If you can, please vote for Poéfrika (Rethabile Masilo) as the 2008 Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere. Thank you. And thanks to Tiel Aisha Ansari, a fine poet, for nominating me.
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On my poetry blog, Poéfrika, I’m trying to collect 52 poems that are in my opinion the most representative of Africa. A few are mine (hey, I’m trying!). They really are the ones I’ve worked on the most. Now, do you have one from anyone that you think I should include? If so, send it to me and I’ll be happy to consider it. In the end I’d like to have 52 awesome Africa-inspired poems linked to on my website. A poem per week. Here is the not-quite-finished list. Click away and enjoy.
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Facebook | Message: Satire Poems - Prompt Writing
SPEED WRITING Call for Satire: deadline March 15th! Let your talent speak for many. We urge you to write a satirical poem—poke fun at the leader of your choice to flaunt your freedom of speech and your own government’s respect for that human right! This isn’t about politics. It is about supporting the rights of all to write what they want - despite politics. On February 4th the satirist Hédi Ouled Baballah was arrested—behind bars, Baballah can’t continue to speak his mind. Please use your talent and add your voice to protest this infringement on the human right of free speech. More information can be found at www. protestpoems. org (don’t feel sorry for colleagues abroad. do something) All poems will be considered for inclusion in Babel Fruit.
Ed: The deadline has been moved back to the 18th of March. Please participate.
(Rethabile)
Reed edits Konch Magazine which features poetry, fiction, essays and photography. In the Winter 2008 issue editorial, he says, “Konch began as a print magazine in 1990 and went online in 1998.Konch continues to publish those voices that are ignored by the American media, which abandoned their goal of diversifying their ranks by the year 2000- a goal set by the late Robert Maynard. Unlike the mainstream writers who spend two hour lunches hobnobbing with those whom they cover, the contributors to Konch are volunteers. [source…]”Ishmael Scott Reed (February 22, 1938) is an American poet, essayist and novelist. Reed is one of the best-known African-American writers of his generation, and along with Amiri Baraka is one of the most controversial (and politically left-wing). His work consistently satirizes the American right-wing (and often the left as well), highlighting domestic political and cultural oppression.
While some have found Reed’s work a vivid, comic depiction of America, others have criticized it as incoherent or muddled. Another group of public intellectuals has argued that some of Reed’s work is misogynistic because of his criticism of the movie version of “The Color Purple,” which the novel’s author, Alice Walker, also criticized.
While he is among a number of black male authors who are criticized as “misogynist” by mostly white feminists, Reed can point to a number of black feminists who defend him, including many whose work he has published.
[source…]
Happy birthday Mr. Reed!
Jacket Notes
Being a colored poet
Is like going over
Niagara Falls in a
BarrelAn 8 year old can do what
You do unaided
The barrel maker doesn’t
Think you can cut itThe gawkers on the bridge
Hope you fall on your
FaceThe tourist bus full of
Paying customers broke-down
Just out of BuffaloSome would rather dig
The postcards than
Catch your actA mile from the drink
It begins to stormBut what really hurts is
You’re bigger than the
Barrel
© Ishmael Reed
How deep’s deep,
how dark’s dark?
What depth will keep
secrets and, will
some shady dim-
ness suffice to turn
a secret grim,
leaving it in the dark?
It is this that
I’ve carried like
a prayer mat
all my life; it
enters me from
nowhere, as we
set off from home
for my kids’ school.
From where we live
to where school is
there is a five
minute walk that
often-times turns
to a nightmare.
I have concerns
that someone’s out
to spill blood, drive
us out of here.
We would arrive
late if we changed
circuits, and would
have given up,
which is no good.
This is our road.
© Rethabile Masilo
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They crossed all lands to reach us, to surround
with us fagots and these steeples, laughter
like relief telling who among our folks had
sent them to get our souls. The short one, who
talks little, knew something about what drives
men here, why a king might decree such a
thing out of fear. I stood to stretch my legs,
broke roots off the lianas sagging from
the ceiling, threw them to the hiss of the
sizzling stem, and talked of the year’s weather,
the snow that had surprised everyone and
covered cavern, lair – talked on until I
found in mural dyes some peace, in fire,
sunshine in my cells, root-sent, entire.
© Rethabile Masilo
NB: I didn’t know how to seal this poem, until I posted this. Then I knew. Thanks, WD!
The Jar is accepting submissions
Until December 31st, 2007, Canopic Jar will be accepting submissions of poetry, fiction and visual art. No more than five poems, no more than one short story, no more than five visual pieces. Click here to submit (and scroll down for English).
When clouds form and glower at the coast
now boarded-up for the season, and the beast
wind howls at the cliff, it makes little sense
to want to sit and chronicle the sand’s
despair, the fuming ocean (no matter
how rain hits thatch, or how the Almighty
sends every droplet down, no matter why
fog sneaks around the environs of my
lover’s estate, why the African sun
gave love into her breasts) memory soon
rushes in and has me sitting before
this Remington, with its keys that are flawed
or faded, and has me starting to type
with abandon, with no specific hope.
© Rethabile Masilo
Bury Maseru Dead
(The 1982 Maseru Massacre)
Ha ene, ene, ka litloebelele, e hlatsoe mali a tšolohileng ,
A tšolohileng naheng ea morena bohlale khaitseli ea khotso.
Thlorong ea thaba, above the clouds
That streamed like a sea below me
I said, “That peak is the thought of 9th December 1982”
Why you Lesotho, Lesotho le letle labo Senate le ‘Maseeiso, why did they stage such a brutal butchery on this beautiful mountainous land?
The day we shall all remember, yes, 9th December 1982.
I speak of the great Kingdom of Lesotho, I speak
Of the majestic land of peace, I speak of the kingdom in the sky,
Yes, the kingdom near heaven.
I speak of naha ea bana ba thari, yes, children of the great Moshoeshoe.
Yes, the land that unites us today by the brutal death of the nationals of this Kingdom
and the children of the mothers of South Africa.
It was 12 midnight, somebody said, “Get up!!! Baloi ke baoo!!!
Ra phaphatheha joalo ka balisana ba matha lants’oekhe,
They came with their machine guns
They tortured helpless children, men and women.
They have sent them to jail, they have sentenced them to death, they have imprisoned them for life and yet they have found it necessary, Unavoidable, that they should come to Maseru because torture, imprisonment, persecutions,
killings have not changed the growth of the freedom fighters,
the offensive, the determination of the people and the fact that they face defeat!!
Yes, I speak of Pretoria Butchers, racists and imperialists over southern Africa.
Bana ba thari , this poem like many other poems we heard many many years ago, will speak of fallen comrades and unsung heroes,
In this poem you will hear names like,
Nombewe!!!
In this poem, I will call names like, Toto Biza, Dr Bantwini, Lizethile Dyani, yes, in this poem I will shout names like, Mzwandile Fazzie, Zwelindaba Gova, in this poem I will say out loud names of our fallen stalwarts now languishing six feet under ground, yes, I speak of Samson Kana, Sibusiso Khuzwayo, Nguboekhaya Maqhekeza, Lepota Marayi, Alfred, Mzukisi and Thandi Marwanqana.
Yes, I speak of those who have fallen to the bullets of a common enemy of the people of this land, yes, the people of South Africa, and the peoples of the world.
Ma Africa a matle, this poem will be incomplete if it does not mention names like, Joseph Mayoli, Themba Mazibuko, Bongani Mbuso, Sipho Mchunu, Lidwa Mdlankomo, Michael Mlenze.
This poem shall go down to the dustbin of history if it does not speak of, Phakamile Mpongoshe, Dumisane Mthandela, Mark Mvala, Cecil Ngxito, Sipho Notana, Faku Ntoyi, Trom Nyukile, Matikwane Seroto.
With this humble poem we shall remember victims of 12th December 1985
Whose blood was shed on the soil of Mejametalana
Those who could not flee Leheshehese la bosiu, e, Pikapo ea SADF, yes,
I speak of Vuyani Ziba, the likes of Jackie Qiun, Vivian Mathe, Robert Leshoro, Glen Daries, Bongani Magaga, Lulamile Dantile, Mxolisi Mbali, Twandefika Radebe,
This poem shall be the living monument in remembrance of Leon Meyer, Joyce Modimeng, Jerry Modisane,
When we say this poem, we shall remember Joseph Mophuthing,
With this poem we salute you comrades,
Comrade Mazizi Magekaza, helplessly assaulted to death at the Queen Elizabeth II Hospital, by the SADF hit squad,
Amandla Maqabane!!!!
In this poem you will not hear the names of the architects of the Maseru massacre
Because their names belong to the museum of shame.
Bana ba Africa, Sulani ezonyembezi, nithathe izikhali zenu siye phambili because the freedom we have today is paid for by the blood of the fallen heroes.
© Mba
Waiting for our cake
to swell in the kitchen
and sate the oven, he
opened my laces
and I held onto a shelf
of preserve jars and shook
it; oh, I know I disappoint
you, but what does it matter
now—if we don’t violate
man’s law we deserve no
applause for obeying nature’s—
god doesn’t tinker with the stars
to appease our soul. I shook
the damned thing till cymbals
crashed at our feet.
© Rethabile Masilo
the run
from qoaling to grootvlei
by lantern light we snuffed out
when sound leapt at us
(or seemed to leap
as it does when the wind heaves forth)
we left, travelling the terrain wintered with contempt,
ears tuned for the sound of foot, boot, the snap
of dog on our tail.
beasts are oblivious to this, to
things that knot us, questing always for acceptance
surviving the dark.
I believe in the only spirit, the faces
of people who’ve walked this way.
as for us, we
held our lantern and crossed the river into azania,
knowing the order of the cycle:
winter turns to spring,
dead leaves make russet apple cheeks,
kernels keep internal life.
© Rethabile Masilo
the sun in winter turns its back on us
and, for smelting, goes back to the kiln
where ore from gold is separated.
when it leaves
it pulls the darkness of midnight, stretching it
at the cost of day, or it pushes dawn
the completely wrong way.
and I’ve found that jersey I wore
our first time, and hand-washed and towel-dried it,
laid it bare upon the broad bed. and now I’ll dust
and ready the fire-place so we can leave
fresh prints on the hearth.
in truth, I’ve never really
known whether I’d rather rake leaves or shovel snow,
but it’s a chore we must do each year to escort the sun
when it’s hurled beyond our world, the earth,
to the other side.
it is a time when
autumn leaves and winter comes to whisper to the caves—
at its voice the hills shiver.
and I must also wash and scent the quilt, and
chop wood for the weeks ahead: hibernating in the malutis
requires no less.
so what have you brought
for the night-table. anything should
more than be suitable, of that I’m sure.
© Rethabile Masilo
Read more about or see the Malutis:
after lunch on saturdays
father would carry into the study
a stack of politics, and in wood
scent he’d sit and read till sleep
claimed him, or supper,
or that sparkle of sun sent
in rear windows,
blinding him out
to the awning of trees where
we hooked a hammock
and heaved him into the sisal
net, left him there resting
like a foetus. bringing him
maotoana* tea one day, there lay
on its back on the black earth
beneath him a note-book; row on
row of scribble glared at me,
some sort of theory on
the likelihood of a glad and
bounteous kingdom.
© Rethabile Masilo
* Rooibos tea in Sesotho
The 11th of September, dubbed 9/11 by many, was a horrendous day that I think I will remember for the rest of my days. Here are the reasons why. (1) Many innocent people lost their lives, quite unnecessarily and in quite a cruel manner; (2) Most of those who flew the planes or helped hijack them had a future, family, prospects, and they chucked it out the window. I don’t understand; (3) The tragedy was spectacular, and I keep seeing the second plane slamming into a tower; (4) The amount of hate that goes into planning and executing something like this is beyond my comprehension; and (5) I’ve already seen a few films and documentaries on the subject, and I’m sure there’s more to come.
How can we forget, and why should we? How can we forget tragedy? Loss of life? Cruelty? La bêtise humaine? How can we forget 11 September 2001? How? How can we forget the Shoah? How can we forget slavery? How can we forget the dying populations of Iraq? How can we forget Rwanda? How can we forget New Orleans and Katrina? How can we forget Darfur? How? And more important, why should we? How can we forget Apartheid?
Google the phrase “we will never forget” and see how many links you come up with. I hit 946 000. If half of them talk about something other than the 11th of September, there’s still 473 000 people on-line who will never forget. Plus three quarters of the off-line population of the world. Now google 9/11. My point?
This is a long way of saying, I’m glad we aren’t forgetting this, my way of saying we must never forget those, either. No tragedy should be forgotten, and the perpetrator(s) need to be punished. I needed to go this long way to assure my reader that I do refer to all human tragedies. All of them.
I also needed to say this after the day of 11 September (out of respect), but close enough to the day for my little “diatribe” to hold some meaning. Some time ago I read a poem that may perhaps illustrate my feeling more clearly. Poems always do, don’t they? If you want to comment on my opinion here, please do so (agree, disagree with me). If you want to comment on the poem, please do so (poetics of the poem). Here it is:
A MOMENT OF SILENCE, BEFORE I START THIS POEMBefore I start this poem, I’d like to ask you to join me
In a moment of silence
In honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the
Pentagon last September 11th.
I would also like to ask you
To offer up a moment of silence
For all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned,
disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes,
For the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.And if I could just add one more thing…
A full day of silence
For the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the
hands of U.S.-backed Israeli
forces over decades of occupation.
Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people,
mostly children, who have died of
malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S. embargo against the country.Before I begin this poem,
Two months of silence for the Blacks under Apartheid in South Africa,
Where homeland security made them aliens in their own country.
Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Where death rained down and peeled back every layer of
concrete, steel, earth and skin
And the survivors went on as if alive.
A year of silence for the millions of dead in Vietnam - a people,
not a war - for those who
know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their
relatives’ bones buried in it, their babies born of it.
A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of
a secret war … ssssshhhhh….
Say nothing … we don’t want them to learn that they are dead.
Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia,
Whose names, like the corpses they once represented, have
piled up and slipped off our tongues.Before I begin this poem.
An hour of silence for El Salvador …
An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua …
Two days of silence for the Guatemaltecos …
None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.
45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas
25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found
their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could
poke into the sky.
There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains.
And for those who were strung and swung from the heights of
sycamore trees in the south, the north, the east, and the west…100 years of silence…
For the hundreds of millions of indigenous peoples from this half
of right here,
Whose land and lives were stolen,
In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand
Creek,
Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears.
Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the
refrigerator of our consciousness …So you want a moment of silence?
And we are all left speechless
Our tongues snatched from our mouths
Our eyes stapled shut
A moment of silence
And the poets have all been laid to rest
The drums disintegrating into dust.Before I begin this poem,
You want a moment of silence
You mourn now as if the world will never be the same
And the rest of us hope to hell it won’t be. Not like it always has
been.Because this is not a 9/11 poem.
This is a 9/10 poem,
It is a 9/9 poem,
A 9/8 poem,
A 9/7 poem
This is a 1492 poem.This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written.
And if this is a 9/11 poem, then:
This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971.
This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977.
This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison,
New York, 1971.
This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992.
This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes
This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told
The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks
The 110 stories that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and
Newsweek ignored.
This is a poem for interrupting this program.And still you want a moment of silence for your dead?
We could give you lifetimes of empty:
The unmarked graves
The lost languages
The uprooted trees and histories
The dead stares on the faces of nameless children
Before I start this poem we could be silent forever
Or just long enough to hunger,
For the dust to bury us
And you would still ask us
For more of our silence.If you want a moment of silence
Then stop the oil pumps
Turn off the engines and the televisions
Sink the cruise ships
Crash the stock markets
Unplug the marquee lights,
Delete the instant messages,
Derail the trains, the light rail transit.If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window
of Taco Bell,
And pay the workers for wages lost.
Tear down the liquor stores,
The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the
Penthouses and the Playboys.If you want a moment of silence,
Then take it
On Super Bowl Sunday,
The Fourth of July
During Dayton’s 13 hour sale
Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful
people have gathered.You want a moment of silence
Then take it NOW,
Before this poem begins.
Here, in the echo of my voice,
In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand,
In the space between bodies in embrace,
Here is your silence.
Take it.
But take it all…Don’t cut in line.
Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime. But we,
Tonight we will keep right on singing…For our dead.
© Emmanuel Ortiz (published on 11 September 2002)
* Listen to the poem (1)
* Other poems against human tragedy (2)
come, so we may sort out
this family matter,
and that one,
come, I want to talk to you
to tell you of people you’ve never met,
I want to call you uncle to your face;
when you do and we get together,
I don’t always go toward you at the start
but, always past souls, past the hour of sleep
past life-long hallways of heaven
you come forward
to find me in the dark.
and up in the attic, also,
mom hums an air (as the sun
falls behind the hills of Loretto
and shadow creeps to keep us in check)
rocking this way then that way,
wondering what to make of grief
in a photograph; a touchable feeling
inhabits the house, drowns
roof beam, wall, flooring,
much that is but lifeless form worn
pearl-like around our lives;
so I touch it, the feeling, that is,
and slip at last like a statued god
into resolute sleep.
© Rethabile Masilo
I want to see you dance
among blue-pale wisps
at night, when shebeens are dense
with the factory worker,
and bone-shaking mbaqanga*
fills the shack. I want to see you
dance with your body that quakes
as you slide aside to let a rhythm by,
only to pick up some other tones
heading away against the force
of shriller, more common notes,
trembling to this sound this be-bop
that keeps us alive. Evenings
in my corner like the first night
I want to watch you jive, mouthing to me
the words on your lips till I sober up
at the nervous thought, the idea
of never again seeing you dance,
some day when the big life
comes crashing down.
© Rethabile Masilo
_________________________
* Mbaqanga grew out of earlier styles — pennywhistle kwela, township sax jive, gospel-inspired African choral music, and marabi, the lifeblood of South Africa’s illegal township shebeens and dancehalls in the first half of the century.
[Read more…]
AGENDA #74 – Rape
Poems will be considered for publication in Agenda 74, which will be published in the beginning of December 2007.
Poetry can be but does not have to be on the theme of rape.
Length of contributions: Poems have to fit a full page of Agenda (slightly bigger than A5)
Submission deadline: 14 September 2007
Submission requirements:
No deity will ditch us here,
wounded in such way,
dipped in this fear.
For the sake of a world
no matter what, none will do it.
Among us the quick rise,
bury the dead as we move
on, on, carrying on shoulder
like a cripple an age; as
bread-breaking gods come or go
we walk in shade, we blend with the grave.
How they see through stone,
these wretched ones! As
among the meek we look
for a prophet (open
faces round as the moon
perfectly valid with
the truth) we hear soft come-ons,
rumours floating against time
for having won favour with our sons.
Amid palms on the path to the minster
we shall wait; and there
a design we shall find.
Its reason to be is of course
a kicking of arse, where amid animals,
mangers, we assemble a
force that feeds desire.
© Rethabile Masilo
sun promise
for ‘Masekoja
if the sun continues
to shine, to glimmer
as it does on these hills
of Mount Moorosi
to Ha-Makoae, nothing
can really stop sound
that seeks air or ground
like your heartbeat when
I hold you/ if the sun
continues like on that day
you let me in/ and when
essence drops in rooms
we grit strength
to epic-end, and push
till light learns truth
not lies — till a marble
moon hangs above our
midst, and the mist itself
shimmers, and love yields
what it does when
I move toward you
on hut-hearted floor, lions
lie in grass listening to
darkness, for soon the curves
of night-time meet/
we hurl selves at gods, oh
god, till you tell the sun it
can’t stop and it does not/
from dawn’s loins we
whom such thought arouses
shag until born light arises.
© Rethabile Masilo
White canes bend at two places, like fingers
Cities through fingertips inebriate me;
everywhere I travel lies this pavement
defining the town with a kerb that may
or may not curve to where I go. Patient,
I live to try and see it with my cane
which I slightly slant, never like a stick
but like a pen, to trace my life again
as I walk and tap or touch stone or brick
or granite at my feet. No need to prove
god or splendour. If you don’t listen well
to night-time you might miss the bat that moves
with rubber wing, that flickers around walls
in a feeding frenzy; for the glory
of everything belongs truly to the night,
which holds day as dead retinae carry
light, to watch life with previous sight.
© Rethabile Masilo
tlhokomeliso
‘if needs be, it is an ideal
for which I am prepared to die.’
~ntate mandela
before the naming rites,
even before we were free to be free
from terror in our ranks,
before prison or death
became our constitutional rights,
a cry echoed among the elements
to shake the tenements
inside heaven and inside hell;
flesh came into my shell,
resided in me, heavy and light
according to the moment—
like a rumour, God and politics
entered me and sat on my heart;
so I must ask you to destroy me
because there’s a part of me that
still belongs to the sun, and will
not acquiesce; for the benefit of
your crew, destroy, before it’s too
late, the blood in me that is hers
and will not succumb — slay
this whole idea of a Motuba who
rides a sun-ray to illume our day.
© Rethabile Masilo
THE CHILDREN OF THE REAL LESOTHO (by Pavo Real)
The children far from urban Maseru, the children of the real Lesotho,
(A country of mountains, anchored in the sky with the stones of Africa,
a land of beauty, death and love,
Of corn and useless flowers, cattle and Aloe,
Of wild skies and serene earth,
And women stooped to sweep the dirt and weep,
Without tears or fear that will show.)
They have been nurtured into greed.
Trained by other passing fools
Who come in clouds of dry
Dusty ignorance and rented cars to pass, not pause,
where God stores storms for future cause.
(And yes, I am certain there will be storms,)
The children sprung from great Moshoeshoe
He who offered heart and tribe and land to the desperate
Devourers of his family.
He who tried to welcome Boers,
Knowing their guns and locust history,
They now plead and curse for whites to give them candy.
“Sweets” cry the youngest ones,
“Give Candy” the older
“Give me some Candy please” the educated, skilled and bolder.
Whose grandfathers fought betrayers,
Leaving bloody footprints in their land
Step by step back into the loving mountains
Where they made their stand,
These kids, beg with open hand.
It’s terribly amusing for some, fun without a fee,
To fling candy out the windows and turn to watch them
Scramble for their cut and learn to be like those of us
Who know greed sensuously and pray to god, “I want it free.”
So they choose, in innocence, how they want to be,
And I brooded on how to best respond, in ignorance, how to make them see.
Can I tell them of their Ancestors, the trials they had to face,
Or the courage of the mothers and fathers of their race?
I can’t, I’m ignorant, a passing shadow of useless noises when he speaks.
They will grow and learn for years and I’ll be gone away in weeks.
There were but two times I spoke to them and thoughts passed from me to them.
Once I greeted boys with “Dumelang bo-ntate”1 and they laughed and clapped their hands delighted with the linguistic capers of this monkey from foreign lands.
But they need to hear, or I need to speak, of the price that they will pay
On their trip from past to future, before they lay in deep red clay.
How to help these tender ones in their search to be like me?
I decided to roll the window down and holler,
“Ke e jele!” 2
1Greetings, gentlemen. ( I am told this was startlingly age inappropriate).
2I ate it!
Ed’s note:
Pavo is right. The greeting is inappropriate for boys younger than oneself. The appropriate greeting would have been, “Lumelang banna,” or “Hello guys.” Sesotho is rather strict in the way one person addresses another. I hope you enjoy this magnificent poem. If you need further information on Sesotho greetings, check out this post.
~Ed.
I saw in the distance a god
sucking life through a straw, sucking
the silence; then she darted in a blur
to where, behind a bush,
pygmies pumped air into a beach-ball,
chuckling and slapping smeared hands on it,
till it took the redness of Basotho dye
used by graduates at mountain schools;
they released it, watched it go up, up,
giggling in fields of breakfast
as they ran behind it,
leaping to touch the bottom
now out of reach.
© Rethabile Masilo
Easy Skanking (by Geoffrey Philp)
all saturday evenings
should be like this, caressing
your thigh while reading neruda
with his odes to matilde’s arms,
breasts, hair–everything about her
that made him
a part of this bountiful earth–
lilies, onions, avocados–that fed
his poetry the way
rain washes the dumb cane with desire
or banyans break through asphalt–
this is the nirvana that the buddha
with his bald monks and tiresome sutras
never knew or else he’d never have left
his palace and longing bride–
the supple feel of your leg in my hands
for which i’d spin the wheel of karma
a thousand lifetimes, more
© Geoffrey Philp
Locked in the ogre’s grip, she
Exhales vigour into its nerve
System, breathes in and breathes
Out, according to the season—
Time stands still. She wonders
How she’ll get power to chop
Off the creature’s fingers.
© Rethabile Masilo
Our bowls clanking
like ghost vessels,
we stand against sun and wind,
and death that loops over
to take our vision;
when all else has deserted us
in the blankness of the hour
the horizon, our last scene,
comes at us
from where no sun
will ever rise.
© Rethabile Masilo
This poem is in memory of Kevin Carter, and that little Sudanese girl in his snap.
Homage: Keep on with the force
 |
| Michael Jackson |
R: I don’t think that’s right. His music was popular in the 80s, but that doesn’t spell everlasting fame.And it went on for a while. I was determined not to mention white artists any more, to see if my colleague was gonna ?!?! me every time I came up with a black artist’s name. He didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t mention Bob Marley and Aretha Franklin and Miles Davis and Fela.
C: That’s right. Now, people like the Stones…
R: The Beatles…
C: Bowie, surely.
R: Michael Jackson…
C: ?!?!
R: Many people don’t like his music, but the man has influenced a whole generation and brought in a style. I’m sure we’ll be talking about his art long after we’ve stopped talking about Sting.
C: Do you really think so? Michael Jackson?
R: I really think so, yes. I think he’s an incredible artist, an incredible dancer.
C: There’s Led Zeppelin.
R: Stevie Wonder.
In any case, I realised that it was mainly the mention of Michael Jackson he disagreed with. My colleague isn’t alone, I’m sure. But for me there’s no denying that Michael Jackson revolutionised music all by himself, and did it against the backdrop of rap and hip-hop, just emerging in the 80s. Michael Jackson is
So brace yourselves, people, it looks like we’re going to be entertained again. After the conversation with my colleague, I thought it was unfair that the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin should be notched higher than Michael Jackson, as far as music legacy is concerned. Of course, there are tastes but, although I do not dig the music of Led Zeppelin or ZZ Top, I recognise the weight of their impact. The whole idea of legacy really should surpass taste and the colour of the artist. If it was unfair, then I had to write a poem about it. I wrote Keep on with the force. The title for my poem comes from the lyrics of Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough. What thinkest thou about all of this?
- ABC, I Want you Back, I’ll be there
- Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground), This Place Hotel, Can You Feel It
- Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough, Rock with You, Off the Wall
- Moonwalking
- Thriller, the album (the best-selling album in music history)
- Thriller, the video (the best-selling music home video ever)
- Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’, The Girl Is Mine, Thriller, Beat It, Billie Jean, Human Nature
- Motown 25: Yesterday, Today, Forever, on 25 March 1983
- I Just Can’t Stop Loving You, Bad, The Way You Make Me Feel, Man in the Mirror, Dirty Diana. The album “Bad” still holds the record for generating more number one hits on the Billboard Hot 100 charts than any other album [1]
- We are the World
- King of Pop
- Jam, Why You Wanna Trip On Me, In the Closet, Remember the Time, Heal the World, Black or White (The première of “Black or White” was broadcast simultaneously in 27 countries on November 14, 1991 with an estimated audience of 500 million people — the largest audience ever to view a music video.) [2]
- Blood On The Dance Floor, Is It Scary, Ghosts.
- You Rock My World, Cry, Butterflies
- And he dances. He shuts himself up at the house in a room that has no mirrors—”Mirrors make you pose,” he has said—and cuts loose to his own music or to the Isley Brothers’ Showdown, practicing what Dancer Hinton Battle calls “moves that kill. It’s the combinations that really distinguish him as an artist. Spin, stop, pull up leg, pull jacket open, turn, freeze. And the glide, where he steps forward while pushing back. Spinning three times and popping up on his toes. That’s a trademark, and a move a lot of professionals wouldn’t try. If you go up wrong, you can really hurt yourself.” [3]
- Michael Jackson is currently working on a new studio album. The new album has been in production since May of 2006. The album is being recorded in Dublin, Ireland and Las Vegas by Jackson and co-producers will.i.am of The Black Eyed Peas, Rodney Jerkins, Teddy Riley, Ron “Neff-U” Feemster, and many others. [4]
Moon people
Live in souls
On samara wings.The day the djembe died
I lay on the land and sought
To keep on,Inter our chorus
In corners, address the need
To act.At the risk of
Sparking a riot, the dancer
Snaps fingersWith delight and
Dressed like moon critters
We stamp air.Steps have been hit,
Few greater than what we do
In this crater.
© Rethabile Masilo
