MY
LETTER TO YOU//Thomas
Green
I am writing this
letter
Sending it off to you
I still have things to
say
And do not know what else
to do.
You’ve left me alone
For such a long time
now
Sometimes I miss you
so much
But you are not around
now.
So I sit down and I write.
I write this letter to
you.
Life is like a roller
coaster
It has high highs and
precipitous lows
At times I need to
talk to you
To share this ride with
you as I go.
You took me on such a high
ride
Our experience so strong
remains mostly untold.
You gave me a love
that was just beginning
A thing growing strong,
with much room to grow.
Starting from near
ground
We traveled together
up and up to behold
the spiraling
enchantment we enjoyed
Together our love
uncontrolled.
Down that exciting
track
Who would have pondered
or could have known
You would be taken
away in a flash
so sudden and yet so
silent it was
I knew not where you
had flown.
So I sit down and I write.
I write this letter to
you.
Once I knew you were
gone
I could hardly lift my
head and cope
Knowing that you were
no longer there
sharing this ride we had
so much hope .
Now that we can no
longer be together.
So sit and I write to you this letter
Though there will be
nowhere to post
For you are in God’s
hands,
My dreams and memories,
In my heart you do reside
the most.
DEAR MR. JOHN DA SILVA//Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein
You are lying in intensive care right now in
Nairobi.
Your granddaughter Esmeralda just called to tell me your
condition.
A heart attack: Worse, then better, than worse.
Be proud of her, John, her voice was calm and green,
Scrolling through the world inside your phone
Asking for nothing but prayer.
John, I don’t pray. I’m an American Jew in Diaspora
Far from Israel and its wincing policies. I heard the
Dalai Lama
Speak once in India, but I was lurching and late to his
lecture.
When Esmeralda asked for prayers, though, John, I thought
of you.
I saw you in my mind’s eye, as if thinking of you made
you whole again.
I thought of you cast in projector’s hum and light,
speaking
To American students with the enthusiasm of a boy scout
Detailing histories long forgotten by even those who
lived it.
There are Sultans roaming your mind, John, and
architects,
Princes and ambassadors, kings and queens, imams and
slaves
Tailors, traders, traitors. Your mind, full of labyrinths
Memorized and stitched into history through pen and ink.
A life in postcards, paintings, stamps, and signs.
Soldier of architecture, hero of history, Believer in
beauty.
Your stories unravel like giant balls of yarn tangled in
darkness,
One eye sharp and glistening, the other a marble of
blues.
We have to remind you to take a breath, John, to breathe
In the present as you plunge into the past.
Do you remember when I saw you in Dar es Salaam?
Hours before your show at Alliance Francais, you sat
By the doorframe in a chair, looking at your life’s work
With the criticism of an ex-lover. You loved them all,
but still they were not perfect. You knew each painting
as if they were children named after beauty and
forgetting.
How you love Stone Town, its rotting facades
Hidden histories, open secrets, wounds, mosques.
And how we love you, your tireless storytelling,
Your love for a good glass of red wine, your lit-up
Obsession with life and all there is to collect, name,
Claim, understand, and teach before a life is through.
The way you photograph decay, damage, destruction.
The way you stay on the image of an old Indian dhow
And talk about it as if it were the only thing that ever
mattered.
The way you know each Sultan like blood brothers
Naming them, beard by beard. The way you gather glass
By the seashore, licking its salted story with a knowing
tongue.
John, these hours are upon us now, stacked in a tower of
worry.
We’re sending messages straight to your frail heart now,
John,
Willing it to remember its strings attached to a wider
love.
Stone Town’s collapsing still without you John, but you
remind us
Of its beauty, and without beauty, there is nothing but
history
Stripped of meaning. You taught me that, John, you showed
Me how to decipher time’s love letters carved in wood.
Consider this letter a prayer, then, John, that you’ll
wake
From the pain of this particular moment to an incredible
Bloom of thanks for all you do to keep us close to the
earth
Of birth and all that tumbles forward from it. Your limp,
Your eye, your magnificent hand. Your memory, your
company,
All you do to stir what’s meant to surface.
With love & gratitude,
Mji Mkongwe
LETTER TO YOU//Mustafa Sharif
This letter is for you.
But not only you
Oh! It's for all of you
Who can read it and understand what I have to say
This letter is for you
You and your group
Who came to me the last season and the season before
Who wanted to win my trust
Did you value my trust?
This letter is for you
You and your group
If you want to come
Make sure you meet the terms
Or I will never let you in in the season to come
This letter is for you.
But not only you
Oh! It's for all of you
Who can read it and understand what I have to say
This letter is for you
You and your group
Who came to me the last season and the season before
Who wanted to win my trust
Did you value my trust?
This letter is for you
You and your group
If you want to come
Make sure you meet the terms
Or I will never let you in in the season to come
