Thursday, 30 July 2015

30. 07 . 1977

30th July 1977
Marked the day of the untold story of a browning.

My mother never had wings but at a tender age I watched her be a source of halo that held on enough for the blisters of her pain.
Papa seized to exist to teach me how to be a great woman but for the world's sake she taught me how to be a humble human

My mother never had wings but she remains the true definition of what my queen is,
My queen loves hwith her I came-I saw-I conquered hips, her I'll-never-let-you-go lips, with her sarcastic nature towards a too serious nation, her mixed race flesh that she wears as a top layer, she wears me as her second skin in order to protect me from enabled sin.

My mother, never had wings but even though, no angel can come down to earth and say that they can learn the language of survival like she did. Say that they can slap me back into reality like she has, say that they can be the greatest woman like she will continue to be.

30th July 1977
Marked her 38 years of existence today
My mother never had wings but you know what? 
She doesn't need them.
She has never needed them.
She comes to show that no human needs wings in order to do an angel's job, on this day she was created to be the perfect angel for me.

Wednesday, 24 June 2015

Kai.

I dreamt of her
Her face, freshly pale.
Deceiving my medulla that man cannot dream of one whom does not exist
I ran my hands through the passes of her body.
At twilight her eyes lit up a sort of fire I breathed.

I bit her lip with my eyes open to see the hair at the back of her neck stand up and embrace me
I kissed her so deep with the hope that she'd forget whose air she was breathing
The thought that it was too soon for it to become our air had already surpassed.

She was a mess of a half smoked spliff and I a mess of spilled ink on an unfinished piece of handwriting
She had enough language dancing on her tongue that I understood
Her body covered in black tar as she human danced and re enacted the poetry I recited.

We sat
She mirrored me
We sat
The mirror vanished
Do not awaken me
Reality never seemed to amaze me anyway

Tuesday, 23 June 2015

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Quarter After Eight, your soul is art that decorates a blank paper.
Mary don't you weep,
Even though I fancy the howling sound of your harmonica. 

Your taste becomes a fence and within it you slobber in the sea of sameness.
And never otherness.

Fate tries to conceal me by suppressing my lips to form an unknown smile
For they say a face is a mask that allows us to unmask ourselves.
Cigarette stained lies, do not tell me to smile.

Mary don't you mourn, looking at the reflection and seeing everything you hated in the shadow where i stood
Reminiscing about how that goldfish kind of love was never my kind of wonderful

"Ain't nothing to it, really, just a simple flex of a muscle"

Flay my skin
Stuff blood diamonds in my mouth
Inject surrealism into my blood stream
Just do not bend my knees and tell me to smile

Wednesday, 29 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 29 : The Lake House That The Soul Built


This tiny lake house near the lagoon–
One to protect the heart,
Two to crinkle the nose

For a barefoot dweller’s inner Zen.
Let us go skinny dipping for inner zest.
Bonfire nights, sunset boulevards,

Big-eyed boys wearing their souls on their trunks
While lies lay astray
In this tiny lake house near the lagoon.

The caressing wind starts to fade away,
Summer songs,
Bottom feeders and silent witnesses –

Big dipper standing barefaced
Wondering like a lonely cloud,

Bonfire nights and sunset boulevards.

Tuesday, 28 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 28 : Bridge Of Mason Jars


Burning bridges from dead ashes of unforgiving nightmares
Ghostly feelings
Burning bridges to light ways out of darkness
Bright lights distract their eyes from the real me

I told her I loved the melody to her giggle clap
Limited mouth on limited spoken words
I already had the heart, with time I just needed to discover the Mason jar
No more emptying jars out

I have one last bridge to burn out,
Not this one
Some roads are meant to be travelled over and over again
Just for security and new configuration
Just not this one


I can not blaze a bridge I never crossed

Monday, 27 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 27 : Herbs and Coffee

Hay(na)ku Poem

Icients 
of mind,
Herbs and coffee. 

Innocence
unfolding the
flames sparking greens.

Pull
my roots,
watch me grow.

Toss
aside thoughts . . .
Herbs and coffee

Pause
don't wonder,
Sit and inhale —

Sunday, 26 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 26 : Still I Stand, Sarah Baartman



20 years,
I was 20 years old in 1810 when I got onto a ship to Britain with my master.
I was on a quest to find fame and inner coexisting happiness.
It was not to my knowledge that I would be the main act at a carnival in a “freak show

Black Venus,
  They call called me
Venus Noire
  They called me Hottentot
  But I am
         SARAH BAARTMAN

Daughter of a Khoisan man’s son,
Whose derrière from which you desire a son
Whose beauty you have stripped off the face of the sun

As I walked down the street the white men smoking cigars whistled at me to make me affirm how grandiose my rear end is
I stand.
As European women stopped me in order to touch my hair because it looked “peculiar”
I stand.
As they called me a freak of nature but little did they know that if anything I am Mother Nature who gave them the mothers that mothered them
I stand.
As a naked plastered body
I stand
As mere skeletons on display
I stand
As brains and genitals in the Natural Museum
I stand in the UK,
I stand as visual display through the Americas
I stand in Paris

I stand, far away from home.

Ask them, when will they take me back home?
Tell them I demand to go back home

Tell them, I stand, far away from home.

187 years,
I was 26 when I ceased to exist and it took them 187 years to take me back home, in a coffin.
I was not alive to kiss my motherland,
But even though, sorrows no more
Do not forget me, remember me as
SARAH BAARTMAN

Daughter of a Khoisan man’s son
Whose derrière from which you wish you had a son

Whose beauty you can never strip off the face of the sun.

Saturday, 25 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 25 : Clerihew : Hades



Dear Sir Hades
You have recently gone off your wits end on a quest to find Free Carelessness
talking of not being "A tree, for you do not give shade"
be it that it had never ought to have occurred. Find you. Do You. 



Friday, 24 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 24 : Uhuru Africa

My favourite Poem:

Mutabaruka –Dis Poem


Dis poem shall speak of the wretched sea that washed ships to these shores of mothers crying for their young swallowed up by the sea.

Dis poem shall say nothing new
Dis poem shall speak of time
Time unlimited
Time undefined

Dis poem shall call names like Lumumba, Kenyatta. Nkrumah, Hannibal
Akhenaton, Malcolm
Garvey, Haile Selassie

Dis poem is vexed about apartheid, racism, fascism
The klu Klux Klan, riots in Brixton, Atlanta, Jim jones.
Dis poem is revolting against 1st world, 2nd world, 3rd world division man made decision

Dis poem is like all the rest
Dis poem will not be amongst great literary works,
Will not be recited by poetry enthusiasts,
Will not be quoted by politicians nor men of religion

Dis poem is knives, bombs, guns, blood, fire blazing for freedom
Yes dis poem is a drum
Ashanti, mau mau, ibo, Yoruba, nyahbingi warriors
Uhuru uhuru
Uhuru Namibia
Uhuru Soweto
Uhuru Africa
Dis poem will not change things
Dis poem need to be changed
Dis poem is a rebirth of a people
Arising, awaking, understanding
Dis poem speak, is speaking, have spoken
Dis poem shall continue even when poets have stopped writing
Dis poem shall survive you, me, it shall linger in history in your mind, in time forever
Dis poem is time only time will tell
Dis poem is still not written
Dis poem has no poet
Dis poem is just a part of the story
His-story, her-story, our-story, the story still untold
Dis poem is now ringing, talking, irritating, making you want to stop it, but dis poem will not stop
Dis poem is long cannot be short
Dis poem cannot be tamed cannot be blamed
The story is still not told about dis poem
Dis poem is old, new
Dis poem was copied from the bible your prayer book
Playboy magazine the N.Y. times readers digest
The C.I.A. files, the K.G.B. files
Dis poem is no secret
Dis poem shall be called boring stupid senseless
Dis poem is watching u trying to make sense from dis poem
Dis poem is messing up your brains
Making u want to stop listening to dis poem but u shall not stop listening to dis poem
U need to know what will be said next in dis poem
Dis poem shall disappoint u, because
Dis poem is to be continued in your mind in your mind
in your mind your mind.


Melodia Dreyer –This Poem

This poem awakens laying souls and tired thoughts.

This poem will not sell you back your own African brother’s blood for employment.
This poem is not time conscious so do not wait for this poem

This poem calls upon
Mutabaruka, Madiba, Gandhi,
Luther, Baartman, Lennon, Angelou, Achebe,

This poem is mad about African Xenophobia, Black on black violence, white on black violence, white on white violence, Boko Haram terrorism, Passion killing, Police shootings.

This poem has a writer with a grandiose story, 
Hers&Hers story, His&His story.

This poem is a medium of our creator
Liberdade Angola
Nnwereonwe Nigeria
Xorriyadda Somalia
Freedom Zimbabwe
Amandla South Africa
Vryheid Namibia
Uhuru Africa

NO TO XENOPHOBIA


Thursday, 23 April 2015

NaPoWriMo Day 23 : Pandora's Tarot



Dirt is found within blood and pain
And pain found within tarot cards.

Shuffle.

The fool, he makes not the king to smile
He finds himself between Vikings and vagabonds
Old man with an infant mentality
A wanderer of lady bugs in between rocks.
 
Shuffle.

Eight of cups, I pour volatile wine
Reasons why the Hierophant’s sorrows linger.
Chasing fortnights back to tomorrow
Never to yesterday.

Shuffle.

The hermit, unruly old hag
In love with the thought of being in love.
Comfortable with the thought of being alone
Walks on the path of individuality
Aloneness is not lonely.

Aloneness found within tarot cards.