I've been writing, very slowly, the Oya piece. Somewhere in the middle of starting this I realized the language I carried wasn't going to work for this play so I'm coaxing a new voice, new language out. This as I hear the news that a huge storm with tornadoes and hail is approaching our area.
I have this so far for that play in poem form:
Oya circles Oggún’s fire,
nothing like the scent of smoldered ore
burning oak nothing like the rich tinge of hammer to metal
Y’moya had heard the cry,
brought a flood onto the land
but the people had not heard Mama Watta
and Oya prepares herself
nothing like the shine of a warrior’s outfit
Oya stands in the moonlight
Soon there will be no nights
only days – the bright light of Oya
on this earth.
Scene I
Act I
the clouds uncomfortable in their sky
darkness entering them swiftly
even hydrogen is suspicious of its oxygen counterpart
sediment swaying left and right, fighting the magnetism building in this high place
viral deep affecting the energy of each creature
below as above
purple swaying skirt in the sky
falls softly to the earth
a visit from Oya is never without change
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