the cycle of hate …
reeking of venom,
soaked in the stench of rage,
still, silent, prowling,
lying in wait, to pounce,
maul, go for the jugular,
snap, sink teeth into,
then, of course,
allow the hapless prey to bleed out, then consume,
and naturally,
expel …
to be continued … … …
Humanity ?
Us men,
almost always,
men,
myopic, impotent men,
our manliness oozing, seeping,
dripping,
soaking,
in swathes of red,
scarlet blood on infant skin,
hardened,
caked,
dried on cold, dead flesh.
Who am i,
a man,
myopic, impotent,
my swagger puffed on conceit,
my country right or wrong,
my god not yours,
my culture your caste,
tribe, sect, ideology … … …
Who am i ?
a man ?
knitted into,
shared humanity ?
Perhaps ’tis time,
to let this rotten, festering,
glossy, botoxed, tucked, trimmed, diseased skin,
moult,
laying stark this sham,
this theatre,
these lies, the maggots burrowing deep,
into man,
chiselling, smashing,
beheading, hanging,
shooting, bombing, drone-ing, killing, raping, torturing, killing, killing, killing,
excising man,
ripping man out of humanity.
Yes,
i am man.
Mrs. Agnes Msimang,
ANC Stalwart and mother to countless South African exiles, during the struggle against Apartheid tyranny.
Long Live the Spirit of The Women!
Now that You have touched a Woman, You have struck a Rock!
Amandla!
All Power to the People!
( the photograph below was taken at Luthuli House, Johannesburg recently )
the photograph below was taken in Delhi, India, sometime in the mid 1970s
The Women
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid’s racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their ‘racial superiority’, their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)
broken wings, shattered,
hugging the frigid ground,
emotions scampering,
flitting between smiles and tears,
peaking crests, plunging into valleys,
of loss, of fear,
of future unclear,
of that,
of this,
often pain,
and,
sometimes,
sometimes,
a shard of,
bliss.
there shall not be peace …
as hunger rumbles,
desolation stalks,
poverty numbs,
apathy dumbs,
there shall be no peace,
until hungry mouths are fed,
till poverty slithers away,
back into the coffers that prey,
the greedy upon the needy,
this is how it has always been,
is this how it shall always be …
and when this shroud,
the skin we moult,
traversing eons, sipping kisses, lapping tongues,
mingled meadows of scarlet red,
the standard waves amidst,
the smoke, the swollen pollen, detritus of ills-scarcely-forgotten,
to flutter on the ramparts,
aloft, again,
for the pot simmers,
and the light of hope glimmers.
capitalism 101
when it breaks,
shatters,
rendering souls mute,
hearts in tatters,
does it bother you at all,
that for you to rise,
so many must fall.
the glitterati feast,
neatly,
dismembered spirits,
salving consciences,
bidding to
purchase redemption,
for continuing crimes,
that don’t make the headlines,
business as usual,
the glitterati,
lost in a fine-wine haze,
sparkling carats dazzling,
leaving the dregs behind,
as the
blindness slowly slithers,
sinking talons,
gnawing at the bone,
while the sweaty, bloody,
the pained,
lost,
the far, far too many
batter and shatter,
hacking away,
deep beneath our gleaming golden city
for pieces of glittering stone
lost, i am …
i am lost,
have been for quite a while,
cast aside,
tossed,
amongst the rubble,
of those of us who didn’t work hard enough,
study as much,
slog and strain like the good people i see,
walking past me,
everyday,
thinking to myself,
where did i go wrong,
was i not as strong,
as the good people i see,
who walk past me,
feigning ignorance,
or maybe not,
perhaps just not being able to see,
my tattered rags,
my blistered mouth,
my feet, bruised and scabbed,
my soul, my dignity,
savaged, and stabbed,
so i am lost,
in this ocean of humanity,
that walks past me,
everyday,
and it still gnaws, i have to say,
after all these years,
having shed my quota of tears,
it is i,
who embodies these good peoples fears,
why,
i still ask,
why don’t you see me?
the other half.
dregs, urchins,
the unwashed,
people,
almost, though not quite …
epithets pummel the pummelled,
elements torment the tormented,
hate, mistrust,
conceit, greed,
yours and mine,
fuels:
the diesel of hate,
the anthracite of apathy,
the hybrid greed:
as the beast of indifference gouges,
for the beast has needs,
it hungers,
it scavenges,
it continues,
evermore,
to feed.
sweltering,
trapped,
saltwater all around,
fleeing death,
surviving death on the seas,
to be greeted,
as fleas.
tripped,
brought to ones knees,
fleeing beds of nails,
shrapnel pockmarked dreams,
crossing deserted seas,
swallowed up,
regurgitated by merciless elements,
to be washed ashore,
dead,
cold,
broken,
lifeless,
on countless,
pristine tan-soaked beaches,
invisible,
unseen,
hidden in plain sight,
mute,
hushed,
silent,
as the soul of dumbed down,
traded,
inebriated humanity,
bellows,
howls,
and screeches.
The Immigrants Void – Sculpture by Bruno Catalano
http://brunocatalano.com/sculpture-bronze2/sculpture-en-bronze-bruno-catalano.php?galerie=1
an immigrants lament …
gazing at the sky
i often wonder why,
birds soaring,
high in the open sky,
are free to fly ?
is it that they have wings,
for i too have wings, friend,
so,
i often wonder why,
huddled against desolate sleet,
and,
i often wonder why,
buried under flimsy newspapersheet,
that i too have wings, friend,
i too have wings!
it is just that
my little wings,
are my tired
little feet …
_____________
(photograph of a Danish border guard playing with a Syrian girl)
seeds …
swept up
by the dust
scattered remnants
of lives once whole
now
buried
interred
in cold dead dry ground.
seeds
swept up
by the dust
seeking a glimmer
of hope
of the promise
of
a better tomorrow.
seeds
swept up
by the dust
sinking roots
hoping to belong
somewhere
anywhere
fatigued
spent
waiting
hoping
for days
moments
tomorrows
a
time
&
a
place
where one
need not
be
ever smiling
and to be
always strong
“am i buggin’ ya, don’t mean to bug ya” *
isn’t it tiresome
exhausting
to keep on
keepin’ on
hearing
seeing
bad news
all day
all night
must become irksome
to say the least …
(pure horror) not another mass ISIS execution
(pity) not another image of death on a beach
(apartheitude) not another african-american killed by the police
(pure unadulterated pity/well-meaning) not another endangered animal killed by trophy hunters in the savannah …
ad nauseum
ad infinitum
( clicks ‘like’👍 on a friend’s post
a cutesie pic of a couple walking on a beautiful beach, on a perfect summer day
somewhere in the mediterranean )
_______
* from ‘silver and gold’ off u2 album ‘rattle & hum’
the immigrant at home
fatigued
pained
cast adrift
shunned aside
living
existing
on
islands of despair
deprivation
death
human beings
you and i
who just yesterday
or perhaps many lives ago
were
hounded
persecuted
jailed
cursed
spat on
rendered
alien at home
and
then
lost at sea
mere cattle
to be hauled
onto desolate cages
mere cargo
in the
economics of flesh
and
who
now
are
everywhere
cursed
spat on
and
told
to go home
silence swells
drowning out the ceaseless chitter-chatter of days
innumerable
lost somewhere along these pathways
and having walked upon a few
and
crawled many more
i too
feel
that feeling
of feeling
bereft of hope
ah but
sprinkle some dreams coated with lies
glazed over
empty hollowed eyes
avert your sight
when they
stare at you
all cold
and
washed-up
and
dead
their
cold gaze
questioning
perhaps?
… questioning
us who feign death
on many a similar sun-drenched beach
while still squeezing in
4 hours a week
of community outreach?
lost in this ocean
of complicit howls
wails
hollow words
crocodile tears
it has no meaning
this life
these breaths we consume
nothingness
it is
just
half-muttered realpolitik …
one dead kid on a beach
… so that’s what it takes
more effigies
paraded on 24/7 TV
go look up the word ‘blowback’
and perhaps
unlike aylan
who was fed to the sea
you atleast
may
finally be
able to see
what really is
and not simply what you want it to be …
when tides of innocence wash up
dead
cold
empty on terra firma
why don’t i shudder
why don’t i care
‘cept for churning out some paltry scribbles
as the charade continues
as the world
salivates
& dribbles …
maropeng & the cradle of humankind* …
shared hopes
on
bloodied earth
of
common dreams
winding along myriad streams
whose
source is here
beneath our multi-hued feet
flowing
into a shared humanity
this shawl that should encompass us all
by
binding us together
a species with blood that is red
always red
for
we are all
the children of Africa
branched off
spread wide
but
of this soil
and
of this earth
foreign to none
hewn as one
so tell me again
what was it that
you were saying about “the bloody foreigners”
___________
*
Maropeng is a Setswana word meaning ‘returning to the place of our origins’
bloody foreigners …
these bloody foreigners
zimbabweans
somalis
angolans mozambicans syrians
pakistanis
turks
congolese
rwandans
indians
etc etc etc et al.
these bloody foreigners
flooding our clean streets
taking jobs away
from me and from you
ps: aylan kurdi was a bloody foreigner too
the migrant …
i couldn’t bid my beloved farewell
i didn’t hug my mother
i had argued with my father that morning
then
i left
fled
crouched
starved
and
died
in a lorry in austria
a boat off the coast of libya
washed ashore
cold and dead
i am that migrant
an immigrants lament …
gazing at the sky
i often wonder why,
birds soaring,
high in the open sky,
are free to fly?
is it that they have wings,
for i too have wings, friend,
so,
i often wonder why,
huddled against desolate sleet,
and,
i often wonder why,
buried under flimsy newspapersheet,
that i too have wings, friend,
i too have wings!
and my wings,
are my feet …
The Immigrant …
Seeking solace.
Seeking a home.
The immigrant finds,
rotten prejudice.
Fungal anger.
The immigrant,
alone, hoping for,
A solitary chance.
To belong.
The immigrant,
alone, always,
an outside entity.
Eternal outcast.
A viral threat.
A reeking odour.
The immigrant,
ever alone,
and alone knowing,
that no place exists,
but that lost home.
immigrant song
are we broken by spoken barbs spewing out of sewers cloaked beneath acceptable garbs while the blades of splintered humanity are sharpened into lethal shards of ‘my country right or wrong’ under the comfortable charade of clinging onto feigned piety dragged along weaving new lies obfuscating what’s right and what’s wrong waving flags like swords wielding swords to behead and to subjugate the many who’ve forever been on the wrong side of the gate shut out of the dream pummelled by untruths of working hard and doing more and shutting up because we need the money the greenback the notes the coins the oil the designer innerwear that barely shrouds the stench of putrid opulence of festering greed of capital and influence and power ripping out each seed by the by wishing a better life for all a hasty goodbye because when love and life and hopes and dreams and aspirations and desires and aches and yearning for something better just a bit better not much not much at all except for some grain for the famished and respite for the numberless banished cast away into the currents of the seas swept along islands of stillness breaking ashore with the waves of happenstance.
so yes
yes
“that’s how i got to be here”, the immigrant says …
the immigrant at home
fatigued
pained
cast adrift
shunned aside
living
existing
on
islands of despair
deprivation
death
human beings
you and i
who just yesterday
or perhaps many lives ago
were
hounded
persecuted
jailed
cursed
spat on
rendered
alien at home
and
then
lost at sea
mere cattle
to be hauled
onto desolate cages
mere cargo
in the
economics of flesh
and
who
now
are
everywhere
cursed
spat on
and
told
to go home
We are One…
Coursing through my veins,
Insistent voices call out,
Across the concrete monoliths,
Dusted gold by Johannesburg’s winds,
Into the heart of these lands,
The voices call out,
‘we are one, you and I’,
the voices say,
As my blood thumps against the walls of my veins,
Breathing life into my words,
Offering solace,
‘we are one’,
The words echo,
Through those convoluted tunnels beneath us,
Where sweat and blood mingle in search for that shiny yellow metal,
Over the townships, where daughters and mothers, brothers and friends, seek shelter from the advancing night’s chill,
Soaring high into our African sky,
Burnished bronze, kissing us with today’s last rays of light,
‘we are one’,
They all say,
These voices of your father, these voices of my mother,
Speaking to us in isiZulu, isiXhosa, Afrikaans, Sepedi, Setswana, English, Sesotho, Xitsonga, Siswati, Tshivenda, isiNdebele, Mandarin, Gujarati, Swahili, Lingala, Hausa, Somali, Portuguese, Greek, Shona…
The voices, mixed with my blood,
Become me,
‘we are one’, they say, gently,
‘we are one’, I breathe.
We are one…
I don’t know why,
but you have endured,
in the recesses of my memory,
filling in the crevasses of all these passing years,
cementing my will,
forging my spirit out of the cauldron of molten loss,
I do not know why,
but it always keeps coming back,
to you…
The Beach of Promises
1.
Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,
strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.
2.
Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck
walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.
3.
Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,
lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,
my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,
wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.
The Nameless
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Slipping through the sieve of history,
the nameless rest.
Not for the nameless are roads renamed, nor monuments built.
Not for the nameless are songs sung, nor ink spilled.
The nameless rest.
Their silent sacrifice,
quiet ordeal,
muted trauma,
remain interred,
amongst their remains.
The nameless rest.
Not for the nameless are doctorates conferred, nor eulogies recited.
Not for the nameless are honours bestowed, nor homages directed.
The nameless rest.
They rest within us,
they walk with us,
in every step that we tread.
They rest within us,
they walk with us,
for their spirit is not dead.
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“Your name is unknown, your deed is immortal”
– inscription at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier WWII in Moscow
|
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Special thanks to my dearest elder sister Tasneem Nobandla Moolla, whose conversations with me about life as a non-white person growing up in pre and post-Apartheid South Africa prompted me to write this dedication to the countless, nameless South Africans of every colour, whose sacrifices and dedication in the struggle against Apartheid tyranny must never be forgotten.
My sister’s middle name ‘Nobandla’ which is an isiXhosa name and means “she who is of the people” was given by her godfather, Nelson Mandela, my father’s ‘best-man who could not be, as Nelson Mandela was unable to-make it to my parent’s wedding as he was in jail at the time in the old Johannesburg Fort. This was the 31st December 1961.
Madness
Confined by this straight-jacket,
strapped in, numb and dumbed,
a washed-out, has-been, also-ran,
body, eyes, the equilibrium of mind,
rattling like stones in an old tin-can.
Still, I am,
I am,
and I am unchained,
my dreams taking flight, soaring,
above these claustrophobic walls,
of synapses, and dungeons of stone,
swooping through green valleys,
taking a detour to savour the joys,
soaked in torrential, evergreen memories,
of a younger man, with passion in his bone.
I am.
My wings unclipped, unshackled, free,
I am, and though I am unable to see,
I am.
At long last,
me.
The Sound of Distant Ankle Bells
Memories of those delicate tinkling bells,
casually fastened around calloused feet,
take hold of my waking moments,
and fling my thoughts back to a distant time,
where folk-songs were heartily sung,
joyful, yet hopelessly out of rhyme.
I barely saw her, a construction labourer perhaps,
hauling bricks, cement, anything, on a scorching Delhi day,
while in the semi-shade of a Gulmohar tree, her infant silently lay.
A cacophony of thoughts such as these swirl around,
yanking me away from the now, to my cow-dung littered childhood playground.
Now, a lifetime of displacement has hushed the jangling chorus of the past,
to a faint trickle of sounds, as distant as an ocean heard inside tiny sea-shells,
and,
I know, that the orchestral nostalgic crescendo, rises, dips, and swells,
as tantalisingly near, yet a world of time away, as were the tinkling of her ankle-bells.
She
She smiled, gently,
her warmth infusing me,
with a serene stillness of time.
She settled, slowly,
in my waking thoughts,
a soothing balm of simple joy.
She remains, scribbled,
on the walls of my fractured heart,
memories of happiness that once breathed…
…and is no more
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The Petty Posh-Wahzee – Liberation & Ostentation
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The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
The Present:
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors’ plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Scribbled Verse 