Philo Ikonya is a Kenyan writer, journalist and human rights activist, and presently Oslo City of Refuge's ICORN Guest Writer. She was elected president of Kenyan PEN in 2007. Ikonya has written articles for journals, web magazines and blogs, often commenting on the social and political situation in Kenya. She has also written poetry and novels, and her novel "Kenya, will you marry me", has been translared and published in several countries. She has worked as a lecturer of Spanish at Tangaza College of the Catholic University of Eastern Africa, and as a a socio-political commentator in both radio and television. Philo Ikonya was threatened and harassed for her work and political activism, and can no longer work in Kenya.
I turn into love
when the key is turned,
clockwise,
and deprivation my lone friend
is conquered as doors open;
I turn into love.
abundance walks in,
removing all borders
like it should have always been.
I sit on the drought
And dream of floods
undestructive.
And see plenty of flowers
growing, uncut;
surrounding me and going outwards
for miles and smiles and far lands apart
surrounding me and you and all.
We fly.
to open the door and,
all growing flowers
into smiles of joy turn,
I turn into love.
and leave me in desert sands,
lost to all hearts that know me,
and
from you too;
who is life's meaning.
I will see a drop of water
coming, thawing,de-freezing, from far lands,
growing, flowing into my eye.
Then,
glowing into a flood of thoughts warm of how
to keep our arms working
and around each other.
A flood of words on how to keep
the grass grassing wisdom and the flowers
flowering love;
like sunflowers clockwise,
the desert cool and flooding too, into
An oasis for life,
not deserting.
I turn into love again and again.
**********
Please continue to read more of Philo Ikonya's poetry!
**********
This time
A la hora,
ahora,
This time, not tomorrow,
we exchange
many things:
handcuffs for rings
mutilated bodies for whole ones
arrows for love
tears for laughter
bullets for words
pain for joy.
Torn shoes for flowers
text messages for long kisses
skin for skin,
Computer hours for hugs
missiles for e-mails
And yes,
War for peace.
It is possible
It is , a must.
We shall make torture a hideous sin
expression we shall enthrone.
This time not tomorrow.
Life in the now.
Is yours,
ours,
still
is,
and you all mine
still being.
Still being, free.
**********
Tears
To be free
I have to live with,
My Mother's cling,
alive on my chest,
on my breast as well.
Roles reversed with age,
I came to suckle,
Then she clung to me,
With many words of a
language without words,
prepared for a land without tongues.
I felt still child,
Never old,
But roles reversed,
And I gave her to suckle,
and she smiled
at me and blessed me,
With my own milk,
soft hands on my forehead,
I answer in tradition,
Na aiiii, thaaai
Nyasaye!
Kit Mikaye!
Enough for my son and me,
and she blessed too a man silently,
That may be waiting for me, invisible,
somewhere in some mixed paths,
footprints collecting,
willing to offer a wing
and a breast, not an angel.
So, I took the blessing,
Sailed on and bathed
her back and
washed her feet
As if I had known,
my last supper indeed,
I had to leave.
Choruses poured from her soul,
As if with beads anointing,
no memory hesitation.
Tears pour from my eyes,
Mix with water they do,
I never asked for Magdalenes role,
But my hair is long,
I will dry her tears,
She sings to me in Kiswahili,
Lauda!
24 verses
Non stop.
I pray in Mama's womb now
No cathedral will do.
