Today we rise.
No more hiding in the shadows,
of culture,
creed,
tradition.
No more silent complicity,
defensive arguments,
sickening pretences,
shabby excuses,
for the actions of men,
brutal and coarse and vulgar and obscene and murderous and abusive men.
Today, we rise,
as one.
Today the change starts,
with me,
within me.
with you.
within you.
Today we rise.
thanking all at Conceit Magazine for having me on the cover of the January/February/March 2017 Issue.
Volume 7, Number 71.
Thank you, Editor Perry Terrell!
Conceit Magazine,
Perry Terrell, Editor,
P.O. Box 884223,
San Francisco, CA,
94188-4223
conceitmagazine@yahoo.com
she walks alone,
barefoot in the paddies of rice,
breaking her back for some precious grains.
she walks alone,
in jo’burg town, with a black eye,
smacked around by him the previous painful night.
she walks alone,
in the streets of neon hazed manila,
in the villages and in the small towns,
along the pristine hedges of rotten london,
on the crowded pavements of lonesome new delhi,
in the alleyways of twisted and rotten karachi,
across the rolling plains of the vast bounteous pampas,
over the winding back-ways of the sloping and grimy favelas,
on the glittering pavements of rich and sweetly-scented sick jeddah,
through the blindingly false boulevards of that sad los angeles town.
she walks alone,
bearing the burden of mother and daughter
of cook and sweeper and wife and mistress and punching-bag,
she walks alone,
through your streets and mine,
standing up as she is beaten more down,
loving a little as the bruises on her face turn purple,
feeding the little ones with morsels of hastily cooked beans.
she walks alone,
in factories and in mills and in buses,
in schools and in brothels and in places in-between.
she walks alone,
staying alive on the alms of the ‘charitable’,
violated by those who from the pulpit preach.
she walks alone,
my sister and yours,
my mother and yours too,
my lover and your beloved as well.
she walks alone,
caged by society in its invisible prison,
a slave of norms and culture and religion and caste,
she walks alone,
but she is the conscience of me and you,
screaming at us silently in hunger and despair,
she walks alone,
and though fearful of you men she may seem,
be warned that she may not forever be this alone,
for she too dreams and thinks and believes,
for she too needs and wants and loves and weeps,
in the silent night of complacency while impotent mankind sleeps,
and she too will rise and in rising slay,
the beasts that in your callous hearts prowl and lay,
and she too will demand her rightful place,
for every mother and sister and lover and daughter has a real, human face …
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.
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!
there’s always hope, I suppose,
so I still cling onto it,
a wishful hope perhaps,
that there will come a day,
when,
those who profess to believe in a higher being,
an almighty, or many,
will listen to what the tenets of the myriad creeds of the ‘almighties’ to whom they pray each day,
say.
Yup, a vain hope it may be indeed,
that these holier-than-thou ‘believers’ would,
or could,
for maybe just a little while,
shut the hell up?
and actually listen,
to those humane tenets that we are told are present in every creed,
and maybe then,
if they shut the heavens up for a bit longer,
they may actually,
really,
for once,
to all those glorious words,
pay some heed.
Ps: I mean if one claims to be a ‘fundamentalist’, it follows that its obligatory to follow the ‘fundamentals’, erm like let’s take this really, really ancient one as an example:
“Thou Shalt Not Kill”
Yup.
That would be a good start
peace | love | uBuntu
…
1 Billion Rising.
For Men Everywhere.
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!
…
…
Today we rise.
No more hiding in the shadows,
of culture,
creed,
tradition.
No more silent complicity,
defensive arguments,
sickening pretences,
shabby excuses,
for the actions of men,
brutal and coarse and vulgar and obscene and murderous and abusive.
Today, we rise,
as one.
Today the change starts,
with me,
within me.
Today we rise.
…
I am reposting this today, the day Anene Booysen will be laid to rest after being brutally raped and murdered.
The funeral service is taking place at the Dutch Reformed Church in Bredasdorp**, Anene’s hometown.
Hamba Kahle*, Anene.
Hamba Kahle Anene Booysen! (1996 – 2013)
Dead at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
‘horrific’, ‘repulsed’,
‘brutally raped’, ‘shocked’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
Anene was raped,
savagely mutilated,
Her 17 year old body tossed aside,
by the hands of men.
Men, always men,
cowardly, beastly, perverted, twisted men.
‘Beastly’, ‘perverted’, ‘twisted’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
who now lies cold and dead.
How many Anene Booysens will it take,
for us,
society,
families,
people,
human-beings,
and,
men, especially men,
to excise the ghastly menace,
of the heinous capacity that resides,
within men,
always men,
to brutalise, rape, mutilate, and murder.
‘Brutalise’, ‘murder’, ‘rape’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left,
to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site,
in Bredasdorp.
Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013)
* – Hamba Kahle – “Farewell, Travel Well” in Zulu
** – Bredasdorp is a small town near Cape Town, South Africa
Scribbled Verse 
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