Tag Archive: Rights


Old Sof’town

Myesha Jenkins’s – “To breathe into another voice : A South African anthology of jazz poetry”

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my poem appears in Myesha Jenkin’s book To Breathe Into Another Voice: A South African Anthology of Jazz Poetry

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Old Sof’town*

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1.

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In old Sof’town,
the jazz struck chords,

the jazz lived, it exploded,
out of the cramped homes,
rolling along the streets,
of old Kofifi,

in tune to countless blazing heartbeats.

In old Sof’town,
Bra’ Hugh breathed music, Sis’ Dolly too,
and Bra’ Wally penned poems that still ring true.

In old Sof’town,
Father Trevor preached
equality and justice,
for all, black and white and brown,

and all shades, every hue,
even as oppression battered the people,
black and blue.

In old Sof’town,
the fires of resistance raged,

‘we will not move’ was the refrain,

even as the fascists tore down Sof’town,
with volleys of leaden rain.

In old Sof’town,
the people were herded,
like cattle,
sent to Meadowlands,
far away and cold and bleak,
as the seeds of resistance,
sprouted and flourished,
for the coming battle.

In old Sof’town,
the bulldozers razed homes,
splitting the flesh of a community apart,
only to raise a monument of shame,
and ‘Triomf” was its ghastly name.

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In Jozi today,
we remember those days,
and those nights of pain,
that stung our souls.
like bleak winter rain.

Yes, we remember old Sof’town,
as we struggle onward,
to reclaim our deepest heritage,
and build anew,
a country of all hues and shades,
of black and of white and of brown.

And yes, we will always remember,

and yes, we will never forget,

the price that was paid,
by the valiant sons and daughters,
of old Sof’town,

those vibrant African shades and hues,

of black,
of white,
of brown.

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from google

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* – Sophiatown was also called ‘Sof’town’ and ‘Kofifi.’

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https://www.myeshajenkins.com

from google

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from google

Johannesburg Blues …

walking in this city of diamonds,
gold deep beneath my feet,

sleeping under her rainy skies,
embracing my newspaper sheet.

i had a life long ago, a woman too,
now I’m just a huddle of rags,

while the women walk past
never reaching into their Gucci bags.

she left me, or i left myself,
on these bleak Jo’burg roads,

searching for that fix at these desolate crossroads.

now i stand alone,
these empty streets my bed,

my blood soaking the earth
with drops of beaten red.

so i wish you well, friends,
i wish you gold dust amidst the fray,

all of you who walk on and away,

leaving me to beg or borrow,

to get through another Jo’burg day.

from google

from google

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talkin’ dreamscapey blues …

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slipping through sieves,
time leaves,

scurrying off, slinking away,
so let me hold you close, tight,
tonight,

as dreams crash, plummeting,
spiralling gradually, slowly, agonisingly,
into freefall flight,

blinded by knowing whats right,

holding you close,
holding you tight …

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desire

🍁

desire …

sprinkled scribbles,
sketched against skin,

softly soothing, dipped in inked nectar, infused with desires unleashed,

to live, to taste the salt of sweat on flesh, to walk in the torrential rain, drenched in perennial desire,

scorching, broiling, slowly inflamed, centuries, months, moments, decades,

the moth to the fire …

🌻

from google





For Delhi: An Exile’s Lament for his adopted Hometown …





In anticipation,

of a touch, a caress,


something tugs, straining,


luring me back,


through smoky mists of bygone times,


magically transporting me,


to the lilting strains of sensuous ghazals and erotic rhymes.




My memory flees the splintered now,


to monsoon drenched days in Delhi town,


with your hand in mine, hidden in plain sight,


whistling romantic tunes in the scorching Delhi summer night.




Days of gol-gappas* in the Connaught Place rain,


bicycle rides to the melas**,


to rewinding our song over and over again.




I do confess I have been dying a little each day, since you and I were torn apart,


when from our beloved Delhi I had to so hurriedly depart.




I have been dying the death of a thousand cuts, since bidding farewell to you and to our eternal Delhi town,


sinking bit by bit, into the frigid ocean of fate,


where I feel myself ever so slowly,


drown.





* – gol-gappas or paani-puri, a favourite roadside dast-food.


** – mela, the Hindi word for a carnival 










from google






She is you

Billie Holiday by Banksy – from google



She is you …



They say she is opinionated, rude even, and lacking all tact,


they expect her to be demure, to brew tea and cook, so that suitable suitors she may attract. 



They castigate her for not following the norm,


they expect her to weather the relentless storm in hushed silence, with acceptance and aplomb.



They dismiss her for being “loud-mouthed”, for speaking her mind,


they demand from her the acceptance of the gnawing shackles that to her bind.



Yes,


she lives in gilded cages, while the blood in her veins rages,


she is condemned to the countless leaking, freezing, boiling shacks, facing horrors untold,


she is used, her body abused, to be bartered, battered and sold. 



A single mother, she is savaged by their barbed whispers, their narrow, antiquated attitudes,


while on mother’s and women’s day they pummel her with their hollow meaningless  platitudes.

 


They speak disparagingly of her flouting cultural, sectarian, and their narrow-minded claptrap,


even as she wrestles the demons, the indignity, the trauma of the punches and kicks, the slaps after slap.



They damn her for unclipping her wings, as she soars free into the open sky,


all the while our silent complicity,


kicks her to the cold ground where she is expected to cower and lie.


 

She is you, and you are her,


and may you continue to be,


unflinching, unbowed,


and always, always true.







from google






The Conceit of a Man

from google


The Conceit of a Man …





How dare I stand before you, a man – to recite a poem on women and about the rights of women the world over?



Am I not the perfect caricature of that man – who deems himself capable, and so very able, even entitled?



Yes, aren’t I that man who thinks he understands,



who believes righteously that he knows what it has been like, and what it is like being a woman in this crass, misogynistic world.



The man who presumes to know and to empathise about countless women’s deeply personal and painful truths that they live each day, not just at times,


I am that man who thinks it possible, even admirable of him to scribble out a few rhymes. 



Isn’t this what caricatures like me have always done – speak on behalf of, or drone on about women, their struggles and the need of the now, the forging ahead in the countless battles yet to be fought for the emancipation of women,


yes caricatures indeed, us men who beat down with bloodied fists the very same women, for whom we hurl a few slogans around, utterly meaningless as they fall to the blood stained ground.



But never will I admit to the profanities I have spewed, in-between off hand chats with male friends, those chats about how many chicks I have screwed.



The man before you stands and pontificates about all that women need – the liberal manifesto – equal pay for all, the right of a woman to determine what is best for her body, the calling out of the lewd catcalls and the uncouth slow-eyed once-over leering stares, shamelessly violating the woman, even as she with contempt at them all glares.



The man, oblivious to the hypocrisy, prattles on and on, speaking on behalf of women the world over, so attuned to their struggles, harping and carping, about feminism and women’s lib, all the while with a self-congratulatory tone so condescending and glib.



Ah but the facts speak for themselves, and they stack up time and time again, from time immemorial, to today, to a backdrop of the shrieks of collective pain.



The time has come and long passed, for the facts to be driven into the consciousness of every man, every boy, every girl, every person this wide world around,


if for once, we may actually, onto a sliver of hope hold, it must be to accept our complicity in this sorry parade, while dusting off the grime and slime of this endless charade. 



The facts are brutal, they speak for themselves – the facts are grotesque, screaming to us all,


for as the worn-out adage goes, we stand together, or together we will fall.



The facts are plain to see, they condemn us for our inaction, the facts are unalterable, they will never be what we want them to be, even as we sew our eyes shut not wanting to see. 



I should perhaps apologise for not being more positive, and for being so abrasively cynical,


but I would rather say what I’ve said now,


and say it ever more,


because somehow I feel,


the platitudes will be dished out on Women’s Day and whenever our consciences are pricked,


by news reports of the unspeakable crimes of the savage treatment of women, the truths we live with daily, the said and the unsaid, the unspoken behind-the-picket fence abuse,


where no matter what we may think, it is us men who shroud ourselves behind the veil of complicit silence, seeing only what we choose.



Yes, so I would rather say all of this, gagging in this stench of rotten egos laid bare, as the truth we unpeel,


instead of gurgling out more lame, old feel-good, and utterly meaningless spiel,


while us men, the chosen ones, the patriarchy at its most hideous,


still, and for quite a while longer, I’m sorry to say,


expect the woman to always kneel …




from google

from google




Aretha Franklin 1942 – 2018


The Queen has lost her voice,


and yet it soars,


reaching up, up, up to heaven itself,


where Aretha Franklin is being welcomed,


to add a whole lot of soul …




from google

REST IN PEACE

Slaughter at Marikana

from google






Slaughter at Marikana.




1.



Bullets tearing,

into muscled flesh,


as,

bodies slump,

dead as dust.




Sweaty and bruised,

slogging,


mining the land of the ancestors,


descending into hell,

day by wretched day,


for shiny metals,


like those shiny metal bullets,


that tore,

into muscled flesh,


as,

bodies slumped,


dead as dust.




2.



How can we mourn,

the slaughtered,


how do we cleanse,

our blood-soaked hands,


without,

betraying our complicity,


in the slaughter at Marikana,


as we lightly tread,

on the mine-fields,


of greed,

of profit,


on the backs,

of the slaughtered dead.






(dedicated to the human beings massacred at Marikana)

from google

from google






who killed the miners at Marikana?





definitely not the executive

nor the executives
far removed from the grime
and the slime

Who killed the miners at Marikana?

not the Prez
and not even the press for a change

strange

so who killed the miners at Marikana?

the unions perhaps
or the errant miner
led astray

in that obscene demand for better pay

who killed the miners at Marikana?

not armed cops,
firing bullets of lead into the back of the head

execution-style it’s been said

who killed the miners at Marikana?

it seems no one can be found

as bodies decompose deep under gold dust ground

while families grieve

there
ain’t no one around to take the fall

so
who killed the Marikana Miners?

no one

no one at all




* inspired by the protest song “Who Killed Davey Moore”, a topical song written in 1963 by folk singer/songwriter Bob Dylan.




from google

Comrade Nelson Mandela’s mother and my mother protesting the imprisonment of political prisoners by the Apartheid regime. Photo taken in eitner the mid-1950s or early 1960s

An Anti-Apartheid poster from the early 1980s



The 15th of August 1934 and 1947

( dedicated to our late mother Zubeida ‘Jubie’ Moolla, and to all the women, the mostly unsung heroines in all the struggles for freedom across the world )


1.


Our mother was born on the 15th of August, an auspicious day, in the winter of 1934.

Thirteen years later, also on this auspicious day, in the summer of 1947, India cast off the yoke of colonial oppression.

These dates, though a decade apart are bound together in our family, hewn together by the happenstance of fate.


2.


The threads of the struggle for freedom, the hunger for liberation, the thirst for democracy, the ache of sacrifice, are intertwined.


3.


The valiant freedom fighters faced the brutality of the enemy head-on, staring down the barrels of the imperialists with chins held high, relinquishing the comfort of inaction for the battle for those eternally noble ideals – the struggle against oppression, the quest for human dignity, the emancipation of women, the conviction of being a part of a greater cause in the service of humanity. 


4.


The struggle for liberation in South Africa and in India left many martyred souls, many more victims of appalling cruelty, the harrowing pain of families’ torn apart, the parents and children ripped from each other, the savagery of torture, the massacres of the innocents, the decades spent in prison, the years spent in exile.


5.


The names of the martyrs bear witness:

Solomon Mahlangu.
Bhagat Singh.
Ahmed Timol.
Rajguru.
Vuyisile Mini.
Sukhdev.
Steve Biko.
Victoria Mxenge.

Just a few names of the many more who gave up their youth, cruelly executed by the merciless foe.


6.


The torch bearers of the struggles, are forever etched in our minds, always kept close to our hearts, for these were the giants who inspired countless more to join the just cause for universal human dignity.

Their names are legendary:

Nelson Mandela.
Lillian Ngoyi.
Jawaharlal Nehru.
Sarojini Naidu.
Walter Sisulu.
Mahatma Gandhi.
Dorothy Nyembe.
Oliver Tambo.
Charlie Andrews.
Ahmed Kathrada.
Sardar Patel.
Govan Mbeki.
Nana Sita.
Chris Hani.
Aruna Asaf Ali.
Andrew Mlangeni.
Margaret Mncadi.
Sucheta Kriplani.
Ruth First.
Subhash Chandra Bose.
Joe Slovo.
Raymond Mhlaba.


These are but a few of our eternal flames – the flames that shall burn bright in the hearts of all freedom loving people.


7.


Our mother was born into a politically active family. Our grandfather a fierce opponent of racism and sectarianism in all its grotesque forms.

Our mother grew up in this cauldron of political agitation.

Our mother married our father and a daughter and a son were born, while Papa made his way in and out of jail, Mummy was left to tend for the infants, Tasneem and Azad.

Our parents were forced into exile, with their beloved young children left behind in the care of loving maternal grandparents, uncles and aunts.

Mummy as a mother suffered harshly and went through many breakdowns, being separated from Tasneem and Azad. I think only people who have been apart from their children will understand the pain of a mother.

People often think life in exile was easy. It was not. Papa was with MK and travelled continuously. It was mummy who was left with her thoughts, her grief, her pain and suffering knowing that her children were suffering by not having parents like normal families do.

People also called mummy ‘cheeky’ with a quick and bad temper, but can anyone understand the pain of being separated from ones own children and not becoming angry and feeling broken.

What Tasneem and Azad had to suffer through only they know. No one who has not been ripped away from their parents can ever ever know the effect that pain and pining has on the children. Today we see people whose kids go for sleepovers with friends and already the house seems empty and already the parents and the children miss each other and WhatsApp each other.

Tasneem and Azad never had that luxury.

May my nuni nieces never forget the sacrifice mummy and daddy made and the pain of that time that can never really heal.

So may we try and spend time just thinking how it would be for the nunis if they had their parents suddenly taken away from them and then having to live with uncles and aunties, and grandparents.

These are the scars of history.

These are the wounds that never heal.

These are the sacrifices that go unnoticed.

These are the gnawing ache that history often forgets.

These are the experiences of countless mothers and their children.

This is the price paid dearly for the freedom and democracy we share today.


8.


The 15th of August, a day of celebration of freedom in India.

The 15th of August, a day of reflection for our family in South Africa.


Long live the Women’s Movement!

Viva the strength and power of the women!






( dedicated to Zubeida ‘Jubie’ Moolla, and to all the women, the often unsung heroines in all the struggles for freedom across the world )



Anti-Apartheid poster during the tyrannical system of racial discrimination

Comrade Nelson Mandela and my mother reunited after 27 years in Sweden 1990

art from google



Pandit-Ji* – A Poem for Jawaharlal Nehru.


1.


The moon cast an enveloping shadow over the teeming multitudes,

as they made their tryst with destiny**,

with you as the bearer of the light,

and at the stroke of the midnight hour,

you emerged an icon, from the long and desolate night.

Long years had passed,
since those humid evenings spent,
languishing in jail,

yet your mind remained unshackled,
putting words on paper in the dim candlelight,

as the gaudy glare of empire began to pale.


2.


Today,
you live,

within us,
though not amongst us,

and,

your discovery,
your glimpses,

smoulder within me,

your immortal words,
my compass.

I am now,
the soul of nations,
once suppressed,

that have,
found utterance.

I am now,
me.

I am now,
finally,

free.



* – ‘Pandit-Ji’ was the name that Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of independent India, was respectfully called.



** – excerpts from Jawaharlal Nehru’s speech on 15th August 1947

art from google

Greed is Good*

from The Nelson Mandela Foundation









Greed is Good*


brands and little tender hands,

sewing and sweating,

in dinghy factories and in smoke-clogged stands.



Haute-couture and ostentatious labels,

black and blue whiskey on heaving sushi tables.



Greed is good,

it ‘enhances’ free-market competition,

as we blindly scamper from mall to mall,

devoid of a scintilla of compassionate vision.



Greed is good,

oh and it feeds,

on complicity,

apathy,

as we reap the rewards,

of the sowing of hypocritical seeds.



Greed is good,

yes it is,


as long as we can buy and buy and buy and buy,

and

as long as there’s gourmet coffee to be had,

and,

as long as there are oysters we can lasciviously shuck,

oh yes,


greed is good,

so we sew our mouths shut,


as we frolic,

as we party,


and,

as we fuck**.




Greed is Good*

* – title borrowed from Oliver Stone’s film ‘Wall Street’


** – dialogue from Francis Ford Coppola’s “Apocalypse Now” – Marlon Brando as ‘Colonel Kurtz” 

” … We train young men to drop fire on people, but their commanders won’t allow them to write “fuck” on their airplanes because it’s obscene! “








from The Nelson Mandela Foundation



We The People – A Rant

quote from google





We The People …






as the forces of reaction grow louder, as the fascism of right-wing politics seem to be burgeoning, as the misogyny and racism and attacks on the rights of those who love differently echoes through the corridors of power, as all of this and so much more fills the air we breathe with a noxious stench, may we the people resist! may we the people erect the barricades, may we the people look back to all those brave and courageous souls who stood upright and fought the battles of yesterday – and not give in to despondency, may we the people resist and in resisting may we send a clear and resounding message to the forces that choose to divide, not unite, engender narrow nationalism not fraternal internationalism, may our message to them be clear, concise and loud – no pasaran! you shall not pass, for though you may wield the whip of power, we the people shall not give in to your tunnel vision of the politics of hate and divisiveness, for We The People always have been, and shall remain many, many more. Take heed of history for you stand rickety on the losing side and lose you shall, despite your gains here and there, lose you shall and lose you will, for We The People have been and always shall be many, many more. many more than the 1%, many more than the vultures of capital and greed, many more than you are, and ever shall be. 




We The People are many, many more.




Amandla!


Venceremos!


Aluta Continua!


We SHALL Overcome!



quote from google

quote from google

from The Nelson Mandela Foundation

she is my all


art from google








she is my all …


picking me up whenever I fall,

walking beside me, fierce and tall,


unafraid of the tribulations that may yet befall …


she is my all …


my all,

my strident constant,

breathing away aches in an instant.



she is my all …


she is all …



quote from google


whispered memories

art from google






whispered memories,
fade, falling to the ground,


momentary kisses, flee, never to be found,


ah but what becomes of the tattered heart,


mutely shrieking, hushed, without a sound …






art from google

art from google

Women’s Day 2018 – Poem 6

Comrade Nelson Mandela’s mother and my late mother, protesting the arrest and imprisonment of Nelson Mandela, my father, and countless other anti-apartheid activists – mid-1950s or early-1960s

Comrade Nelson Mandela meets my late mother after 27 years, Sweden 1990




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,


because 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 children 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!




✊ Viva the undying spirit of the women Viva 






(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours, who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)






Anti-Apartheid Poster

Anti-Apartheid Poster

Anti-Apartheid Poster

with Comrade Winnie Mandela

Viva the undying spirit of the women who fought Apartheid brutality and are still fighting for justice and dignity and true equality and freedom!


        ✊ Viva ✊


South African Womens March against Apartheid – August 9th 1956



Anti-Apartheid Poster from the 1980s




Today we rise.



No more hiding in the shadows,


of culture,

creed,

tradition.




No more silent complicity,

disingenuous arguments,

hypocritical pretences,

shabby excuses for the actions of men,


brutal,
vulgar,
coarse,
obscene,
murderous,
abusive men.




Today, we rise,

as one.


Today the change starts,

with me,

within me.


With you.

Within you.




Today WE Rise!





Maya Angelou (art from google)

Billie Holiday – art by Banksy (from google)

art from google



For Men Everywhere (One Billion Rising)









Stop! Listen! Think! Act!


Stop!


Stop the abuse!


Of grand-daughters,

colleagues,

daughters,

girlfriends,

partners,

mothers,

sisters,

nieces,

wives,


all women.




Listen!


Listen to the voices!


Of grand-daughters,

colleagues,

daughters,

girlfriends,

partners,

mothers,

sisters,

nieces,

wives,


all women.





Think!


Think of how you treat,


grand-daughters,

colleagues,

daughters,

girlfriends,

partners,

mothers,

sisters,

nieces,

wives,


all women.





Act!


Act now to change yourself!


Stop! Listen! Think! Act!


The violence,

the abuse,

the rape,


stops when you stop,


the violence,

the abuse,

the rape.


Stop! Listen! Think! Act!


The violence,

the abuse,

the rape,


is perpetrated by,


grand-fathers,

colleagues,

boyfriends,

husbands,

nephews,

brothers,

partners,

fathers,

uncles,


men,


all men.





Stop! Listen! Think! Act!


The violence,

the abuse,

the rape,


stops when us men stop,


The violence,

the abuse,

the rape,


today, now.




Stop! Listen! Think! Act!


art from google







art from google


art from google


art from google



She walks alone,

barefoot in paddies of rice,


enduring backbreaking work for some precious grains,


in blazing heat, in soaking rains.




She walks alone,


in Johannesburg, with a bruised body, and a black eye,


battered by his fists the previous painful night, while the children cowered, for all the young ones could do was cry.




She walks alone,


along the streets of neon hazed diseased Manila, on sale, on display,


her human rights torn and thrown away,


she walks past the decaying hedges of rotten London, her hidden pain invisible to the eye, ground down at the altar of profit, slogging incessantly till the day she will die,


she treads the crowded pavements of brutal New Delhi, where men in perverted wolf-packs roam, her family in fear if she will ever reach home,


she is there, across the vast pampas, the savannah, the plains, on continents the world around, in villages and small towns, where merciless misogyny abounds,


she sweeps the winding back-ways of the grimy favelas, the first to be killed by that stray bullet of lead, while the politicians and so-called leaders do crocodile tears, unashamedly shed,


she is alive drowning in the glitter of ostentatious Jeddah, where she is regarded as but a servant from across the seas, where she must know her place is to be always on her knees,


she lives along the false boulevards of that ugly Los Angeles town, where movie moguls and stars of the silver screen, assume she is a rag doll, abused even today as she has always been,


she waits at check-points in occupied Gaza, her dignity trampled underfoot, her life teetering on the edge of the blade, as F-16s prey and prowl overhead,


she is abused as a sex-slave in pious countries across the world today, covered in garb that is pitch black, while she is expected to spread her legs while lying on her back,


she survives across borders where her young body is mutilated in the name of tradition, under the cloak of culture, that allows the man to always be a vulture,


she is viciously raped in places far too many to mention, bound and gagged and left for dead, while a complicit society barely turns its shameful head,


she is molested by those in power, abused by the very relatives she feels comfortable with when she is only 10 years old or five, by the predators living amongst us, smiling as in plain sight they thrive.




She walks alone,


bearing the burdens of a mother and a daughter,


of a cook and a servant,


of a wife and a lover,


even as she is called a whore, a bitch, a slut and a slag, 


always a minute away from being the males’ punching-bag.




She walks alone,


through your streets and mine,


standing up as she is struck down,


loving her children as the bruises on her face turn purple,


staying afloat while inhumanity jabs and prods and yanks at her to drown.




She feeds the little ones with morsels of cooked beans and rice,


never getting from this patriarchal greed-infested world, her fair slice.




She walks alone,


in factories and in mills and in buses,


in schools and in brothels and in horrific places in-between,


where the silence of us all renders her invisible, and cruelly unseen.




She walks alone,


staying alive on the alms of the so-called charitable,


violated by those who from the pulpit preach,


spewing pompous sermons while off her they continue to leech.




She walks alone,


my sister and yours,


my mother and yours,


my lover and your beloved.




She walks alone,


a slave to norms, culture, religion and caste,


jailed by society in its sickening cage,


the first to be skewered by disgusting, acceptable, despicable male rage.




She walks alone,


but she is the conscience of me and of you,


fighting the world in hunger and often in despair,


a world that has long abrogated its responsibility to care.




She walks alone,


and though helpless to you callous men she may seem,


be warned that she is not alone,


she will not allow herself to be ground to stone,


for she is awake,


and that alone should make us men in our shoes quake,


and though she may seem powerless as she at times weeps,


she is breaking down the complacency of the slumber as mankind sleeps,


she is rising and in rising she will slay,


the beasts that in mens’ hearts lay,


she will demand her rightful place,


for every mother, sister, daughter, wife, lover,


every woman has a human face,


so be forewarned, as she is stands up tall to be counted


as an equal, of this our common human race.







art from google

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