The words: “Lazarus, come forth!” are perhaps one of the most unforgettable lines I have ever read in any form of literature. Because they were more than just words. A mummified man who was dead for four days heard them from beyond the grave and rose to life!

For me poetry is the stuff of dreams. A world made up of words. The way these words sound to my ears and how they roll off the tongue. How they taste and how they feel. It is about the balance of the words I place on my lips and how they resonate past pages once performed. It is about the great power behind them. The massive creative force which moved a universe into existence and gave birth to life in Genesis. It is about poetic telegrams breathed out of the lungs and into an attentive ear.

When everyone tows a popular line, the truth itself becomes unpopular. And unfortunately, truth is never popular.

It is also about rhythm. The kind of rhythm found in creation. Everything in life possesses this sense of rhythm. The waves crashing into the sands on the beach. The wind whispering in my ears and caressing my face at the top of a hill. It is the flight of birds being borne by thermals, seemingly without effort, on a sunny afternoon in a commute to the outskirts of the city.

There are people on this planet whose profit stems from untruth and whose trade is deception. And these ones would try as much as they can to impede the truth.

First, they should close their eyes and feel. And then write what they felt. Some of the notable works of literature (which includes fiction, non-fiction, poetry, science fiction and so on) were written from an abundance of feelings. If you don’t feel what you have written, don’t expect someone else to feel it too. (Unless, you want to be too intellectual and write drab college textbooks.)

I write from a place of suffering. From a place of joy. I explore the two extremes in my poetry.

Most times I feel the emotions of others when I write. In those moments I become that which I write about. I see with their eyes, I hear with their ears, I feel with their skin. In those moments I cease to be myself, and become someone else. I become her, they, it. I become someone’s dreams. And relive, sometimes, their nightmares.

I Will Be Silent is not just a book to me. It is more than that. It is a call to witness. It is a series of poems which proceed not from the heart but from the gut of tribulation and endurance. It is a book which bears witness to the collected voices who cannot speak for themselves because they have been silenced.

I can never be divorced from them. Because they exist within me. I am her, the molested and the raped. I am him, the detained and the sold. I am they, the legions of people killed in regional subsidised genocides without names and buried in anonymous tombs.