

Malawiana is truly my own little passion project and I hope you enjoy the unique content I have to offer.

“Seasons”

I cannot recall the face of the hands that planted my seed,

for it was long ago,

planted me deep in the ground,

watered me, and fed my soul…

so that I could spring free and grow.

I travelled in many directions,

making many diverse and

at times confused connections.

Searching for an identity, that I now understand I had never lost,

hiding and seeking, always re-routing,

branching out for more nourishment

so that I could continue this journey,

that was lovingly and purposefully sowed.

As I reached for the sky, being the only way to go

summer caressed my crown,

my leaves to high to reach the ground

my branches strong and growing proud.

That bright sun tickled my face and made my skin glow

and I would reminisce on the many stories I was told long ago,

engrained in my roots, from that ground that I had once known

Fall came and I did the big chop.

My trunk and my branches, all a little thinner.

receded from the world that was leaving me behind,

to go back to my roots.

I was looking for my home,

for the place that had once kept me so warm.

In winter, my dear,

it all became clear

that spring would find its way.

That same spring that nourished my youth

and never led me astray.

However long, I had survived the seasons.

grown stronger and weaker all for different reasons.

It came to attention on one cool spring day,

that my feet had never left the ground

where those hands had planted my seed.

That face that I can not recall, for it was long ago

cared enough to sow my seed, so that I could learn to grow;

had instilled in me the home I would always seek and need to know.

Roots that I branched from

but forever, my home.

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