Game of Thrones and why Jon Snow is coming back!

As it is, to all who’ve managed to watch Game of Thrones season six premiere episode, The Red Woman,  it is packaged with an avalanche of how exactly the series will wind up. This is with the hindsight that there are probably two more seasons on the trot. Another interesting thing about season six is that it’s the first to be aired pre-book. That is to say that the first five were aired after the books had been published.

That’s beside the point. Jon Snow is still dead or should I just say, dead? Dead is dead, there’s no substitute for it. No coma, self-induced long sleep or whatever some of us prefer to refer to it as. The series’ most acclaimed and discussed cliffhanger still rages on and I won’t miss being part of it.

The big question still remains, is Jon Snow coming back? Are there any clues for us to go back to and inspect surgically in this premiere?

I believe there are! I will try as much as possible to restrict myself to the series without any digressions into R.R Martin’s books or the previous seasons. I won’t make any promises, though. And fortunately, for me, the book readers are kind of in the same situation.

Firstly, let me dissect on a character’s plot positioning. This episode and the season five finale are both intertwined. In fact, all episodes are webbed together. The character in play here is Melisandre—the god of light’s witch and servant. It so happens that she is in the Knights’ Watch when things turn all bloody for Snow as Thorne and his bunch of followers ostensibly stab him. The entire scene was all crafted out, with Snow being stabbed to death and left to die in his pool of blood. We’ve all become used to the blood in this series.

Melisandre towards the end is being shown in all her might. Only a few witches are able to perform illusion magic what in other dimensions will be referred to as glamour. She takes the shape of a beautiful young witch while in essence she’s a quad century old woman. I will pin down her new age at around 35 years. You’ll have to excuse my guessing abilities. How does this revelation strengthen Snow’s case of rising from the dead? We’re all aware that there are at least three ways of reanimating him.  From where I stand, his body is in prime shape for any reanimation. This kind of positioning and explicit prowess in magic only work up the theory of his reincarnation.

Another key aspect that I can inference on is Melisandre’s own statement when she sombrely stares down Snow’s dead body. She quips, “I saw him in the flames, fighting in Winterfell.” Just for the record, he’s never fought in Winterfell and this statement should send the entire fanbase into a frenzy. Hooray, the hero of the living will return. He shall rise!

This foreshadow didn’t first appear in this episode—I wasn’t exclusive on not borrowing from past seasons. Melisandre did first allude of the same when she consulted with the god of light on the identity of the chosen one.  Alas, it wasn’t Stannis Baratheon. All she saw was Snow all over the fire.

In my years of reading and movie analysis, I’ve never come across a writer(s) who gives a foreshadow and slaps himself in the face by throwing the same into the trash. Such has never happened and I’m not expecting the GoT guys to experiment with it.

That will be a crime, punishable by a walk of atonement as we (viewers and readers alike) pelt them with rotten eggs and sharp marbles.

Can’t wait to be proven wrong or right for that matter!

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Not an inch wiser.

You live to know grief, when it rests its head on an anvil and however hard you try to crash it, the mallet bounces back. It all works up on your despair. It’s that feeling of a scoop planted in your heart then forced out. You’re left with a gaping hole that you have to figure out exactly how to fill.

Do you sit around on a bench? A bench you find out to be rather cold that you feel it suck out the warmth that’s left in you. But you can’t get yourself off it. You’re attached. The warmth that sips through you is the only way you can unburden yourself.

Grief is pain. You sharing the last moments with your beloved, everything seems perfect. Against the norm. You should be fighting, throwing tantrums and hissing at how your lips have dried. The dew that held them, did evanesce. 

Thinking of it, you realize that it’s better than fury for you get to sip every bit of her face. You light fire on the lines of her visage and keep the urn into your brain. The love might be your last but you still get to sit the memories.

As you walk away, you hop onto a skate that settles you into the folds of depression. You find bliss just by living with a soul short of a scoop of emotions not knowing that you’re ushering yourself into a void.

You awaken hoping to be wiser. You are but for the fact that love knows know wisdom.

© Rodgers Ogada, 2015.

Amina.

My mother still wonders why
We talk for long hours over the phone
And meet over dinner
And yet Awila,
The neighbor’s daughter
Fetches her water

Amina, you are a watershed
If you are not then your love is
I find it hard to delineate between the two
My temple dances then bends down for you
To refill its gourd with infinite life

I don’t know how to speak of my desire
That nudges me straight to your mat
Always wanting to be taken in
By the sugar that laces your lips
The fire that sit in your eyes and
The laughter of your hips.

I know it’s foolish to think of this
As being love
When you can clasp me in your heart
And sit me right in the midst of your throbbing

I hope she understands that
You are going to sire her a grandson with sapphiric eyes
And ears that are curved with the pebbles of Pemba
And the alcohol in your heart
Inflame your tongue
With giggles that incandesce me

Amina, I love you and not for the dew
That you blow to my chest
I love you for you can play a flute
And make me want to listen to it
Place your heart in mine.

© Rodgers Ogada, 2015

Rodgers Ogada

Lust of hearts.

I want us to go to a place,
somewhere you pass by daily in your wake through life.
There, we will witness the winds bed there ambience
(not that I haven’t been there before),
I’d want to savour how your nose glitters in the solace of breezes.

And below the same trees,
let us spread the mats of our souls.
Open the cans of our packed emotions,
Then chuckle over their sumptuousnes.
Don’t cringe when nightingales chirp over us,
let’s tune our kisses in the spontaneity of the flaps in their wings.

Splay your hands as we walk through the wheat fields,
touching on the grains with the fingers of your heart.
As I tighten the blindfold
and you step on the fallen seeds.
Those you step on will all grin.
warmed by the blithe in the touch of your feet.

Join me in this canoe
that dances in the storm where summer and winter commune.
For the chills of our fears
will be mocked with the warmth that runs through the tempest.
As spring drops upon us,
Let its bloom erase all the murk of our undoings.
As we hold through the splurge of all seasons,
let them be the paddle of our emotions.

I want to live on the edges of your lips
for within such contours,
the fires of pleasure burn onto the woods of love
and the ripples of our lust echo onto the cushions of our desires.

Say you will follow me!
in this voyage of bliss, where our madness sits along the shores
and picks on all the hues of pebbles.
Waiting upon the time,
when the sun glides down to rest
in that final blink it produces.

If you offer not your hand to come with me, I will also stay,
for in you I find all the seasons and the awakening-
that love is the lust of hearts
and the insatiable void that feasts upon us!

© Rodgers Ogada, 2015.

Kites from diapers.

There is a huge roll of diapers in our cell-
Ayienga, plans to make a kite out of them.
From the edges of his blankets,
He has been drawing off strings for his work.
There is paint packeted under his mattress
And he is going to squeeze his kite through the ventilation windows.

I am scared for solecism in here-
These askaris are brutes.
When the mice smell out Ayienga’s paint,
I won’t want to be an alibi-
He is my friend but he needs to take care.
I just want to finish my time.

He draws on all the walls.
With the metal he twisted off his bed-mesh,
And his caricatures are always taunting the fetters.
In the wee of the day,
He narrates how a comrade was shot at Freedom Corner
On the day of his arrest and how his rifle was disassembled.

In the letter he received from his maiden,
She was putting a squelch to their love-
My friend was weeping,
He was rancid and as he dampened his hands
So did he dispose off his inebriation.
He cursed her orgasms!

Until yesterday, I shared this cell with Ayienga.
In his sleep, he’s a nagging nuisance.
He laments at how the rehabs are twitching his arse,
And he won’t be joining us at the workshop.
The seats we craft, he says, are cushions to fetors.
And the dividends only reform the constable’s tastebuds.

So tonight, I’m disturbed by the bugs,
Ayienga was whisked away for his frail kite.

Mutua, who used to be a dedicated practitioner at Nyayo,
Refused to go back into practice.
The precision of the scapels scare him.
He says that things are better here-
When his friends are asleep-
Out there, TVs and radios all have disected throats!

© Rodgers Ogada, 2015.

Today, I danced with a lady.

Today I danced with a lady.
I have danced before,
On the edges of life with the smithereens of my soul,
And I have danced just for joygasm it gushes out.
Yet the dances have been for me.
As I have danced to the yearnings of my loins
And to the tingle of my nerves.

This dance was different,
It created a tempest within me
When I held her at the brim of her hips
And swirled her at the rise of every harmonic.
With every slide of our feet on the floor
The shrill of her heels bounced off my veil of angst.
As we danced we sighed,
Not of how I long to lift her against the walls of my body-
I would love to.
I’d hold my breath right on hers
Touch every spot on the dancing tiles,
Die and live again to the lyrics of her subtlety.
For right in the confines of my arms,
Beauty was being moulded from the ashes of flowers and henna
And in the violence of my soul, I was being restored.

I wished she could ask me to order her another drink,
It doesn’t matter anyway,
I’ll connive with the waiter to serve her coffee,
With a wave of a rose petal on it,
Since all florists right now have closed.

I wanted to lift her to the skies
And let her waiver in the confines of my muse
For when she’ll drop,
I’ll swim through drowning waters to catch her.

I danced and as I tasted the salinity of my sweat
So did I feast on the bliss of her ecstasy,
And as I let go of all my judgements
I conjoined my peace to hers
And in the moments of her entrapment,
I sat on the cusp of transcendence.
I swayed on the edge of the twilight
For the music was meditative.
Not that it has never been
But for her aura.
For I did find the tunes unstructured
And every sip from the can of her enchantments
Threw me into her uncensored rhythm.

This dance must not end,
For with its exit enters a cure to a poison,
A venom that will summon a similar venom to cure
And that will require a destiny with death.
In awakening my transience I’ll get to join her,
Or merry as she sings amongst her junior seraphs.
 
I will go tell my boys of this,
For the fact that it’s my first
And the lady didn’t move a muscle.
I did sit on the couch at the edge of the motel,
As her lips did arouse the edges of her tea mug.
And as she stood and adjusted the hug of her dress,
And strolled through the motel door,
I remained glued to my sit.

(c) Rodgers Ogada, 2014.

An Ode to a Natal Star.

Ts a year again and we wake up to the sight of you older,

Not that the age counts

Just that they symbolise how wiser you’re becoming.

It’s another year and I look around

And see that you’re still around to restore my heart.

As you mark your earthly anniversary,

Count me amongst the candles you’ll make wishes for.

I pray you make this wish,

That as your star takes another stroll through the sky

I’ll walk on in a path of love with you.

“Happy birthday my love. Infinity and beyond remains our destiny.”

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An Ode to a Natal Star.

Often, when a man extends a bouquet
To his beloved on the wee of her birthday,
He beholds upon the blithe it sends her into.
He wishes that just as the vase holds upon the flowers-
So will the clasp of her fingers
With sweet violence wring
Out the love that abodes in his temple.
In that tempest, conceal it in her locket.

When the petals wilt,
They will not wither into ashes for an urn.
They will wilt into embers that glow upon every stroke of iron.
At the glimmer of every ember
Her heart will be replenished.
A heart that rests upon the hinges of air
And hold sway to only his whispers.

When she blows off the candles on the cake,
A darkness ensues that is lighted by the
Twilight that climbs from the horizons of her age.
In every spark of time she adds,
The galaxy adds onto its broom of constellations.
Upon the foreboding of wrinkles,
Is a glaring cast of dancing twinkles.

When she whets her tongue to pronounce a wish,
Most a times out of the bouts of joy,
Enlivened by the abundance of its emptiness.
Out of ceremony a wish is made
And boxed in the muse and ribbons of carols,
With the cheers of friends and kins.
When the day is over
And the sands trickle back into emptiness of tomorrow,
Till the day when butterflies will be summoned
To flap their wings on another winsome day.
There will be no thoughts of the wishes not lived.

As she makes her wishes,
The man will write back in return,
For every clime her words resound in,
In their telepathy, they tether their souls to a thread.
In its firmness, when wind blows past them,
It will swing them both to a new milieu.
A field where they become pastures to themselves
To fade and nourish on all their hues.

When all the pleasantries are at bay
And the guests are dusted with the chuckles of dancing feet.
The man will walk her to the window.
Dotting her with tales  of the beauty she’s become
By the touch of his lips on hers of henna,
After which he whisks her away.

© Rodgers Ogada, 2014.

A Requiem Written in Powder.

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Terrorists,
They love music.
Every tweak of their thoughts
Creates a concinnity.

Music is pain to create,
Yet all the delectation resides in the delivery.
The angst that clasps on the tips of fingers
As they sweat off the codes of every lyric.
Then sigh as the directors sew all the shards of beats.
In the whetting of all the musicals,
There is the acclaim of perfection.

As fingers caress the edges of riffles
And the conductor’s stick at the helm,
The ensemble awaits upon the fall
And the wind to carry along the echoes of their executions.

The arena is life to the music.
The revellers all wail at the ambush of every drumstick,
With the composers gleaning at their farting creeds.
And suffice Al Jazeera with tales of their dance victories.

Terrorists,
They are not your ordinary musicians.
Whose compositions are written under the shades of palm trees.
Theirs send chills
and are only mastered by their ilk.
They’ll make your women dance
For their music is irrefutable.
Those then become the last dances we know of.

When they perform,
Gun powders replace the burning of dust.
Choking becomes the foreboding
To the final salute that is signed in blood.

What remains of the smithereens that linger
In the chambers of the riffle tunnels,
Scatters on the the flesh of the compelled listeners.

Sweat,
It accompanies the grit of bits and
The notes of the barrel kiss the quiver of nerves.

Terrorists,
They love music.
Every tweak of their thoughts creates a requiem.

© Rodgers Ogada, 2014.

Pearls for Leaves.

There’s a woman in the woods,
Quaint in her demeanour.
She’s a pale shadow of her former self.
In the absence of her smile,
Still abodes a reflection of her amusement.

Her arms thin,
Her fingers splayed out on the branches,
Her mind a thread of epiphanies,
Her cheeks all sunk,
Yet she still clings to the woods.

The trees used to sieve light,
A permeation that danced with radiance.
On her skin the rays offered life.
With the dropping leaves,
The air grows hotter each turn of the hour glass
And her bald sprouts with the singe of every hair.

All that nature dotted her with
Do seek comfort in yonder terrains,
Just to return drooled.
The birds no longer hum from their eyries,
The flinches are static in their new dispositions
And the crickets,
With the chirpings of their wings
Cease to find respite in their sounds.

The woman in the woods will pack,
Not to disentangle herself from the pangs,
Just to clad in the torn silken dress,
For the mulberries are dry and tart to the worms.
To plant her fractured tears on every inch of soil.
And as her voice echoes away in the distance,
A constant reminder of every code of speech she’s to deliver,
Of how she yearns for the leaves to reflect her voice again.

If she’s to remain entrapped within the bushes,
How else is she to chuckle,
When the aura is a filter of dust
And she needs no fire to boil eggs,
For the air is a gush of steam?
And there’s no coolant for the boiler.
They’ll still gnaw at the steaks.
When all flesh is eaten up,
We’ll all overwhelm the branches.
And it’s only the dried rivulets that will reflect,
Amidst the pain, glean in her eyes.

(c) Rodgers Ogada, 2014.

In The Silence.

He never broke my heart. He only turned it into a compass that always point me back to him.- Clement Von Radics.

I want to tell her of how her allure ensnares.
Speak of how I yearn for her.
All I do is slap her with a stare that hordes of sonnets.
I’ll hold onto my semblance,
Not that it will change a thing,
Just that it’s the only way I know how
And conjuring phrases in the face of love is daunting
(That’s the fool love has made out of me)
And when I’m done,
I’ll beseech her in the posture of innocence.
In the clasp of my lips
Lie words that are abound with frissons.
How else do I explain these freckles on my soul.

I want to sculpt her lips,
All I do is to marry mine to hers eclectically.
No words can tower over such randomness and artistry.
In them I lick on chocolates
Whose precise flavour I can not decipher.
And if she dares leave me,
I’d want to be granted speech,
To narrate of how I lived in her world.

She’d want to know if I’ll ever leave her side.
All I did was to enfold her in the castle of my arms.
Arms that are sewn with tears as anaesthesia.
When oppressors shackles are smelts from iron
Hers are made from the ooze of sweat.
In her therapy she holds me in a bout,
Pitting my soul and mind-
An even wrestle that harmonizes our hearts
And with the concerto that out bodies dance to.
Her nails,
They whisper, I love you,
Along the trenches of my spine.
Those are the only scars I yearn for.

I don’t know if I’ll get bored,
All I know is that I’ll be here,
For in the spectrum of poets
Only the sands of time grow dull
And love is a dance of the stars.
When the contours of time morph
I’ll still be here, a little broken though.
Our battered hearts will still be where
The rise of laughter clasps with pangs of angst.
In a dance, the urge to alter rhythm is overwhelming
And in solace we still walk back from our wanders.
In respite, through a tempest,
I’ll unbandage from her temple
With the certainty that it’s mine forevermore.

You knew I was the type that embodied chastity,
And you still fed me your religion.
Not that it wasn’t fun!
The drowning spell you cast on me
It’s far much enchanting than the Sunday masses.
I am awed at how you can arm twist love
To join you into your clumsy thoughts.
And this can’t be undone,
It would be in vain to align your scrawly self.
Just give me the austerity of the paint
That pins me on your bed.
And for the reminiscing,
Do etch on me a tattoo
For in the pain of your subliminal whispers,
I’ve met a witch of a seraph.

© Rodgers Ogada, 2014.