More than Cents, They Steal Sense: A Curious Case of Woollen Wolves in “Till the day we fly free” | a poem review #InMyHumbleOpinion

The essence of this essay is an analysis of a poem by Phila Dyasi (2017). It serves as a creative response to the concept of False Prophets and its embodiments.  This poem serves as a tool to analyse the plight of Christian contemporaries at the hands of false religious persons and why the very principles of Christianity ensure that these criminals succeed. The poetry piece will be examined using a critical analysis approach.

 

Phila Dyasi – “Till the day we fly free”

 

Till the day we fly free

 

I’m reaching but never gripping,

It’s soul ripping how they’re preaching,

yet are never teaching.

 

I’ll never hide,

even when I die.

I’ll be immortalized

in some formaldehyde.

Where my soul, spirit and skin divide

I’ll be like a deity,

the higher me,

doing the Lord’s work,

hire me.

 

The humble apple-pie

can satisfy no appetite

here comes the hunger tide.

 

When wings carried Icarus

through cutting winds

we were pulled feathers

of wisdom’s birdy-body of ink

taking flight to Olympus planes

the son, seeks The Sun.

 

I’m grown now,

dealing with chronic stress,

and I believe less in a deity,

it seems like too far a stretch.

 

The stench from a faithless,

hopeless, homeless.

 

 

REVIEW

In the presentation, the speaker employs a structured aaa rhyme scheme in the first stanza. The tercet- symbolises the Christian Holy Trinity concept, to illustrate a methodical system that is synonymous with organised religions. The tone is unsympathetic to the gullible masses.

The first three lines in stanza one are told from the first-person perspective, holding an interpretation sermon delivered by a false prophet meant to help the church learn something spiritual with the teachings in the preaching. Instead, he delivers a ‘religious’ talk that is devoid of the teaching element as it does not empower, but lacks spiritual depth that resonates with the brethren. This idea of this sermon not being enough is further supplemented by line 1, showing a desire for spiritual understanding, and what religion can and cannot do for a believer, but is ill-equipped to do so by not substantiating theological resources. It always seems out of reach, ensuring congregational return and with that comes monetary offerings by the truckloads.

 

The speaker liberates himself from all forms of fear, by guillotining death. By claiming he will forever be physically whole, not subject to decomposition (ll. 4-7), he cannot be held hostage by soothsayers who will emphasise the mortal nature of man, to force persons to bow down before them, and give their tithes to ‘God’ through them, supposedly. He says that the chemical formaldehyde, which preserves the corpse and can cause its demise – so this introduced the double-edged sword argument, that without moderation all things have capacity to do good and evil, and religion is no exception. This could be advice that believers must be constructive in their opinion and not be blinded by the opium. In cases of blurred lines, false prophets appear as exploitative.  Through the usage of a personification and a simile, the speaker extends the immortality argument to the abstract realm of spiritualism, proposing that he will be divine quality posthumous, (ll. 8-12) which is the popular claim of the falsifiers of the gospels –they punt God’s work, however the puns “higher” and “hire” suggest that theirs is for monetary gain.

 

The Greek myth of ‘Icarus: The Fall’ has a moral teaching that is consistent with the theme of moderation, as “the son, seeks The Sun” (l. 21), where the sun is symbolic of the concept of God, the highest form of all.  Daedalus’ son disobeyed nature and instructions, as feathers are dually used to soar and for the archaic form of writing here, which “we were pulled feathers/of wisdom’s birdy-body of ink” could refer to the divine knowledge in the Holy Bible, and disobedience proves fatal for the falsifiers of the gospel as it did for Icarus, as he was stripped of his power.

 

The last stanza is amalgamated with stanza three because it offers a final warning that if prophets and pastors who claim to be Christians, continue to command congregants to not fall short of the contemporary gimmicks that prophets use, then Christians will lose hope, belief and trust in the word of God. The ordinary sheep of God’s flock, entrusted to the guidance of prophets and pastors, are being hunted by wolves in wool.

 

#nbs

Day 1 | 21 FOR 21

Question: What is the most bullshit advice adults give to children?

Answer: That only strangers are dangerous.

Kafkaesque (mort)

this waiting room is painted of pain,

featuring faces with mouths down-turned, 
impatience taking up these empty seats, 
of family members already lost, 
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate’s
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients 
to be visited during the night shifts, 
by nurses and doctors, 
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil 
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan – barely hanging – 
is closing in full circle, 
a whole life lived. 
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling, 
alongside the walls stripes
designed with print of doctors’ usual words, 
“i’m so sorry for your loss.”  

if life truly begins at forty, 
then her’s ended at the starting line. 
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor 
if it weren’t for olympics silently running in the background on the t.v. 
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound. 

It was ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation 
a possibly cancerous lump. 
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages, 
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn over the pages better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box, 
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing. 
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time. 
it was just a little, smallish lump
these news are hard to swallow. 
my eyes are peeling onions. 
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out. 
grandma’s sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting “pressure”.
neutral colours dirty the scrubs floors, 
hypothermia lurking in the corridors, 
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm. 

It was a game of musical chairs, 
But when the seven trumpets sounded, 
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation 
an angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now. 
With a plot twist, it’s less players each round. 
Who dies first wins, I’ve tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are dirty. 
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin. 
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away – the whitened clay still one
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh. 
it’s also winter our hearts. 
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral. 
and his life was a summary, 
too brief a breath, as the contraction is. 
no sympathy to bother saying
“i am”. 
public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

twenty twelve was a scar, 
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs from the bottomless pits, 
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely, 
so very early. 
some of the things we will take to our graves, 
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves. 
And hurt still drops in drips, 
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood washed tiles, 
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only ever think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares 
are too real to be dreams
uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS

(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 31 August 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.

If The Sun Were You 

Then some days the morning wouldn’t rise – It would plead,  ‘two more hours please’ as it snoozes the east-waking-alarm again, muttering some unintelligible excuse too.Thankfully it’s winter, so the dawn can stay in bed until just before lucky hour seven. Today it would smile brightly, almost painfully like you always do when your face sheds light.

With just enough warmth in the room to induce a hazy, drowsy state to my always sober self, Blinds closed, but some fierce rays still pierce through, like moonlit thoughts of you illuminating onto my darkness.

Even after you said I was too much, an overwhelming experience that was a lot to ‘take in’.
No Nivea to shield me against the harsh elements of your words.
I was humbled like the soil.
The sails of my pride torn by the tearing winds of your tone.
And it did not help that the seas weren’t calm,
My Peter-feet cold to walk on.
But the never changing grandma-soup warmth in your voice sings melodies of Sotho blankets enveloping me.
The fulfilling feeling of being empty, knowing I poured the last of my soul into your spirit, for our love’s sake.
We believed in a love that almost lost all hope.
I still gaze upon your pictures, the point of focus usually the place where your lips meet, 
A heart-like shape forms between them at the middle and I still blow kisses to this gap.
If the sun were you, every born son would turn towards every girl child’s shimmering glamour 
With much honour, 
Always to be met eye-level, in the light of an all-round equal and remaining so to its glistening end, such is life.

~by New-Black-SoUl #NBS.

(C)2016. Phila Dyasi. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name and date if sharing to external sites.

by New-Black-SoUl
If The Sun Were You
Artwork by Avumile, Poetry by NuBlaccSoUl
As featured in Ja. edition 10 https://issuu.com/jamagsa/docs/doubledigitsyo_