by Bandile Gumbi
Giving up
They announced
Change took a detour
To council with an old friend
It was around teatime
He is detained
We know once old friends get-to-gather
The moss grows under feet
He might be rooted for millennia
The progressive movement can wait
Change has been around for ages
Its agile youthful feet
Use to act just in time
For a bygone revolutionary moment
These days
The heart might be in the right place
But change is delimited by age
Just, maybe its time for a new age
Giving In
I will not look you in the eye
The blank space next to your left ear
Holds much fascination
I t does not affect my nervous system
Nor aim to initiate involuntary communication
Yes, I will look at the cityscape
Pass by on the right side of your ear
It rushes past like I do
It asks no questions
And I am not giving any answers
I will not take up any particular struggle
I was not born of my mother’s struggle dreams
But conceived in between idle chatter and shopping sprees
On Longmarket street
Indifferently numb I will not comment
Answer only when spoken too
There is nothing more than this
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Insanity
by Bandile Gumbi
While your body
Stands at the shore of your past
Your yearnings take a flightful dive
To the depths and contours
Of the land of your mother’s mother
As the perpetual identity puts to rest
The juxtaposed questions
At the right angle of your confusion
You have always seemed
To be swimming up-stream
With the diligence of a mad woman
Catching flies in midair
Your fears are buried in the still waters
Only to resurface
With the floods
A constant wanderer
Always at the beginning
Of complete circles
You smell the winds
Before they have blown the house of cards
Where you have taken refugee
Reminding you of the oath
Your poetic heart pledges your destiny too
You have kept us all
Gasping for air
As you ride the tornado
To your metamorphosised self
You have knocked yourself
Against the shadows of doubt
As you search
While your body
Stands at the shore of your past
Your yearnings take a flightful dive
To the depths and contours
Of the land of your mother’s mother
As the perpetual identity puts to rest
The juxtaposed questions
At the right angle of your confusion
You have always seemed
To be swimming up-stream
With the diligence of a mad woman
Catching flies in midair
Your fears are buried in the still waters
Only to resurface
With the floods
A constant wanderer
Always at the beginning
Of complete circles
You smell the winds
Before they have blown the house of cards
Where you have taken refugee
Reminding you of the oath
Your poetic heart pledges your destiny too
You have kept us all
Gasping for air
As you ride the tornado
To your metamorphosised self
You have knocked yourself
Against the shadows of doubt
As you search
Chop-Change
by Bandile Gumbi
Fast Forward
To pressure cooker
Cockiness
Born free
In a microwave
A figure on a leash
Of another micro-economics scheme
Domesticated
By the silverscreen
A dog
With a god complex
Swallowed a placebo
Drank half emptiness
Shooted-up
Powdered wet dreams
They raised their asses to the camera and farted in the west
The stench still lingers
In our southern palates
As we drink black naked beauty
With our café laite
While stroking our weave
In the name of independence
We're definitely stuck
Between the s's
Of assimilation
A banana is an exotic fruit in Africa
When chasing
Coconut dreams
I've learned to make do with plenty
Worshippers of the scarce rarities
Might as well
Take the backseat burner
They say on this one-day
A camouflaged chameleon
Crowned in plastic thorns
Claimed the thrown of a lion
They play games with hyenas
On their playstations
Bombed-out
Bombarded
In blasphemy
My girl-child fear and I
Have since had a one on one
On issues of faith and power
Joined the procession
To our god mother courageous
These days
I pen this revolution with an anxiety
Of a timid bastard child
Of political correctness
With my tail on fire
Before the hunters
Of the funky and hip
Fit my soul into a hipster
Auction the Word
For plastic smiles and
Chop –Change
Fast Forward
To pressure cooker
Cockiness
Born free
In a microwave
A figure on a leash
Of another micro-economics scheme
Domesticated
By the silverscreen
A dog
With a god complex
Swallowed a placebo
Drank half emptiness
Shooted-up
Powdered wet dreams
They raised their asses to the camera and farted in the west
The stench still lingers
In our southern palates
As we drink black naked beauty
With our café laite
While stroking our weave
In the name of independence
We're definitely stuck
Between the s's
Of assimilation
A banana is an exotic fruit in Africa
When chasing
Coconut dreams
I've learned to make do with plenty
Worshippers of the scarce rarities
Might as well
Take the backseat burner
They say on this one-day
A camouflaged chameleon
Crowned in plastic thorns
Claimed the thrown of a lion
They play games with hyenas
On their playstations
Bombed-out
Bombarded
In blasphemy
My girl-child fear and I
Have since had a one on one
On issues of faith and power
Joined the procession
To our god mother courageous
These days
I pen this revolution with an anxiety
Of a timid bastard child
Of political correctness
With my tail on fire
Before the hunters
Of the funky and hip
Fit my soul into a hipster
Auction the Word
For plastic smiles and
Chop –Change
New Year Wish 2006
by Phillippa Yaa De Villiers
The stars were all just doing fine when with a whee of joy the sky fire spiders burst upwards and stopped just between us and heaven’s diamonds and exploded in candelabra of colours upstaging the stars which quietly went about their usual business, occasionally exploding and not at all impressive next to the fireworks. Nature is distant. Sixty million light years away a comet crashed into blackness and nobody knew so nobody could be bothered because right here (and charity does begin at home) we watched the spiders burn and die and reached for another whiskey and kissed the closest person and wished once again for another one thousand things or just one thing that would make us happy
Our wishes caught fire
Roared into space, exploded,
And rekindled desire.
The stars were all just doing fine when with a whee of joy the sky fire spiders burst upwards and stopped just between us and heaven’s diamonds and exploded in candelabra of colours upstaging the stars which quietly went about their usual business, occasionally exploding and not at all impressive next to the fireworks. Nature is distant. Sixty million light years away a comet crashed into blackness and nobody knew so nobody could be bothered because right here (and charity does begin at home) we watched the spiders burn and die and reached for another whiskey and kissed the closest person and wished once again for another one thousand things or just one thing that would make us happy
Our wishes caught fire
Roared into space, exploded,
And rekindled desire.
How to stay warm in the city
by Phillippa Yaa De Villiers
The Yeoville winter evening
loves its people
skin to skin:
this seducing season that
stripped the trees now
tongues nipples into hardness;
charcoal breath caresses
naked necks and runs
its freezing fingers over faces;
strokes
the limbs with
intense
sustained
relentless
lust.
As the molten heart of day submits,
the city inherits
its transient gold,
but we resist the insistent evening’s kiss
with its
traces of death’s embraces;
we quit the cloying cold
for
our private and modular,
singular accommodations;
one by one
we blow to flame our comfort
and surrender
to domestic rituals:
Yeoville, imboula mountain
The lights of flats like embers.
The Yeoville winter evening
loves its people
skin to skin:
this seducing season that
stripped the trees now
tongues nipples into hardness;
charcoal breath caresses
naked necks and runs
its freezing fingers over faces;
strokes
the limbs with
intense
sustained
relentless
lust.
As the molten heart of day submits,
the city inherits
its transient gold,
but we resist the insistent evening’s kiss
with its
traces of death’s embraces;
we quit the cloying cold
for
our private and modular,
singular accommodations;
one by one
we blow to flame our comfort
and surrender
to domestic rituals:
Yeoville, imboula mountain
The lights of flats like embers.
La Villette, September 2005
by Phillippa Yaa De Villiers
The subway station:
empty eyes, the flaccid legs
of passive passengers,
invisible violence of silence in
this inhospitable home:
a transient family of
strangers speaking indifference
in seven languages.
Below a pouting nymph in crusted lace
sits a daughter of Allah, her face
framed by the sombre constraint of her faith.
Frozen images
entice her eye,
kitchens and lingerie
advertising intimacy.
Cold stares of
fellow passengers
denying her
humanity.
Rails clatter, and she rises to greet
the evening train, her eyes alive, meeting
this rushing tube of motion, exploding open.
The man’s divining eyes
turn over the pebbles of the evening faces,
discard them
till he finds her,
his everyday bride,
married to the moment,
their eyes
celebrate a union:
here, at last
they are
at home.
The subway station:
empty eyes, the flaccid legs
of passive passengers,
invisible violence of silence in
this inhospitable home:
a transient family of
strangers speaking indifference
in seven languages.
Below a pouting nymph in crusted lace
sits a daughter of Allah, her face
framed by the sombre constraint of her faith.
Frozen images
entice her eye,
kitchens and lingerie
advertising intimacy.
Cold stares of
fellow passengers
denying her
humanity.
Rails clatter, and she rises to greet
the evening train, her eyes alive, meeting
this rushing tube of motion, exploding open.
The man’s divining eyes
turn over the pebbles of the evening faces,
discard them
till he finds her,
his everyday bride,
married to the moment,
their eyes
celebrate a union:
here, at last
they are
at home.
Kissing in Public
by Phillippa Yaa De Villiers
I want to see more lovers
kissing in public,
their mouths open,
eyes laughing,
hand-clasped buttocks
breast-to-breast,
naked love sandwich
garnished with clothes.
I like to see that
electric charge
as loving eyes cross the
silken
swathes of hungry air
to be together;
as lovers rise from the park pillow
sweep non-existent grass off each other’s
backs and bottoms,
hands all over
each other.
I want to see more lovers
creating islands of intimacy
in the cold sea of
eyes cynical
eyes prying
eyes envying:
waves throw themselves up to the highest cliffs
then retreat, disillusioned, to their sulky, salty self;
doomed to remain
on the continental shelf.
I want to see more lovers
kissing in public,
their mouths open,
eyes laughing,
hand-clasped buttocks
breast-to-breast,
naked love sandwich
garnished with clothes.
I like to see that
electric charge
as loving eyes cross the
silken
swathes of hungry air
to be together;
as lovers rise from the park pillow
sweep non-existent grass off each other’s
backs and bottoms,
hands all over
each other.
I want to see more lovers
creating islands of intimacy
in the cold sea of
eyes cynical
eyes prying
eyes envying:
waves throw themselves up to the highest cliffs
then retreat, disillusioned, to their sulky, salty self;
doomed to remain
on the continental shelf.
The rain children
by Phillippa Yaa De Villiers
They permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees
as thin as rain, these children staring,
as democracy parades through the streets.
Glue substitutes for blankets and teats,
the streetmother grey concrete skirt uncaring:
they permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees
and hands reproach, demand, confront, entreat:
tightly walleted, my conscience, and unsparing
as democracy parades through the streets.
Rain fills my well-fed stomach. All my feats
are washed away with soul’s comparing:
they permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees
as cold as sorrow. Presidents decree
but rain soaks paper promises, tearing,
as democracy parades through the streets.
Like driving drops or drizzle, paring
warmth from skin, dissolving, wearing:
they permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees,
as democracy parades through the streets
They permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees
as thin as rain, these children staring,
as democracy parades through the streets.
Glue substitutes for blankets and teats,
the streetmother grey concrete skirt uncaring:
they permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees
and hands reproach, demand, confront, entreat:
tightly walleted, my conscience, and unsparing
as democracy parades through the streets.
Rain fills my well-fed stomach. All my feats
are washed away with soul’s comparing:
they permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees
as cold as sorrow. Presidents decree
but rain soaks paper promises, tearing,
as democracy parades through the streets.
Like driving drops or drizzle, paring
warmth from skin, dissolving, wearing:
they permeate, the poor, their eyes and knees,
as democracy parades through the streets
The River
by Phillippa Yaa De Villiers
One day the Hillbrow Tower started to cry.
Real tears poured down its sides
collected in the gutters,
and ran down Banket Street,
and when
the other buildings saw the tower's sadness
they started to weep in sympathy.
Soon the whole city was sobbing,
the tears joined other tears
and filled the depressions and valleys.
They covered the koppies,
and collected in City Deep,
cascading over Gold Reef City
flooding Fordsburg
and soaking Soweto.
They flowed until they became a river
that carried us into the night,
where our dreams grew
taller than buildings
taller than buildings
One day the Hillbrow Tower started to cry.
Real tears poured down its sides
collected in the gutters,
and ran down Banket Street,
and when
the other buildings saw the tower's sadness
they started to weep in sympathy.
Soon the whole city was sobbing,
the tears joined other tears
and filled the depressions and valleys.
They covered the koppies,
and collected in City Deep,
cascading over Gold Reef City
flooding Fordsburg
and soaking Soweto.
They flowed until they became a river
that carried us into the night,
where our dreams grew
taller than buildings
taller than buildings
I lost a poem.
by Anni Snyman
Mind you,
the last time I had it with me
was on the corner of Jellicoe and Oxford, turning
right. I thought I had stuffed it
into my bag of memory, but this morning when I looked for it
scratched amongst the paper slips, receipts and echoes
of yesterdays conversations and thoughts –
I just. could. not. find it.
Can't put my finger on it
in this wordless pit of grime
that collects at the bottom of my knowing.
Mind full.
Chewey sweets and broken endearmints
glossy coins, shadowed eyes
pigment scattered everywhere
Who's to say what it was worth?
the Nobel or the Nothing?
Was it stillborn loss or merely menstruation
Is it now a blessing or a curse
ghosting about, seeking its maker?
Thought I would clear things out,
allow it rise again, but
it's not in the emptiness of yoga
either, even though I stretch and stretch
no mind
sweat dripping on the mat
no mind
breath on my tongue,
no mind
Ohmmmm in my throat.
oh my
All I can remember is
that I lost it
and that there was
a scrap of sense
to it.
Nevermind.
Mind you,
the last time I had it with me
was on the corner of Jellicoe and Oxford, turning
right. I thought I had stuffed it
into my bag of memory, but this morning when I looked for it
scratched amongst the paper slips, receipts and echoes
of yesterdays conversations and thoughts –
I just. could. not. find it.
Can't put my finger on it
in this wordless pit of grime
that collects at the bottom of my knowing.
Mind full.
Chewey sweets and broken endearmints
glossy coins, shadowed eyes
pigment scattered everywhere
Who's to say what it was worth?
the Nobel or the Nothing?
Was it stillborn loss or merely menstruation
Is it now a blessing or a curse
ghosting about, seeking its maker?
Thought I would clear things out,
allow it rise again, but
it's not in the emptiness of yoga
either, even though I stretch and stretch
no mind
sweat dripping on the mat
no mind
breath on my tongue,
no mind
Ohmmmm in my throat.
oh my
All I can remember is
that I lost it
and that there was
a scrap of sense
to it.
Nevermind.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Begging
by Siphiwe Ka Ngwenya
begging has become a profession
unemployment our occupation
every soul wandering on city pavements
turning poverty into fiction
I always read words of pain
like graffiti scribbled on these sombre faces
& hidden smiles
sore lips & quivering bruised hands
who have learned the art
of lying without hurting
from those who speak diverse tongues
of the streets
of blistered hope & lynched dreams
I see them everywhere
For I am just a poet
Trudging their gravel road
begging has become a profession
unemployment our occupation
every soul wandering on city pavements
turning poverty into fiction
I always read words of pain
like graffiti scribbled on these sombre faces
& hidden smiles
sore lips & quivering bruised hands
who have learned the art
of lying without hurting
from those who speak diverse tongues
of the streets
of blistered hope & lynched dreams
I see them everywhere
For I am just a poet
Trudging their gravel road
Soweto
by Siphiwe Ka Ngwenya
Womb of black souls
White with stains
Signs that welcome a stranger
Mean caution
Not coition
Traffic lights red at night
Just yield
& take flight
Sorrow & joy
Lead to you at sunset
Traffic jam of dreams
In the void
Come Friday
Come month end
Ghetto vibration staggering
Couples cuddle
Muggers lurk
The law lives on the loot
Before they shoot
Angelic bodies gyrate to kwaito music
Maskandi takes the lead
When glasses smash on walls
Between a lull of emergency sirens
No ambush
Not even derailing
Of the train dripping
Gravy
I cannot taste
Womb of black souls
White with stains
Signs that welcome a stranger
Mean caution
Not coition
Traffic lights red at night
Just yield
& take flight
Sorrow & joy
Lead to you at sunset
Traffic jam of dreams
In the void
Come Friday
Come month end
Ghetto vibration staggering
Couples cuddle
Muggers lurk
The law lives on the loot
Before they shoot
Angelic bodies gyrate to kwaito music
Maskandi takes the lead
When glasses smash on walls
Between a lull of emergency sirens
No ambush
Not even derailing
Of the train dripping
Gravy
I cannot taste
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