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
The ash moon like a hole
siphoned all flowers
to adorn the other side.
Every plant of every seed
all gone for the sole
glory of hyper-powers;
gone forever is the star’s
confession, where we stood
in lineage a little while,
God’s hope, the life of soil,
the need that feeds my hours
in the night, muddied blood
let for gain. Look at the sons
of slavery among the saints!
© Rethabile Masilo
Tags:
Slavery
Slaves
Triangular trade
A real photo of a real slave ship.
Maya Angelou was born on 4 April 1928, as Marguerite Johnson. She knows why the caged bird sings, and is only one of two American poets to write and read an inauguration poem for a president. The other one was Robert Frost for John Kennedy. Happy Birthday to Maya.
Maya has said,
A short biography of Ms Angelou says, “Internationally respected poet, writer and educator, Maya Angelou has given us such best-selling titles as I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Gather Together in My Name, Singin’ and Swingin’ and The Heart of a Woman. Multi-talented, she produced and starred in the great play Cabaret for Freedom and starred in The Blacks. She wrote the original screenplay and musical score for the film Georgia, Georgia and was both author and executive producer of a five-part television miniseries, Three Way Choice.
- History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, however, if faced with courage, need not be lived again.
- I want all my senses engaged. Let me absorb the world’s variety and uniqueness.
- For Africa to me… is more than a glamorous fact. It is a historical truth. No man can know where he is going unless he knows exactly where he has been and exactly how he arrived at his present place.
- Life loves to be taken by the lapel and told, ‘I’m with you kid. Let’s go.’
- Courage is fear that has said its prayers.
- I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life with a catcher’s mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back.
- Some critics will write ‘Maya Angelou is a natural writer’ - which comes right after being a natural heart surgeon.
- We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value no matter what their color.
Miss Angelou’s accomplishments have earned her the La Home Journal Woman of the Year award in communication an Matrix Award in the field of books from Women in Communication She received the Golden Eagle Award for her documentary, Americans in the Arts, produced by PBS. She is one of the women admitted into the Director’s Guild. In 1974, she was appointed by Gerald Ford to the Bi-Centennial Commission and later by Jimmy Carter to the Commission for International Woman of the Year.
Her personal outreach to improve conditions for women in Third World, primarily in Africa, has helped change the live thousands less privileged. Here is where she gives with all her heart and soul. [Source]” And lastly, here is another of her poems:
I start no
wars, raining poison
on cathedrals,
melting Stars of David
into golden faucets
to be lighted by lamps
shaded by human skin.
I set no
store on the strange lands,
send no
missionaries beyond my
borders,
to plunder secrets
and barter souls.
They
say you took my manhood,
Momma.
Come sit on my lap
and tell me,
what do you want me to say
to them, just
before I annihilate
their ignorance?
© Maya Angelou
Tags:
Maya Angelou
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Still I Rise
We head home
by a trail round
the lower villages
to avoid stopping
for a drink at
Moselantja’s place,
your cheeks
red in spring air,
a sense of life
darting through
your blood. I’m
walking for health,
your young quack
thinks I’m as good
as in the tomb, wants
to haul me back
out–he shoulda met
Niclas when he was
around. But you
added your voice
to his and so here
we are, sweating
Sunday afternoon.
We turn right after
the villages and
head for the woods,
the sound of hoof
on twig deserting us.
It’s all I can do
not to pee on a tree,
your only proof
to tell whether or not
I been drinkin’. It’s
all I can do not to think
of my babyhood dream,
pissin’ in the forest.
© Rethabile Masilo
As we sit round
the black tin stove
listening to stories
above the din of
dough ’mè thumps,
long before we go
to bed, we share
a sibling cheer.
Round the house
we hear winter
march, bark orders
to its men to crack
this bough, break
down that home.
After dinner on
mud floor we splay
an old snakes and
ladders, feeling gold
embers where
shadow of oil-flame
plays till bedtime,
never suspecting
that the frozen pane
will be ntate’s door
when death one day
yearns for us and all.
© Rethabile Masilo
Why do you suffer the look of my eyes
with such intent/ does their brutal blue
inspire you somehow? Why do you
flaunt the curves of your brown body
to the whip of my stare/ does it make you
a star? There’s your mind whose soul,
like the singing wind, can never be
possessed/ beauty is no excuse for love/
with crimson and mocha, let’s fashion this
union, and bond in a mosaic ampersand/
let my white sea trap the isles of your eyes,
and your sun’s vitamin thaw the polar caps
about me/ let’s do it now, feeding from
one another, whatever may come.
© Rethabile Masilo
Technorati: 
Bi-racial love, 
Lesotho poetry, 
African poetry
you wonder, madam,
why so much hate/
this endless talk of
colonial apartheid.
ever had bikes hurtle
down your back/ marbles
shot up arse/ rope
skipped, liketo tossed and
caught, stuffed socks
dribbled and scored,
imagination called, on
day of birth, to turn
red brick into plane,
truck, skyscraper/
has the fire of hope ever
burnt your sky into
slow sunsets/ all on
your fucking back?
i cannot do it, mevrou,
i just can’t delete
the past, the past is
buried on that street.
© Rethabile Masilo
This poem may be familiar to some of you. I always re-work my poems. All of them. And every single time, I go, “how the hell could I have said that!” It’s a learning experience. After every rewrite, I come off having learnt something.
This poem is about a street I grew up on in Maseru, Lesotho. But let’s not go into that. I really just wanted to tell you that liketo is a game played with pebbles. There’s a hole in the ground and the players have to throw up a pebble, while it’s in mid-air, they scoop another one from the hole, grab the falling one, then throw both into the air, and so on. It’s a lot of fun.
Mevrou is an Afrikaans word that means Madam; it’s a form of address to a Boer woman, not only by kaffirs, the Africans, but also by other Boers, as a form of respect. I hope that this clears up those two points. Never hesitate to ask me questions. I live for it.
With pixel smile I told the women about our torrid life. I told ’em about you, the story of why like monuments and queens, this, has to bear your name; if these women could just see you jive, Gloria, in a shebeen in our suburb at night, see you excite our billiard cocks, near that juke box in the rear where we hang, I’m sorry but if they saw you do that, why, even they would know you — they’d lay you on bedsheets of silk and honey, they’d need the sweet-scented four-letter word you are.
© Rethabile Masilo
More prose poetry at Poetry Thursday
A Tourist in Maseru
(summer valentine)
Love from the start was touch and go
when both our hands
at that
bazaar
opted for the sole, ripe mango/
we grinned, then
pandered to
a gay
valentine in my Sotho world/
after you left
with your
guitar,
ending summer, no single word
from you to me,
until
today
Tags:
Valentine
homosexuality
Lesotho poetry
Global Voices poetry contest
Bushmen have much desert in them;
from birth they hold a manifesto
in their head, a tribal oath, an old
undying truth that we’ve always been
told about, how they honoured the
first-born sun.
The hills hold caverns grandpa Seth
once walked me up to see, to trace
the curved walls with my eye. He said–
he said his dad once made a bushman
jump with a spoken Lumela! from behind,
time when these grottoes lived with
people.
Like — I really want to go to the Kalahari
where children still romp the sand, where
like photons moons move across heaven
meeting shadows halfway, seeking the day.
That image of you, Africa, when to sundown
you settle down beside a fire, is my
rusting photo, the ghost of a song coming
from deep you and bidding jive along.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
PS: Check out Poéfrika
Some day when I’m about 23 or so
I mon take the courage of my hands and go
remove the mask of god, for good
[hopin’ of course she’ll understand]
I wonder whether I incredibly shall then see
The demon hisself in the neighbor’s son,
who I swear to never have thought odd.
I wonder what’ll happen to the sun,
whether the darkness will lift and flee.
Possible my step-dad will lose his appetite
for fist-fightin’, and sleep gentle at night,
so that life is color full panorama
outdoors I laugh to glimpse with mama.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
PS: Check out Poéfrika
Inner city
I want you
They frolic through the empty lot
making a soccer storm, their joy
mirrored in syringes and rust,
hewn into the substance of the place.
Every night I’m like you know
thinking how the world can be so written
on the faces of folks hurrying home,
past the lot, potato and onion bags
swinging from good hands.
There’s a gig, after dinner, behind where
the community centre used to be;
its announcement is a giant-size
poster of the cover of
Marvin’s I Want You album.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Hematidrosis in the olive grove
To hear god whisper a prayer, we’ll need to pitch
our tents among the trees where he knelt, each
of us witness to how his elements touched heaven.
Alms will not be delivered unto us; no unleavened
bread nor wine for the parched heart, nor a harpist
of psalms; instead, the sun will sink east and rise west;
crimson drops will fall on our loveless group;
time, at best, will turn around and expel us from the tomb.
Halt the turning of the world, stop terror in the upper room,
the higher-life chamber, wherever it’s found. Make the moon
and the stars shrivel up and end, the ground right
for tracking holy prints from your feet
to ascertain our destination, the promise of hope
upon a mountain, a certain chance for our small troop.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
This is for this week’s Poetry Thursday theme.
In his poem, You shall above all things be glad and young, ee cummings states, I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing / than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance. And so would I. While this telling declaration is not what I would call a living image, it remains an everlasting one, an image capable of overtaking the reader’s stride and making itself at home.
It uses everyday things that all of us know and can easily relate to, and it could have been uttered by any of us, which is probably why it remains fresh and, yes, telling. It is two-pronged. First is the part about learning how to sing from one bird, learning how to write from reading one book a hundred times rather than a hundred books, each once. That’s how we really get to know something. Practice hip-hop dancing everyday of the week, instead of hip-hop on Monday, tango on Tuesday, salsa on Wednesday, etc, etc.
Secondly, teaching a star how not to dance is an incredible feat in itself, and teaching one thousand stars how not to dance is that much more of a feat. Why? Not only because of the overwhelming number of stars, but also because of the weight of the action itself, teaching a star not how to dance, but how not to dance! Teaching the canary how not to sing. Teaching grandma how not to cook. Teaching Romeo and Juliette how to despise each other (i.e. how not to love each other). That’s damn hard work that, if accomplished, borders on the incredible. But incredible or not, why do it? Mr cummings has decided that learning one good little thing is that much better than doing many less good things, albeit incredible.
To me, these are why this image is everlasting. And boy, did cummings have many of those! Here is the poem in its entirety:
you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you’re young,whatever life you wear
it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever’s living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love
whose any mystery makes every man’s
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time
that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation’s dead undoom.
I’d rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
[Source]
When my father snores
he sucks in the whole world
and releases it in one pure breath.
At night I’d come into his room
where he would pass out on the bed—
too drunk to change his clothes or
put out his cigarette, which had
burnt itself down to the embers. I pulled
off his shoes and watched him sleep,
smelling his sweet, stale breath
fill the room in waves. He was so out of it
I could put my finger into his mouth and pull it out
before he inhaled.
Once I let my finger linger a second
too long and his tongue touched the flat of my tip.
I thought of going in deeper, first a hand, then an arm;
the tender cutlet of my body swallowed whole by my
father. But I was barely enough to make him cough.
He rolled over on his side, leaving a well in the space
where his body had been. I crawled back into my own bed,
as my father slept the peaceful sleep of ogres, feeling
the house shake with his rhythmic tremors.
I found this poem while surfing. I started with Jilly’s Poetry Hut, where I’m a regular, and where I usually click randomly on the blogroll. I fell on this blog, and this poem. I don’t know what you think, but I was hit (hard) by the simplicity of the style, and the infectious nature of the poem. I want to see more.
Due to this discovery, hey, I’m going to hunt poetry blogs and blogroll them, which should make it easier for me to go read. There are already some I link to, but they aren’t under any specific category, and some put up poetry only occassionally. See Geoffrey, Kojo, Stephen and Suzy, for example, and don’t you forget Canopic Jar.
 |
Dans l’envie de m’abattre
tu m’as nourri, toutes ces années
j’attends ton coup pour vaincre mes craintes,
toi, le bourreau, et ta muleta — moi en taureau.
Tu m’appelles, sans cesse tu m’appelles
pour qu’on danse tous les deux sous ce soleil
vers la fin. Comment y résister?
Cependant, c’est toi en ami
qui m’emmène à la maison où j’écris
ces quelques mots lassés par le temps.
Sache que je n’accepterai pas une mort
à étapes, une déchéance quelconque sans frappe.
Un coup, et tout ce moment est à nous
entre ici et les ténèbres.
Cette épine dans ma chair, elle mérite
les olés du public, c’est un coup de grâce
qui laisse à l’amour seul le soin de fleurir.
J’envisage souvent les grêlons ruinés par
les fleurs sur lesquelles ils tombent.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
 |
In need of me dead and done in,
you nurtured me for years and got me here
to make me yours.
Your scarlet muleta flaps a call,
you in the end lead me home
and that is all.
Let us therefore dance to the finish,
the mood of this sunset in abundance,
for I will have no death in stages.
One blow should make this ours,
thorn thrust into flesh, cheers all around,
A coup de grâce for love, for ages.
Often I have envisioned
hail being torn apart by the flowers
it is falling upon.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
I live in Midville where the sun’s unhappy,
where one answer to what we seek as a folk
is cross-burning; and though madam’s alone today,
the ranch quiet, I’m not taking chances.
Without a squeak I slink from the sill and go
past the tree branch, which has seen men hanged
for less than a peek into a lady’s sleep room
[that tree, btw, should have long become
a monument], and on to the back stables
by the sty.
A steed stamps as I approach,
prances, brooding perhaps over my manhood,
what the purpose of it is, the why to all of that,
and can I explain this pain I hold? On what basis
are people crowned, horses thoroughbred,
while some are common?
I grab the curry comb to groom, to
straighten my thoughts in that stall once and for all,
for I do seek things in life, like justice, and I seek
the knowledge of why the earth is round,
the sky blue, the pygmy small, though above all
it is God I seek [in the end it always is]
so we can speak of negroes and stuff; and won’t God
be aghast?
Man, life here overseas is no oasis,
so lost in the stars, in these concrete deserts
so friendless and vast. But now at last I’ve got
my rendezvous, and I’ll see about completing
the ellipsis, all the way through, at least once.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Mazisi Raymond Fakazi Mngoni Kunene, poet and activist, born May 12 1930; died August 11 2006
gnalafostohk
ho moholoane oa ka
ea shoetseng jokong
tebello begot the child and stood near
death for it — a boy she at once made man
before he had known how to conquer fear
by himself, warrior of the sotho clan.
he followed certain roads the long way here,
living among castes where the african
spirit endures, a rush of angry tear
turning mere soldier into veteran.
and as he went forth in dreams of his own,
learning how to cope in quest of good
for together with life he was alone,
what prospects he received, at heaven’s whim,
became his with no hopes misunderstood,
all of the rhythm having entered him.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Okay, it looks to me like this is the last version, without it being the final one.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Not my all-time favourite poet (I’m not sure who that is) but an excellent one whose works are a joy to read, again and again and again. In the early nineties Sir Stephen Spender came to Paris, where I live, to read some of his stuff at the local British Council. It must have been a Saturday, or perhaps a Sunday, because I was in trainers and a T-shirt. At the time we lived some 35 km north of Paris. So about two hours before the event, we got in the car and drove off to Paris to go and listen to a living legend.
Halfway there I suddenly hit the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road.
“What are you doing, we’re gonna be late,” my wife said.
“We’ve got to go back,” I said sadly.
“What the hell for?”
“The T-shirt”
“The T-shirt? What T-shirt?”
“Honey, the T-shirt I’m wearing has a grammatical mistake. We are not going to see this guy wearing a grammatical mistake!”
And so we turned back and I changed into a plain T-shirt. In France, and perhaps in other Latin countries like Spain and Italy, English slogans and sayings on clothes are the in thing. But then mistakes often creep into such endeavours. My T-shirt had had a bold declaration that said: YOU HAVE DONE THE RIGHT CHOICE!
We listened to some of the sweetest poetry and even got to shake hands with and talk to Sir Stephen Spender. Well, he talked to me. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth and would not come loose, except for one question I managed to squeak out. I asked him what he did when a poem refused to come together. I’ll never forget what he said, because it is probably the ultimate in advice for aspiring writers.
He looked intently at me, a serious smile about his lips, and said, “I just go on.”
We shook hands and I shoved off. I didn’t wash my hand for a good while. For me, personally, and I suspect for many of the people crammed into that hall, the best part of the day, of the week, was when he said,
What I expected, was
Thunder, fighting.
Long struggles with men
And climbing.
After continual straining
I should grow strong;
Then the rocks would shake
And I rest long.
What I had not foreseen
Was the gradual day
Weakening the will
Leaking the brightness away,
The lack of good to touch,
The fading of body and soul
Smoke before wind,
Corrupt, insubstantial.
The wearing of Time,
And the watching of cripples pass
With limbs shaped like questions
In their odd twist,
The pulverous grief
Melting bones with pity,
The sick falling from earth-
These, I could not foresee.
Expecting always
Some brightness to hold in trust
Some final innocence
Exempt from dust,
That, hanging solid,
Would dangle through all
Like the created poem,
Or the faceted crystal.
© Stephen Spender
This poem does not want to finish. No poem ever does, but this one is particularly stubborn. I’ve turned out several versions of it, but have never really understood where it wants to go. It is an ongoing project and I publish it here, before it gets to where it’s going, because I tend to understand poems better when they have just been put up for everybody to see.
The latest version is at http://sotho.blogsome.com/2006/10/08/madam-in-the-bedroom-4
I’ve worked on this poem some more, and moved it. Click here.
A moment of silence, before I start this poem
Before 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)
It’s Autumn, and this road
of reddish gold was conceived
by God and van Gogh.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Lehoetla
(for Stephen’s Morphological Confetti)
Winter sounds just like splinter,
when the combination of man,
muscle and axe splits hunks
of good wood into chunks
we watch glow from the divan,
where starts our storm’s epicentre.
Sing is something that brings spring,
for it is often some voice, bereft,
that softens hearts of lovers
enough to carry them away, aloft —
nearer god on a seasonal wing.
Summer comes with its own kama,
spraying life with laughter from red,
inner-city hydrants, in-a-city rivers,
the days coming on like numbers.
Then Autumn falls asleep, the gold,
amber colour covering its bed
during those final days before the cold.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
This poem has moved to poefrika.blogspot.com. Hope to see you there…
There isn’t any beating of the drums
After the long subsiding ray
When like a cruel master darkness comes.
Let the town criers hasten to convey
Outright this message to kingdoms.
Invite well-wishing folks to go away.
Let the menace rise as the heart succumbs
Deeper still, and let silence slay
You with meaning beyond the sound of psalms.
But if no-one will listen or obey,
Wind the clocks, swing the pendulums,
And let that message seal the stillborn day.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
to send such angst into the sky,
toss things back to God in high fashion,
requires a plan.
the planets are lined, my love, ancient
bones grace my floor — chalkwhite bits of wisdom
signal our fate.
i’ve taken the pins, the needles, from my foot,
shaken years of history from my nape;
calmly, i await the kingdom.
but, pondering these voices, this hollow space,
and Africa chiselled on my face
in sparks of creation…
hammer*mogadishu, sight*durban, barrel*cape,
trigger*yao-
undé,grip*
the sahel
…like the planets i’m ready too
for a future bloodied anew,
and wonder if i should not now
tell you that i have no fear of you.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Going to work that day
after the sunrise that morning wore, I saw a heap
on the street, and a crow, before commuters could
conquer the morning air. What a scene!
[See, in last year’s act the law encouraged
frisking corpses to extract all clues,
all evidence that’s good to share ;-]
Soon it was time when the cops came
[hurrah!] for the crow and I to go,
without aim if not to see that bloke buried somewhere.
I pulled from the crowd to leave and withdraw into myself,
shut out what I’d seen, grieve silently for that heap,
and send a prayer.
Then I caught the first buxi
into town, and managed to reach Maseru on time.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
La 21 Hlakubele 1960, batho ba batšo ba 69
ba bolailoe ka lithunya, ba 180 ba ntšoa likotsi
If when this township was placed under siege
You were present, you would have seen
Life lamented, batho wailing, the quick
Holding their heads in the sky to speak
Incantations to disconsolate gods,
The dead still, stacked against the guards,
Body upon body, dead but unbowed
In their steely will that no man can bend.
And quite suddenly a woman, pail
Balanced up on her head, hurls her soul
To the sky, ad libitum, O Sharpeville!
Let my cry forever rise high until
Heaven itself gives, and what once was black
Or white is now nil, wherever I look.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
even though i knew her trick:
plain onion fried in oil to fool
the neighbourhood,
alone
i’d walk home past her shack
everyday after school
for love of food
alone.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Great Scot!
(for Martha)
I once was one among those who came for a future
To this wooded place at the base of a smoky hill (as some still do).
A quick review reveals a history of faith, of books, dogwood petals
On the ground, and greater minds that have gone through.
That first day the registrar came to welcome us
And pass around forms to fill, or chemistry
In case our suitcase-scars were too deep, too recent to erase,
I can’t be sure which was her aim.
But when she smiled, I knew
She’d registered more than my name.
Mid-term when we could barely bear the heat
We would climb with glee to go wade in the brooks
Of the mountain above;after dipping skin at The Cove,
Going back to school was always just as sweet.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
He came down the street
In one hand
Holding a live chicken
By its wings,
In the other
A packet of onions
And potatoes.
I have worked a bit more on this poem and reposted the latest version here.
old house is where i must
retreat, for like samson of
delilah shorn i’m
incapable (
&
resistance is short)
enfeebled by
the prospect of YOU home.
so i yank
the rusted gate and storm
across the quiet
yard into the house, breathing
effort. and even i sit (until the
day) my head in my
hands in the
empty house, i only can
realise there is no
end. this place has never left us.
© Rethabile Masilo, in the book “Guts From the Urn”
I broke my heart this mornin’,
Ain’t got no heart no more.
Next time a man comes near me
Gonna shut an’ lock my door
Cause they treat me mean–
The ones I love.
They always treat me mean.
There is a tree, by day,
That, at night, has a shadow,
A hand huge and black,
With fingers long and black.
All through the dark,
Against the white man’s house,
In the little wind,
The black hand plucks and plucks
At the bricks.
The bricks are the color of blood
and very small.
Is it a black hand,
Or is it a shadow?
Written by Angelina W. Grimke (1880-1958)
The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. “Madame,” I warned,
“I hate a wasted journey—I am African.”
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.
“HOW DARK?”… I had not misheard… “ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?” Button B. Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red Pillar –box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis —
“ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?” Revelation came.
“You mean — like plain or milk chocolate?”
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. “West African Sepia” — and as afterthought,
“Down in my passport.” Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. “WHAT’S THAT?” conceding
“DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.” “Like brunette.”
“THAT’S DARK, ISN’T IT?” “Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused —
Foolishly madam — by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black — One moment madam!” — sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears — “Madam,” I pleaded, “wouldn’t you rather
See for yourself?”
© Wole Soyinka, 1960
They’ll follow any being carried away
by the winds of tumult, these ominous
things that hang in flight till a creature dies
at length. And is it in the life of us
to turn against these pinions of demise?
Renegades born under a dying day
they’ll follow any being across the land-
scape of survival. But are we not all
children under this house–different organs
to the same spirit? Pressed against the wall
and menaced by the shadow of wingspans,
is it in the life of us to withstand?
Gnarled under hunger, demented eyes holes,
they have put that lading upon our souls.
© Rethabile Masilo
This is what I am
empty sockets despairing of possessing of life
a mouth torn open in an anguished wound…
a body tattooed with wounds seen and unseen
from the harsh whipstrokes of slavery
tortured and magnificent
proud and mysterious
Africa from head to foot
This is what I am
Father discovered in the tone of one
Of them that they controlled the out-of-doors,
And meant to enter before night was done,
The boys snug in their hut, unaware
Of the din outside; a faceless fear crept
Around our circle. Come on out! How dare
He stay in and not do as told. Come
Out before we send in bullets to settle our scores!
Realisation struck as their aim hit home.
Talk ended. No more words. No murmur.
No breathing from where the baby had slept,
But chaos, eating at the heart, and murder
Left in our lives for us to vanquish.
Years on, the memory has not diminished.
© Rethabile Masilo (in Canopic Jar)
Men flow like rivers from the mountains
clear and strong
into the pits of South Africa
to pull gold from the earth.
As they descend into dark chambers
their families become memories, like the sun.
They claw through the flesh of mother earth
searching for veins to exploit,
while their own blood and souls are ravaged.
For when their bodies are spent,
twisted or lifeless,
the clean white-shirted man picks up his phone
and orders another river of men
from the mountains.
According to Work for Justice, the Lesotho-based newsletter in which this poem first appeared, “Men Flow Like Rivers” was written by Basotho participants in a training workshop for community workers.
From Work for Justice. No. 24 (March 1990). Reprint with acknowledgment.
http://lifeiswasted.blogspot.com
Her eyes take you and lead you to her soul.
Her roots cherish the soil
That is Africa south, north, east
And west, where a dead sun slants
With lost glimmer, touches a mission bell,
And sinks –
Dull hours prepare to cease
As moon passes sun, day links night, light enters darkness
And is overcome by it.
I watch her blend afro-jazz and the lace of her dress
Into this moment, on this bit of pavement where I stand.
I watch her fête and leap and
For a moment, escape, heartened by moon surpassing hill,
Little miss ex-kaffir bidding adieu to the day,
Knowing it is her flavour history stole.
I watch commuters mill to and fro like ants,
Some staying, watching, washing off the day’s toil,
Faces seeking release,
Black, mine-working faces pressed around her
To wall the moment in, or wall another out, in tune with her soul.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
Jurassic memories found in an archeological dig
I dug you up I dug you up
I found a fracture of a jaw bone, the very keystone to the past
and the future, I dug you up
The clouds that cleared to show the moon looked like Africa
the stars behind it represented all the capitol cities
I’m pretty sure Lesotho shined brightest.
Why wouldn’t it? It’s wrapped up so securely.
Surrounded by it’s mother’s love
Lesotho, my love, come nestle for a while
Mother Africa will love you and dig you up.
TO MBERA
(gnalafostohk)
souls are squeezed
from moss-free rock
and men from souls.
you (to whom
i wish a turquoise sky
that beguiles some who die
onto a cloud to lay their head,
while at the kremlin
mister lenin lies on his red bed)
aren’t made of chalk.
so what if the boy takes this room
the way he does, wearing your poise
like a model on a dais?
we will have lived fast and strong you & i,
from our past so long into this grave goodbye.
© Rethabile Masilo [more…]
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