Poems

THE IDEA OF YOU    23/04/06

On that stormy night
Filled with thousand lamps of light
The words and promises, I threw to you
Bounce back to me and you
They echo through my body
Filling me with a spirit so holy
Within me they vibrate
Within me the reverberate
Oh my dearest dear
How I love your idea
To your idea
I lend an ear
To your ideology of love I subscribe
Your name in my heart I scribe
The way you prescribe
And for eternity I shall ascribe
In my mind I want your idea to proliferate
So in the ways of love I can be literate
These words of love must be punctuated with alliterations
Devoid of any alterations
And confusing interpretations

Oh my dearest dear
How I love your idea
To your idea
I lend an ear

MATTERS OF THE SPIRIT

Amputated hearts
Limping one legged
Tiptoeing
Over landmines of sin
Too late
Fragile
Can’t be sustained
On crutches
Even of steel
Coffins
Unhomely mansions
Housing shells
Drenched in expensive perfumes
Cannot rent space
To maimed souls
With tattered wounds
That sleep like a bird
In the unstill of night
Bodies
Battered buildings
Corpses
Decaying walls
That lie and stand
In grave state, of war,
ravaged
cracked
cannot be revamped
nor papered
with lies
and commercial coat of paint
drought
flooding our hearts
eroding the decomposing mind
cannot be watered
by blood of the lamb
and everyone is saved
man does not live on bread alone
neither can he be saved by grace alone
no tons of gold
chemicals, science, technology
can buy solutions
to spiritual problems
these are matters of the spirit


I ALSO WRITE LOVE POEMS YOU KNOW

Coz south Africa
Is now a free prison
The pen can run unchained
And coz when I see blank pages
I become inspired
I also write love poems you know
I don’t just write about these dark spaces
Opening up all the time
I don’t only write about poor shadows
Tagging loyally, alongside me
Shadowing me
To whorehouses, in drunken binges
And temples of the gods
These shadows
That have become a shadow of my former glory
My poems are not always angry
For these politicians
Are enough to send you on a drinking spree
Right into the arms of prostitutes
My poems are not always angry
At these fuckin’ politicians
That screw everything
Going on rampage
Kissing babies
Screwing workers
Screwing everything
Even virgins
Screwing everything
Stealing hearts
Winning minds
How I hate these fuckin’ politicians
Scum of the earth
Sorry this is not a poem
About the fuckin’ politicians
This is a love poem
But you see the fingers of these fuckin’ politicians are dirty
Those banknotes leave bloodstains
When they dip their hands in the national coffers
When they eat on our behalf
When they kill us for our own sake
Because they know the people
Better than the people know themselves
Because the party is the custodian of the revolution
Forgive me but when I try to write a love poem
These politicians just creep in
Because they have violated everything
Even our inner spaces
They own the television sets we bought
They silence us so they can speak on our behalf
I also write love poems you know
About wholesome shells
That speak volumes of silence
I write love poems
Because I have tons of love
If my love could be converted into hard cash
I would buy these poor politicians
Some class and honesty in the marketplace
I also write love poems you know
I also write love poems you know
I don’t just sing about my machine gun
But about that other machine gun
Beautiful and erect
That drill nice holes in vaginas
I also write love poems you know
I don’t just write blind poems
That run amok without a guide dog
I write about black women
Their dark skin tones
And their dark hair and voices
These fuckin politicians
How they would love us to write about love and flowers

STORIES OF HOME

how can you talk me
into not talking
or writing
about stories of home
saying stories of home are nothing to write home about
when I can talk
and write about home
till the cows come back home?
these towers of babel
block my view of home
for in this populous city
i feel overcrowded
and alone
I long for the human touch
Of birds whistling at me
With leaves ruffling their feathers
On the edges of the countryside
At home the spaces are vast
I can be figured out
And be fingered
By itchy palms
Longing to touch my blood
In a priceless handshake
At home people know your name
They want to know your surname
So they can call you by your clan name
At home people talk to you
And not to their cellphones
So how can you talk me
into not talking
or writing
about stories of home
saying stories of home are nothing to write home about
when I can talk
and write about home
till the cows come back home?

THIS NIGHTMARE IS SUCKING MY EYES DRY 18/04/06

Ancestors have rubbed my eyes
With chilli-peppered salt
But I still stand
In the eye of the storm
Holding for dear life
On the tilting pillars
With sweaty palms
Tons of towers
Teetering towards my small frame
In this dance of death
This is the record of the storm so far
Ice cold statistics
Naked facts:
Gyrating torn ligarments, wobbling
A wrecked scalp
Sheltering a cyclone of gusty winds
Strands of hair
Standing on wits end
A frozen tear
Hanging by a thread
On the edges of my eyelids
Torrents of emotions
flooding my marrow bones
the wailing and gnashing of teeth
in an empty space
deep running scars
of whiplashes on my frigid skeleton
dry water criss-crossing my wounds
stale sweat coursing my veins
a monotonous sound
of blooddrops
dripping on my toenails
a numb feeling
that I cannot shake away
a desert of dreams
in this nightmare
that is my life
the ancestors have rubbed my eyes with chilli peppered salt
I am a walking zombie
this nightmare
Is sucking my eyes dry


NERVOUS CAMERA

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 4:15 pm

when we come to tell the story of Soweto on film
the camera would be nervous
it will dance uneasily
to capture castrated dreams of freedom
of fruit plucked raw
children wasting under enemy fire
the tracking shot
would travel down memory lane
to one scorching winter in 76
to focus on the gushing wound of hector
and close up
on the artistic like fingers of mbuyisa
that tried to prolong his dear life
the camera will come back here
to tell the story
of a day that started like any other day
and ended
like no other day
through the vibrating microphone
the voice of tsietsi would come back to life
booming through the airwaves
storming the corridors of the sabc
jamming the networks
furiously, and frantically
the prophetic writings of steve
will type themselves on screen
selling free ideas of black power
black beauty
black man you are on your own!
nervously,
the camera would tilt up its head with pride
to capture the cascading black clouds
bowing down in salute
to fallen young soldiers
armed with textbooks, bricks and pens
the camera would freeze mid air
to capture the flying stone
split in between with a BANG
by marauding enemy bullets
the camera would hitch a ride
on the wings of a dove
to give aerial shots
of a township enveloped in smoke
streets under siege
and capture the nauseating smell
of teargas drilling into flesh
the blood drops on the grass
will gather again
to splash the lens
washing dry the tears of our mothers
and when
in the comfort of your own homes
your eyes have filled their sight
I will direct the camera
to pan to a better tomorrow
but before that
to tilt up its head once more
and freeze on a comet star
winking, blinking
at a new dawn

WE NEED TO FIND WAYS

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 2:07 pm

we need to find ways
to double-cross the one ways
and criss-crossing by ways
they have carved for us in different ways
they must not lead us sideways
there is either their way
or the right way
to ascend the heavenly high way

YESTERDAY

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 1:22 am
Yesterday we got hired
And today we got fired
Because tomorrow we got tired
Of being nothing but hired hands
In the execution of our very souls

MORE IS YET TO COME

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 3:07 pm
more is yet to come
we have not yet become
the expected outcome
of our messiahs coming
and our generation’s shortcomings
the death of mortality is still coming
heaven awaits our great homecoming

IF ALL ELSE FAILS

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 3:43 pm
if all else fails
we will not give up the ghost
we will try dying

THIS IS MY SEASON

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 10:34 am
This is my season
I need to reason
And be seasoned
I must multiply
And procreate
For sometimes God blesses you in spring
And curse you in summer.

A TRIBUTE TO MY HERITAGE

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 7:48 pm
If you want to know who I am
look with me
at the bubbling waters of the Limpopo
you will see my image
blacker than the night
darker than my shadow
for I was drawn in Africa/eden
coloured by the sun black
I dyed my hair in the Black Umfolozi River
it was combed by the Mozambique current
I circumcised in the Kilimanjaro
I emerged reborn
I climbed to the top of the Egyptian pyramids
to be transfigured by the stars
I solved the riddle of the Great Sphinx
by speaking in an ancient language
I have known the man in the moon
since time immemorial
he illuminated my path
as I wandered in the Namib Desert
On the banks of Uthukela
I danced ubungoma
with the ancestors
I was humbled
by the beauty of the Zulu maidens
in the Umhlanga Reed Ceremony
In the mystic Lake Funduzi
I was initiated in the ways of prophets
I passed with distinction
I am the slave that survived the Middle Passage
to become master of my soul
and inscribe my legacy
on the Senegalese sands
On the back of Sarah Baartman
I carried the cross of her descendants
who lived
to tell the story of crucifixion
I lead the way with the stuff of Zulu kings
in the Holy Mountain of Nhlangakazi
I inherited
the Kingdom of Ezulwini
On the chest of Ukhahlamba
I played umlabalaba
with the stones that rained
from the prayers of Queen Modjadji
In the royal court of Moshoeshoe
I freely dispensed justice
with the wisdom of Solomon
in the winter of the Zimbabwe Ruins
I basked in the summer
of the colourful Ashanti cloth
from the clear sky blue heavens
I drained the rain
to water the eden vineyards
the tales I told in the fireplace
are longer than the Nile
they remain tattooed in blood
in the caves of the Khoisan
I am the regeneration of the spirit of Hintsa
in my veins flows the blood of the Massai warriors
I am the warrior spirit
that guided the Cetshwayo regiments
in the War of Isandlwana
before the snake ascended the altar
the lion and the lamb
grazed on corn and seeds
on the palm of my hand
I caught the mopani worms
before the earliest birds
and composed with them the first melody
before dawn
together we sang Imbube
choreographed the wind and the trees
and navigated the distant horizons
I planted the seeds of the Morula tree
and showered under waterfalls of milk
from Cape to Cairo
I carved the path for future generations
and spiced the Indian Ocean
with the salt of my sweat
I sprayed Bhambata with war intelezi
and shielded him in the forests of Nkandla
I am the Father
the San and the Khoi spirit
I came before sound and light
when God discovered Eden
I discovered God

A VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 4:32 pm
This is his master’s voice
By a special decree of the ruling class
We interrupt your victory celebrations
To inform you
A black future has been cancelled
Until further notice
And your 1994 freedom has been delayed
By another thirteen years
Because the wabenzis and yengeni drivers are on strike
And your retired revolutionaries
Are still on holiday
During this period
In between caviar and champagne and socialist cigars
They shall sign binding freedoms
With the IMF and the World Bank
On your behalf
And the Esteemed Governor of The Reserve Bank
Shall reserve the right
To withhold your wealth
In the interest of foreign capital
And good governance
Martyrs
Shall be killed again
Without being resurrected
In the meantime
You suckers can continue binging
In your orgy of self-mutilation
To feed your hunger for true freedom

LESSONS FROM POLOKWANE

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 11:53 am

When father and son
Go to war together as allies
They cease to become father and son
They become soldiers in arms
They address each other as comrades
And when they return home
To share the spoils of war
They have become equals earned in war
They have both tasted the blood of their enemy in equal measure
They have spoken the same language of war
The father can no longer lay down the law of the house to the son
And the son cannot receive the law of the house from the father
Is it not a democracy?
After all, have they not all tasted blood equally?
It is difficult to move from a relationship of equals to unequals
Such was the tragedy of our revolution

IT IS NOT EASY

Filed under: poetry, msizi moshoetsi — ABRAXAS @ 8:02 am

our lullabies have lulled the world
into insomnia
we have sung so many dirges
we have kept the dead wide awake
our melodies
sound like stuck records
our mournful cries scarred with indelible scratches
out of tune with the harmony of nature
monsters and mummies
have danced and gyrated
at the cacophony of our voices
it is not easy to sing with a lump in your throat
nor a gaping wound in your vocal chords
it is not easy to sleep with cold feet