Unbreaking The Rainbow: Voices of Protest From New South Africa

Unbreaking the Rainbow
Voices of Protest from New South Africa
Edited by Amitabh Mitra Foreword by Ela Gandhi
Unbreaking The Rainbow

Voices Of Protest From New South Africa
mirror of my pain and purpose this blood we demand is the flow of life we must bleed yes there is no birth without blood if they call us insane let them words will not kill us if they say we are not poets let them.... Keorapetse Kgositsile
from his book If I could sing
Published by The Poets Printery East London, South Africa Focussing on South African literature and its renaissance
The Poets Printery PO Box 12560 Amalinda 5252 South Africa
Printed by The Poets Printery East London, South Africa www.amitabhmitra.com ISBN 978-0-620-52212-0 Copyright - Individual Poets First Published - March 2012 Cover and Back Watercolor by Amitabh Mitra Pastel Drawing of Keorapetse Kgositsile by Amitabh Mitra Graphic Design by Rentia Ellis
Contents
Editorial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Naomi Nkealah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarita Mathur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anna Hamlin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Rowland Jones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fiona Khan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . croc E moses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Betty Govinden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vivagalatchmie Ananthavallie Naicker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Deena Padayachee . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jean Marie Spitaels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hugh Hodge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tauriq Jenkins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Molefi Vincent Kau . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jennifer Ann Lean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Khadija Tracey Heeger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Patrick Tarumbwa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kobus Moolman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Raphael dAbdon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Graham Vivian Lancaster . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brett Beiles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sonwabo Meyi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gillian Schutte . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pratish Mistry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shabbir Banoobhai . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gona Pragasen Kathan Naicker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Harry Owen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephen Marcus Finn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kogi Singh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sue Conradie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Geoffrey Haresnape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Irene Emanuel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Karen Lazar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ravi Naicker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Peter Horn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Gary Cummiskey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amitabh Mitra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Arja Salafranca . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 11 13 15 16 19 21 23 25 28 30 32 33 37 39 41 42 44 45 47 49 51 52 55 58 59 62 65 66 68 69 70 74 76 77 78 81 84 86 88
Editorial
To start with, let me talk about the seventies when as a political intermediary I first met Mosie Moola, the then African National Congress Chief representative of South Africa in New Delhi. What followed was a long friendship and an insight into the ANCs struggle within Apartheid South Africa. His tiny two-room office at the Bhagat Singh Market in New Delhi was frequented by South African students wanting to study in India and people like me who wanted to help the cause. Even today, there are people in Delhi who have fond memories of Mosie Moola. After reaching the then Republic of Transkei in 1993 from Zimbabwe, I experienced the harsh realities of crossing the borders into East London, where I still live today. It was even tougher in shades of ludicrousness. While doing some postgraduate studies at the University of Pretoria, I was getting a brush with policies and the policing of a regime that was evidently collapsing. Democracy brought with it the new found freedom, implementing the aspirations of millions but also bringing with it newer challenges. Poetry too changed its course. There were Struggle Poets who brought the South African Struggle to an international platform. Global Struggle Poetry became the identity of South African protest and such names as Tatamkulu Africa and Denis Brutus became immortal. Medicine, art, poetry and the New South Africa all clamoured for a place in a strange destination. Ideas and ideologies clashed as a new beginning, once so cherished, took a new shape. Small worlds emerged renouncing still smaller worlds as democracy, unfortunately, seemed to take the back benches. Attitudes believing in a fantasy monologue found themselves repeating again the errors of a bygone era. Yet the mind grows, and touches many more minds. Colours on the canvas seem to be brighter, defying the sulking hedonistic horizons. Practising medicine and splashing colours with words is unsubdued for me and seems natural. The rebellion of mind is without reasoning and its natural to ask why, and not to reason in asking why. I dont call these poets included here Struggle Poets as the struggle they dreamt of was never really achieved. I would rather call them Rebel Poets whose rebellions are
ow do I commence writing about a Protest Poetry collection from the New South Africa? There are images that I have enjoyed and which have touched me in many ways over many years.
with them in not being able to implement the dreams of the Struggle Poets. The rebellion is not yet a mutiny, only an anger of zig-zag thoughts. Pandemics, poverty and a pustule economy forced mindful, collapsed professionals to move towards less restive countries. Many of my close friends who are poets wouldnt share or embark on a journey within this book. They believe in the thought but unfortunately they still cannot prise themselves away from the utter discomfort of reasoning. Minds and countries fell to the rebellion of thoughts which finally unshackled itself one fine Arab spring day. Poetry in South Africa too took to its wings in a grey sky. Words carved aesthetics in memorable patterns of desires and hopes. The man on the street, bereft of consciousness, suddenly woke up to the colours and words of the rebel artist and poet. Poetry from Soweto looks a bit different from that of the Cape Flats, yet everybody understands the common language of a shattered dream and the shattered sky. The gaps of unevenness broadened; sickness and disease found shelter even in penthouse flats. What lies within these pages is difficult to fathom; desperation invents sheer acuity in countering untruths, the conscious nerve screams to be told. As humans devoid of borders, each of us is related to the silence that joins us, its heady aroma reminding us that suffering is not crystalline in velvet lined boxes; it remains as innumerable tiny pieces pricking our conscience at all odd moments. I am thankful to Naomi Nkealah, former Administrative Officer of the English Academy of Southern Africa, for many things but foremost of them all would be floating the idea of an anthology such as this to her friends, fellow poets and members of the Academy. I wish to thank her for checking the final manuscript, finding errors and correcting them. Harry Owen, close friend and fellow poet from Grahamstown needs a special mention. He, like me, believes that poets cant be novelists and there is a special place in peoples heart where poems are treasured and revisited. This book owes a lot to his encouragement. We are grateful also to Ela Gandhi, whose activism has won global praise, for her Foreword to this collection. Our poets have spoken in words; she has been implementing images of activism for many years in a shared direction. Amitabh Mitra
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Foreword
ere is a collection of poems from a wide ranging group of eminent writers with divergent views and styles. These poems reflect the ethos of the present from the eyes of a group of diverse people, and diverse experiences of the past. Not the work of liberation activists but certainly an interpretation of what happened and what is happening. An important window into the hearts and minds of South Africans, not necessarily the majority but certainly a formidable section. Reading the poems one begins to ask questions: 17 years down the road of democracy what is it that is uppermost in our minds? Where are we heading to? Will there ever be satisfaction for all in a country so diverse, so economically unequal and so rapidly growing? This compilation certainly combines a number of poetic styles and emotions and is valuable as a study of not just what one feels and thinks but also how one expresses those thoughts and feelings. Indeed an interesting and thought provoking anthology. Ela Gandhi
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Naomi Nkealah
A poets dilemma
My people say angry words ooze out of me Like pus from a rotting sore; They say my mouth is bitter
Like kolanut from Equatorial Africa. The Minister Ultimate of Finance
But when the president appoints his son They run to me for angry words, Like stones at a thieving dog;
Angry words to throw at the president They demand from me bitter truths, In their anger, like dying patients In a crowded hospital.
Bitter truths to make them feel justified
But when the cacophony dies down And my angry words keep oozing They say Im a subversive; Out of my discontent-infested lungs When my bitterness rejects pacification They say Im disturbing the peace, The peace of their acceptance. What am I to do Trapped in this wilderness
Of shameless eaters and helpless onlookers?
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My president
My president loves seeing his face on crisp, pink paper. Every time he goes for plastic surgery Were sure to get new bank notes, Minted with the utmost delicacy,
His face gazing at us with eyes of plenty. I wish all presidents were like my president, So that his people can get new money
Always thinking up new things to fix on his face That smells of wealth and progressiveness In a land blessed with eaters and jokers.
Sarita Mathur
And the struggle continues
And the struggle continues On and On Long after democracy and liberation was born With a big ceremony And inauguration On the 27th of April 1994,
Of a truly African Government On the face
And the sentiment was one of joy, Of everyone,
Man, Woman, Girl and Boy. For the struggle has to continue
While corruption reigns supreme Of millions ...
And government and parliament have formed a team to defraud the nation And more ... even more.
Houses made too unsafe to live in
Moral values declined so much that Nepotism and bribery are rampant
Newly born babies are found in bins. Which meant that a nation is bewildered Ruining peoples lives ... Such is the state! On and On
That teachers and health care workers can go on strike Which they have pledged to dedicate their own lives to ... So that the struggle continues As it must ... until true liberation is born.
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Anna Hamlin
Meditation on a paper clip
As I sit and meditate upon this paper clip Let memories surge, Let feelings rip Of things perceived too early, Or ---- found too late? To successfully integrate. Remember when the circus came to town The tents went up The tents came down We never ever saw the elephants, acrobats or clowns When the circus came to town, Even though the signs said ALL ARE WELCOME. We had to translate At an early age From the English And absorb the meaning Into our blood streams. And can we now interpret all are welcome As the literal truth? Do we mix and laugh and talk and walk easily In parks and cinemas, theatres and schools Now that the political rules Are different? How will we all behave? In all those public spaces Mingle or collide? Has all are welcome as literal truth Arrived?
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Do you think I make a fuss?
I for one am often nonplussed
In those places, those public spaces Where I have no memory
Where I never ventured forth before No childhood reassurances
Yes libraries
Dont you know I will die feeling ill at ease Those places full of books I love to read and touch That I dislike to enter.
In libraries!!!!!
The things I love so much My books are in those libraries
Freedom is all around us Stealing
And around me the ill-at-ease feeling Into my consciousness,
Dis-ease tingles underfoot
Theres an underlying tension Theres an underlying scream To feel at ease in libraries? Does freedom come too late for me
And if you re wondering about this? (holds up paper clip) Only when I went overseas
Did I discover the existence of a paperclip To help me assemble my manuscript. A paper clip
Such a simple sample Perfect example Of deprivation.
In South Africa,
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There had to have been millions of paper clips
NONE filtered through to our townships? The embarrassment, the astonishment Of all the little things we couldnt take for granted That tiny technological commonplace I was thirty when I encountered a paper clip.
Some things ARE trivial Some are not Some things are put aside, Or fester long inside And will not be forgot And here we are altogether In public space Where memory and experience Mingle and collide. Face to face In public space.
My memory trips upon a paper clip
Surfaces, swims, subsides, nosedives, When does dis-ease become disease?
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Sarah Rowland Jones

Changing trains
Well before dawn the first trains grumble to wonder why it is they keep on running into the station. Their dark chunter stirs me to the timetables of the past. Must they still bring maids from Mitchells Plain in time gardeners, and carry factory workers for may be swept out of sight, out of mind, to make their madams breakfasts, disgorge shifts that start and end early, so that all long before the ice of the pre-dinner G & T
chinks in its glass? Why should the last train by those who stay, stabled in outbuildings? Today, everyone is free
be sleeping in its siding when dessert is served
to come and go wherever, whenever, we wish. But not on the trains. They will not help us work long hours, tracking the movement of stock around global markets; nor encourage us to chase the quick buck through the descending dusk. We may engage in the commercial exchange
of offices and malls, then dispense or consume indistinguishable in the darkness of cinemas The railways recognise discrimination
gravys riches in restaurants and shebeens, and sit but afterwards we cannot travel home together. when they see it, and they will not buy
into new prejudices based on the colour
of our money. Why should they honour
a new dispensation that merely replaces old ideological intolerances with fresh despots: the demigods of conspicuous consumption
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who reward devotees with growing inequality? But last week for one night only it was different. Bright with excitement united by yellow and green, who walked
trains willingly ran the extra mile for fans the walk to the glowing halo on the headland despite defeat, engines signalled support for sport as the true equaliser, and sang to the end of each line, to Simonstown
beyond the mountain. And way past midnight,
and Khayelitsha, to Belville and beyond. (written after the Bafana Bafana - US football match at the Cape Town Stadium)
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Fiona Khan
Inauguration day
Strange it was to see black and white fists raised in salute. with automatons mechanically ambling along draft washed corridors erupted to visions of toy-toying, multilingual incantations and stark from rainbow cloth clothing rainbow people starched suits and blue collars. Shooting stars with starlets raised freedoms symbol of clasped hands as songbirds sang and rejoiced in the wind song of freedom and democracy. In unison they shouted Viva white hand clasping black though their hearts of the same colour spoke differently, one the defeater, the other the defeated.
Dragonflies whizzed with hypocrisy, fluttering flags of democracy, granite Government buildings once carved in
Inauguration Day, that was!
To blame
During apartheid . . . The heavy footsteps The ominous tap on the door They look cold, heads bowed, bewildered. hes gone! she states flatly her heart wrenching in grief, her she stands sightless. she saw themunmasked, unflinching, their
statuette stance imposing.
Guns to their heads, theyre hijacked. cradled in her arms Why? .....Who? stained revenge. heads.
Husbands blood spattered corpse
eyes tearless.
Why? .....Who? ....Where?
They shake their heads and shrug. blame it on the white man! After apartheid . . .
her heart is cold with oppression.
Her heart oozes, her face tearHer heart burns with anger and
Their eyes averted as they shake their Blame it on the black man!
They drove carefree
with the new democracy.

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Madiba
Within cold, sombre walls chained, you trudged silently A human spirit, borne and divine stars zodiac of your heart. and oppression. gleam their light of hope within the Pangs of freedom regurgitating anger Earth cried with hunger to kill the oppressors.
feet laden with sorrow and dignity. an eternal flame scorched your breasts as your soul fluttered restlessly. Eyes spoke of dolour and angst, Staidly gait and gaiety
body invigorated by freedoms flight. cloaked prisons purgatory. cry, Amandla! wish
Each stone wrenched from her bosom Your tears drenched to parched bosom became their
Then the wind whistled and wept your Fists raised, you echoed your hearts pounding, effervescent in anguish as Africa welcomed you with veneration into her drenched bosom, and the tears. A lost child Soaked with blood, the rape, the pain
as the children lay scattered when earth autumn leaved grave, coffers,
and carcasses filled coffins for despots branches for roofs and star spattered starlight, dazzling Phoebe as lamps. ignited the chill The dry branches proffered from Earth that invaded the body while
Hamba Khale! Hamba Khale! jubilation
the warm African wind sang the dirge
Found and seeking loves benevolence upon Africas breasts. hopes and your soul. Gods sacred hymn. Your children sought your love, dreams, Soul to sing the praise of victory like Amandla! Amandla!
Now, the dirge has changed to jingles of as Earth rejoices its freedom voices above the wind
and the children raised their pulsating singing praises for the liberator of the debilitated now liberated. Viva!
Often you must have watched the moon
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croc E moses
Fire is our favourite colour
Free as a free range moth blinded by delight mind Its a crash course in wake up callswhere theres no peace of mind, just price of Its called prisis...did you get that its a criss cross crisis Its still a crash course in wake up calls Were shitting our minds because our minds have a long way to fall Its hectic, hectic, hectic...its beyond poetic Hopefully everybody downloading mind juggling curveballs Hmmm I guess we all get to be dumfounded in the fun folded flippant times Searching like a little sniff snoop snoofsniff snoopy snoofoh there we are Connecting dot to dot dj vu, dj vu, danger vuits still a prisis Criss cross crisisstash upon stash of Zimbabwean cash Where money as we know it is the truest lie of all And its keeping our self-destruction in business lips apocalypse
How much longer must we suck petrol pump penischarcoal lipstick kiss on your
In the face of so much timeache in the face of so much dreamache
It looks like things are going going gonelooks like tings gone dodgy octagon Unison of everything becoming its worsteverything becoming its best Because the past is living rent free in our souls So what so what so what is going to win our souls now
How do we forgive lovehow do we love without lying
When will we realise the only revolution is treelike and fucking celibate As in stop fucking each other over puff turbo cork screw The only revolution left is treelike...let roots take wing
Lets rise up...lets rise above up abovelets rise above the lies Lets huff, lets puff, lets blow babylons bluff
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Lets laugh and lift off sparkling lightning funny bone surprise
Right here with huff puff laughter
We can laugh out loud like a bushfire amplifire BANG BLEAT THE BLAZE
A plantation of fire roots laughing up fire beats Come on frenemies, scatter lings, indigenous angels BANG BLEAT THE BLAZE
Can you feel somethings bubbling...sompating a bubblating Can you feel that we are coming to the end of our darkest rainbow Surely weve made all the right mistakes by now Even our shadows can start changing colour now Because we are too hot to burn
Our halos are no longer rustyour halos are black and starting to glow BANG BLEAT THE BLAZE
Isnt this what it feels like to know a fire like a fire knows itself Isnt it time to walk the coals and sing FIRE IS OUR FAVOURITE COLOUR.
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Betty Govinden
For Dennis Brutus
You touched the simple and lofty with spirited words, impelled by your native humanity. You stood tall before the powerful, speaking at every moment, against the menace of injustice. You endured your captivity with stubborn hope.
and the perils of the assassins bullet
You made your home
wherever you could find a resting place for truth and honour.
You lamented a world that has to steer it back to its contract.
lost its compass and you worked
You railed against the fleshpots of greed and bemoaned a world heady with excess.
You used the weapon of poetry to sear hearts and minds with beauty and longing. You dreamed of a planet and filled with love.
healed of its innumerable fissures
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When we think of you -
your words, your gait, your stature somehow tenderness survives.
I first met Dennis Brutus in the early 1980s when I attended an African Literature Conference, held in the United States. Being in exile, he was happy to meet a fellow South African. He remembered my husband, Herby, as they were at Fort Hare together. We were very happy to renew our friendship when he came back to South Africa after 1994. He would speak of the return of the native - an amusing reference to one of Thomas Hardys novels. Dennis was a consummate patriot and a world citizen he composed at the time of his passing away.
did not give up fighting for a just democracy, both locally and globally. This poem was
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Visit to the Grave of Yusuf Dadoo, Highgate Cemetery, London 21st May 2009
From across the miles I hasten to this secluded spot to pay my respects to your memory.
The city behind is busy with its counting while you lie resting under the weed and wind.
Far from the battlegrounds of your motherland You are interred with those of another place and time. Your spirit is larger than this greying monument. In the cool of the evening
do you communicate with your lofty neighbour1 about the state of the world today?
What jokes you share? What sadness? And do you resurrect your dreams?
I linger in reverie, hesitant to leave this sacred ground. I walk up the hill breathless and stop awhile. Spread across the sky
I see you in bright plumes of a rare bird2
Connecting past and present and future. And your voice echoes beyond the silent tombs Below and permeates the world.
1 2
Dadoo is buried opposite Karl Marx, who has an imposing edifice in his honour. This is a reference to the ANCs highest honour bestowed on Yusuf Dadoo in 1955, Isitwalandwe-Seaparankoe.
The award was also bestowed on Chief Albert Luthuli and Fr Trevor Huddleston at the same time.
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Vivagalatchmie Ananthavallie Naicker

Show me the Rainbow
11 February 1990 forever etched in memory An indelible milestone, a rare rest for the globes axis As the iconic black pimpernel, cutting a regal figure Strode into the public eye. 27 long years, no love, lost the famous smile Symbol of hope, trust, peace and justice In a land long starved of any. No media release, no billboards needed The message came loud and clear Movement. Freedom of association, speech, marriage,
Then came the healing balm of the TRC. OBE in quest of a just education system
A roof for the roofless from the RDP monopoly.
BEE marking the death of economic The Scorpions to slay corruption forever. Child support grant a poverty alleviation strategy. fields.
All eyes glued on the subcontinent How proud we were
No blood on the transitional bridge The ogre, kith and kin, too. thought.
Affirmative action to level the playing
A phenomenon of the past, so we
Hope and so much more hope Uhuru had arrived. Ultimate sacrifice of the comrades best
46 years arms wide open 27 April 1994 end
The long years in exile, uncertainty at its Definitely not in vain. BUT How dare you?
Democracy, Freedom and Madiba Magic From the union buildings to the earths Euphoria burst at the seams Hope re-visited As the presidential oath was sealed.
Selective amnesia, perhaps?
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17 years and what do we exhibit? - the arms deal - travelgate
Ex-comrades, swiftly transformed into powerades Swelling the ranks of the bourgeoisie. Demagogues, rabble-rousers and firebrands
- defunct education system illiteracy. delivery
Swiftly leading tomorrow towards crippled municipalities with zero service government tenders a breeding for nepotism destitute slums galore, matchbox houses for the teenage girls sporting boeps reality
All freedom of speech and action guaranteed Without reprisal. Dearly beloved Mzansi I dare not ask you why
The Rivonia dream abandoned so soon? For in George Orwell I find my answer Show me the Rainbow I beg you, I see it not.
increase in street children, our shameless strikes, retrenchments, load shedding.
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Deena Padayachee
ALUTA CONTINUA!
For our liberators

night,
I lie on my bed, in peace, in the dead of Secured against the felons, again.
Europeans Only, No dogs allowed.
But you, you cannot borrow those books, You cannot enter that library except in spirit. Apartheid triumphed.
But you, you will never lie on a bed
What you did before 1961, in 1976, in 1989, In 1994, lets me repose in peace today, Free from the terror of losing my Surgery because of my race, As I did during Apartheid.
You were killed during the struggle chains.
to free those books from their racist
I savour the sand on Addington beach, I even enter the Playhouse and watch Africa on the stage. hospital, I see to patients at St Augustines I smile as I sit on a once whites only mater,
But you, you will never breathe again. I kiss my children and hold my lady close, But you, you were slain in 1961, in 1977, in 1986 You will never know again the joy of holding your family close. As I board an aeroplane taken away
bench on Umbilo Rd outside my alma And exult in the spirit of the multihued medical students. studied my book. club Some students of my country have I go to meetings at Westville country We even eat at what used to be the Maharani on the Marine Parade by Maharaj and her bosses, I dance at the Elangeni. I vote, I make love. Where Premie and I had been banned
I think of you who had your passport at the airport as you were about to board a flight. I enter Anton Lembede library in Ethekwini during working hours, The one which was shamelessly emblazoned with
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things and the extraordinary things, sleep.
And as I do these everyday, normal
illegitimate law.
I think of you who were not allowed to As I put on my clothes I think of you you.
I owe you that much at least, Phyllis Christopher Nicholson, Dr Vijay Ramlakan and Lenny Naidoo,
Naidoo, Dr Goonam, Mac Maharaj,
who had had your clothes stripped off As I see my doctor I think of you who As I enjoy my home, Group Areas Act,
And hundreds of thousands of others, shackles, the terror and the horror.
Those who helped free us from the racist
were not allowed to see your physicians. a home no longer under threat from the I think of you who were wrested from your families and your homes could keep our homes. And the price that was paid so that we
Today there might be racial quotas and reparative action, Today there might be jobs racially denied and promotions racially stopped, corruption, There might be rampant crime and Terrible unemployment, incompetence and injustice. Freedom of speech at universities might be a sick joke. of journalists, There might be Apartheid style arresting R200 million might be spent on the Presidents Pretoria home and private hospital, to their patients
I pay homage to Biko, Brutus, and Aggett, Hain, Fatima, Ismail, Strini, Winnie, Tutu and The millions of noble human beings both here and all over the world themselves in harms way, Risked everything, Who, unbelievably, valiantly, put
Physicians might be stopped from seeing At public hospitals not Apartheid.
Lives, families, children, spouses, careers, jobs, promotion, homes, So that one day all South Africans might breathe a little more freely in the land of their birth.
But this is not Apartheid, oh no, this is
May I never forget what today might have been like, What our children would now have to do If you had not been born, Oh dear, great liberators. If you not resisted the state terror
Thank you.
I will never forget what it was like
when we were disenfranchised and
abused according to the dictates of the
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Jean Marie Spitaels

Foreigners statement
Je ne suis de nulle part et ne suis pas dici vous tes dautre part mais tout aussi bien dici. From nowhere do I come and here do not belong but as well from around here. you are from somewhere else
Nous sommes tous deux frres aussi bien quennemis ou ne le faire pas merci cest un choix quon peut faire
Brothers arent we not as well as enemies its a choice one can take or choose to do not THEY will do it for you.
The big five

The big five the elephant sometimes pink and the lion dentist nightmare the leopard shares a swarm of flies with the shortsighted rhino or the twice black buffalo. They are what the crowds come and see from east and west, Alabama Louisiana, Fuji Yuma Los Angeles, Philadelphia and the Rockies, Berlin, Frankfurt oumpaoumpa Oumpapa Flashes from zoomed hyper-cameras Christian Dior sunglasses on smug faces charming boobs and dirty sundowners on the rocks if you please
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Kudu braaiand THE KILLING ! What I see, me ?... Lightning through the dark night Where the old man smokes his grass with rapture rusted spears tearing, wild, their dreams from childrens eyes the whip of lashing rain flaying the dirty roads cracks in the earths soul to run doubt forever and then the gentle swaying of the plain dotted with white thorn trees N.B.: The rich and the famous come from all over the world to see The Big Five and altogether miss Africas inner beauty embedded in squalor and misery.
Hugh Hodge
Holy war
Here is the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the Mother, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the Father, Who loved the Mother, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who loved the Mother, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who loved the Mother, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who loved the Mother, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the Lieutenant, Who ordered the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall.
Who loved the Mother,
Here is the Colonel,
Who trained the Lieutenant, Who ordered the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall.
Here is the General,
Who commanded the Colonel, Who trained the Lieutenant, Who ordered the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall.
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Here is the Army,
Led by the General,
Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall.
Here are the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That built the Army, Led by the General, That provided the Money,
Here is the Money,
That built the Army, Led by the General, Who commanded the Colonel, Who trained the Lieutenant, Who ordered the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall.
Here is the Just Law enacted On behalf of the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That built the Army, Led by the General, That provided the Money,
Here are the Taxes,
That provided the Money, That built the Army, Led by the General,
Who commanded the Colonel, Who trained the Lieutenant, Who ordered the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father,
Here is the Government,
That enacted the Just Law,
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On behalf of the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That built the Army, Led by the General, That provided the Money,
On behalf of the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That built the Army, Led by the General, That provided the Money,
Here is the President,
Who headed the Government, That enacted the Just Law, On behalf of the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That built the Army, Led by the General, That provided the Money,
Here is the Holy War,
Stoked by Rational Policy,
That informed the President, That enacted the Just Law, On behalf of the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That built the Army, Led by the General, That provided the Money,
Who headed the Government,
Here is the Rational Policy,
That informed the President, That enacted the Just Law,
Here is the True Belief, That ignited Holy War,

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Stoked by Rational Policy,
That informed the President,
That enacted the Just Law, On behalf of the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That provided the Money, That built the Army, Led by the General, Who commanded the Colonel, Who trained the Lieutenant, Who ordered the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who loved the Mother, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the Faith, That kindled True Belief,
That ignited Holy War, Stoked by Rational Policy, That informed the President, Who headed the Government, That enacted the Just Law, On behalf of the Citizens, Who paid the Taxes, That provided the Money, That built the Army, Led by the General, Who commanded the Colonel, Who trained the Lieutenant, Who ordered the Sergeant, Who pulled the Trigger, That fired the Bullet, That killed the Father, Who loved the Mother, Who bore the Son, Strong and Tall. Here is the God who wept.
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Tauriq Jenkins
Home
I live in a shoe box which unhousels me I, like the wriggling leg of a sill. chess Knight, check the window at wake, and squeezes me at sleep. In dreams the seams of the enclave push further, each time, to rise droopy eyed
I am still by the window. Standing. My bed takes up a third of the eighth, the main feature of the shoe. Here life lies flat, the sole flatterer on the feet of words,
to a reality more distant than my coffee cup in its unseated resting
of a flatter deflated poet who fattens a tick with an ideas fetish prism from the kennel of a prison outside,
place beside the computer. My shoe box swells
that paws at a four walled
with Shakespeare, vitamin C, or Banana Republican.
politics of some Russian, Libyan, Hair brush meets Pavarotti,
that corrugates green trees interrogates lean ears on the waysidea half baked asylum
tooth paste leans against Mtukudzi Air freshener on top of Dunhill as faded blazers sport old boy ties Thank God for that.
of a bigger legacy, I now have no part of.
where multiple voices
whisper and shout split
hemispheres of crashed
Four diaries, half finished plays, and dozens of chess books, make Pandora blush from this box.
stock exchanges, rigged elections, Hussein who will lead the US of Luthers kingdom
and of a coconut with the middle name past the Klan into the Barrack without Martin or Thabo, attend the same church
At times, in this book wormed eighth of an octagonal whole,
even though they all secretly
37
that blame
whites for inventing HIV.
who still has the patience to listen before bonking drunken visa-exchange; in the back kitchens staple feed of the requisite (coming-of-age)
Deranged dangled outside my window like Damocles did yesterday. Sometimes the flayed carcass comes drifting pass,
of the Observatorian underbelly a hangman that speaks German confidant
exorcism of the African Myth. Today, I will send a postcard to of the distant beauty of The letter will go: Dear you, with love, Home.
to collect his rent, along with his the American Pit-bull advice
the new president, reminding him a crying beloved country.
that bellows in Scrumpys its belligerent to the drinks-sponsored East African from Long Street
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Molefi Vincent Kau

In the house of exile
Scorned in the land of their birth petals drowning in the red pricked by the thorns of the roses when their world turned blue torn from the motherland fate has brought them here sun they also deserve a warm place in the in the house of exile You!! with the bloodshot eyes
with no voice they had to flee
with their last strength of hope leaving their loved ones
And clenched teeth filled with hate Brazen only with a cold embrace Appeal to your ignorance Their mandate is so dire And check your freaking ire Put yourself in their feet
beyond the borders they looked rotting in shallow mass graves
crying for their splintered families little did they know grief awaits in the house of exile
feel the blistering sore on a festering toe open wide freedoms gates breaking down mindless barriers world
hungry on arrival with open palms many are not welcomed even for the inflated tear of mothers carrying infants frothing from their mouths
plunging our country into a hostile let a new community thrive in our humanity even here in the land of exile
Pen with no ink

Camping at the park of talks The sun sets on its claws A pen with no ink The gambling at play shames the elders When the wielding axe stands erect With all hands on deck To cut a new path of the new voyage Even the silent voices shall be heard
Did not right the wrongs of the past It wrote betrayals first Then letdowns
In words of blades cutting the deepest
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Tonight
In the bright of day play Preludes of our intentions come out to Hate spitting fumes of our intolerance The abhorrence to our own kin skin deep with self loath the clock keep its time evils hour strikes soon ticking valiant efforts null and void dark hours hiding the stars blinking eyes good old malice brewing in the air tonight
denying others a place in the sun theirs
annexing from others what is rightfully
someones prayer will not be answered hells begotten furry will end in mischief before the arrival of the nonchalant sunrise
in the dark
Hate Lips
When the lips of hate speak in haste Patriotic flames cannot be doused Hard won liberties anthems Our obligation must leap and shield Let us carry the flags, singing our Lifting every voice and singing Not in our name To now stand up for our childrens future Ending to live our lives like this
Let us click our heels hearing the clarions call survival To tear open chances for our own We are also children of the light Taking a new vow
Why must we wait so long for sorrow Let us save tomorrow from its horror Like nude ants that borough
We ought to stake a claim in the sun No longer can we be denied
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Jennifer Ann Lean

The hunter
You have not let me be. You have hunted me.
When I was still too young to understand the savage force of an oppressors hand at a world in which I could be crafter of images in my artists soul divisions in my lovely land. I looked with childs eyes holding laughter
that would dissolve, that would make whole
But I was still too young to understand the savage force of an oppressors hand Instead of entry to a world of trust I found myself by labels thrust into this coloured skin I wear
with confused, defensive, wary fear. The tree of life is my right, too into delivery of its fruit.
to climb, explore, to test, to woo Instead I ready myself to shoot: oppression I will not endure You have not let me be. You have hunted me.
my bow is drawn, my arm is sure,
Now it is I who aim the arrow
in search of retributive marrow.

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Khadija Tracey Heeger

Its a very, very new old South Africa
Ssh be still, eyes closed, tongues quiet and hands folded Ssh silence under the tepid slogans of a new South Africa. Ssh here between
leaves and vortex hills we dream the dream of a rainbow glow. While children
grow in plantation townships amid diamond addictions forged deep in history and makeshift dreams stagger languidly, bent on lips like dop - sugar sweet honey dew, the new Revlon shade in township trash.
Bondage is a mind gone South for the summer, for a township tour on the lip of Khayelitsha or Manenberg. Bondage is domestic bliss, blissful domestics cradling other mothers children, aimlessly under the many fringe benefits a life on the plantation offers.
whove gone off for a cappuccino at the nearest caf, while their own are shifting Bondage is a mind living with covered mirrors, cuddling up to a cloistered tongue. Bondage is the words you will not say hoping that you can make me go away. Bondage is the memory buried deep and the stories you will not hear me say.
Packed in a suitcase one fine day, 27th April 1994, I live outside of freedoms door. Missing, are you missing me, a child of three. Missing, are you watching your
daughter and your son, it could be them, they could be the one, the one of three just like me. Missing on an ordinary day two years ago, my photo stays on the blink. It happened somewhere else not here, not near, not dear. station wall, a hopeless hope, an undug grave, a sniff too long for a sniffer dog, a
Ah its a very, very new old South Africa, a very very new old South Africa, my children.
I am gunmetal tragedy, trouble like you wont believe. War is my mentality, you newspaper, the latest Hollywood blockbuster removed to a pixelated
grow me up in grim effigy. I live in your house and in your home, a picture in a
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conscience. I am best served with popcorn to high-minded folk with trust funds spineless humanity - when will you see me. Your child could be me.
and United Nations aspirations. I am that boy AK47 mind, a twisted flower on a
Tomorrow is a childrens paradise carved out of smokescreens and mortar.
Tomorrow is a dungeon of old dug deep to hide sins, fathers dont speak of such things, mothers cry long before today. I am a signpost in the traffic of everyday things, I am everyday things. Everyday is where you hide me in coffee for two, soap opera rumours and the hieroglyphics of amnesia. Maps that dont read well, you say. Which township was that in the news the other day? It doesnt matter anyway. We are ghosts you see, floating in and out of life. Conscious is not our preferred drug so we create ghosts. Motherless children, childrenless mothers, homeless humans, delinquent fathers, eloquent liars articulating to a fault, mercenary
democracy, the devils of theory. We have developed the perfect cataract an industry of development that doesnt work. Township traumas have become the bread and spreading upstanding images built on poverty. butter of man - those cheap labour plantations they pay my salary, the franchise of
But wait, sssh, its over now. Slavery is long gone, apartheid is dead, not a racist in sight, not a victim for miles, assimilation is transformation, assimilation is transformation on the planet of silenced dialogue.
Its a very, very new old new South Africa, my children, a very, very new old South Africa.
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Patrick Tarumbwa
Late night musings
They say American Indians were benevolent to let modern day America build casinos over their ancestors. barren. They school us Africans that were better off with roads and buildings yet culture They say watch television and learn the new tricks of how to trick out your soul and learn how to live with the resultant emotional hole... yet I admit Id rather feel the blood seeped in the soil from freedom fighters running with no soles with hope-filled hearts as the strength that they absorbed. So you cant school me that the world is ending when I know that faith can move mountains... Or that I cant live my dreams when I can feel them tingling under my skin, this black full pigmented skin under this blue sky, struggling to be more black and tell less white lies... and the truth lies under the thick blanket, below the sheets, next to you when you sleep. so they say kiss your secrets
and make them with those closest and they say make love to fear and take it in overdoses...
But I preach to stay awake and smile through the tears
to love your late night musings until they set things clear.
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Kobus Moolman
Survival
We who accept survival as our password accept incompleteness as our blessing. We who quench fire with fire all night know that wings are not the only ladders to the dark, that heavy wood swims too in the tide of the wind. We who dress in blindness and in faith do not know the colour of our palms nor the weight of our feet upon the water. We who have dust in our mouths all day have stones on our tongues instead of songs.
We who accept survival
accept survival as our curse. (from Light and After, Deep South, 2010)
True or false
The Money or the Box. Men are men because of what grows inside their pants. basis so that they stand up straight and respect their elders. they get. All foreigners are lazy and deserve what
All foreigners are thieves. Women are dirty four days out of every month.
Young girls dress the way they do because they want to get it.
It is a biological fact that men cannot
The earth is overcrowded and it is time someone did something about it. The neighbours are not like us. Children should be beaten on a daily
control what happens inside their pants. Everyone not like us is different. Poor people have no feelings. The simple-minded are happy.
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Some lives are more valuable than others.
Sometimes (when the wind blows from the right direction) you can smell the end coming. (from Autobiography of Bone, Unpublished, 2010)
Some people are more equal than others.
Eight critical questions

Ask her. Ask her Ask her if the smoke stings ? if the flames change colour as they burn through the seven layers of her skin ?
Ask her if she knows when the smell starts? Ask her at what point burned skin stops feeling anything and just blackens? if she knows the price of any of the following: . half a litre of 98 octane . a box of Lion matches . an old car tyre . 10 bricks, broken into halves for throwing? if she knows how bone is turned into powder in an incinerator? how long it takes teeth to break down? if heads can grow back, like lizards tails?
Ask her
Ask her Ask her Ask her Ask her.
Ask her if she felt anything else that day. (from Autobiography of Bone, Unpublished, 2010)
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Raphael dAbdon
Loxion workers
(Dedicated to the miners murdered in the eland shaft, and to all those who are able to imagine what those miners were thinking about before the lift started to descend.) we are the ones who wake up with the humming songs of morning sparrows the fat burps of sleek retiring rats the hammering hoots hunting the roads of vociferous ventures like voracious vultures we are the ones who earn 1-2-3-4 hundred rand a week dankie dear madiba viva cosatu
but are still expected to say
ngiyabonga mr boshoff we are the loxion workers we call home
who walk the road without the company of our own shadow to get to woebegone train stations between the tight thighs of cold rusted coaches we are the ones
the circulatory system of this sick body the beating heart of this and many other shadow ghosts
and hang like the thread of a tampon
our precious bones are buried alive in africa
the unspeakable truths of the new south adorned with gold and diamonds jewels we are the sunrise runners knockin-off bandits and busy street dogs
whose regular breakfast is qota, boiled eggs or magwenya munched in a haste
in dusty street corners we are the ones
who are screamed at by stinking bosses and yebo sis to new guard fascists we are the ones
are our journey mates we dont see each others faces since our backs are bent under the load of a life we did not choose
47
and must say ya baas to old school racists
for ourselves our mothers fathers
in trains and taxis monotonous rock we swing our heads from shoulder to shoulder as if figuring things out.
and children
A new vision
before clay-footed emperors and when things fall apart loss and well find ourselves responsible for gross miscalculation for we are our own beliefs and inspiration and if a rebellion is set to kill the naked kings and
stale recycled mercenaries
paper satraps dressed outlandishly foul servants of patriarchal courts prolix freedom cheaters and sad obedient puppets
we wear vague decent masks of silent complacence
we have to visualize a brand new world think already as
behind a wall of glass respectability this family of liars is assembled methodically eating a dish of stolen lives and dicers oaths
its brand new regents this new vision of ours must speak of love must speak of fallen tyrants
getting fat and hooked to legal thievery getting tipsy on cheap media celebrity we are the passive audience for whom these actors act and yet
the end of banksterism
the final death of military gods the birth of white lie-proof true post-democracies
despite their lack of skills and lame triviality we still seem deeply impressed by the apparent gravity of the matter
a serene magnificent life for everyone finally free fear from fences and falsehood
if we behave distractedly were all going to be lost
is all we ever longed for if such a beautiful thing ever even existed...
48
Graham Vivian Lancaster

Winter warmth
Please donate a To save a life While the American Pushcart Poetry Award nomination We can do it! Thirty five rand blanket In freezing winter Seven billion rand Moses Mabida White football elephant Stands decaying empty, For half the population Cant be bought; But hey, Or twenty million blankets And we made crime stop Beggars and street Clean beaches. For those who Children disappear
Cant see beyond fanfare Or common sense pills, But dont worry The population will
We cant make eye glasses
And the other nine stadiums? South Africa has been As we showed
Be bankrupted after,
So blow your own vuvuzela Pin the medals
Huntsmen on apocalypse horses To your inflated chests But be careful of pins, Pricks are dangerous.
Showcased to the world All our detractors
Home to roost?
Herd of following sheep Downcast eye Writhing Braggart of fools Snake tongued cowards Shamed to Sulky mouth silence Slithering slowly From a watching world
49
Away
This dark night
Of incompetence With not a man Of leadership To mow
This field of weeds Into some decent semblance
Of accountable respectability
Battle lost
The first good impression Endeavoured so hard Like reclaiming land To make the second time, From the ocean, Might perhaps Gain a little
Insecure ground.
The devil works in darkness

Lashed with salty tears The devil pilots Of destruction His ugly creaking ship Sailing an incompetent Crew of jealous Green eyed monsters Upon a thundering Black sea Of broken dreams
This harsh reality night Splitting the backs
Of stinging whiplash strokes Of indolent oarsmen,
Pull hard you impossible lot Or well never catch up
Mightier than
Flight of Roosts Communal voice Upon the perch Of exiled poets With the peoples ear And mightier Vigilant pen Patriotically grasped In clenched fists Of underground power Stabbing the jugular
Between the lines

Blindly trying to read The darkness Of deep denial
Between the bright lines Of flashing neon.
50
Brett Beiles
Clocking on
Its twenty-five past and grey workers are on a grey day. but if we clock-on with the company long enough we may get one in the end. sparked by a t-shirt seen in pinetowns famed rainbow club to refugees fleeing scurrying frightened to work
Some of their watches are fast and they think they are late. Some of their watches are slow but not as slow as they think. tick-tick Some of their watches are right but the time is not their own.
which gave sanctuary hostilities between the ifp and anc before the final thorn in the heel
Some of us dont have watches
of apartheid walked free:
Schisms
capitalism communism humanism isms isms isms maxism for the masters cause
fascism
federalism republicanism conservatism
nationalism monarchism
schisms schisms schisms
marxism for the
liberalism masses
but one:
sod the bloody lot of em
ANARCHism
lets riot.
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Sonwabo Meyi
A kiss from the heart
i stand on the entrance of ma new room va-va-voom experiencing this new inspiration get caught up in the african trance of this darkness may they always shine bright & so now we make tongues say wow in awe of this kiss which rumbles
every part of the body goes rowdy howdy my mind moulds itself takes a leap 1 giant
step towards a feeling of a fucha which is eager and anxious to shove itself to greater heights my soul sits in a lotus
deep from the heart stop this
the tears of happiness from falling onto page the rage tender and redder mendering old wounds creating and revolutions perfectly sound engineered productions
position meditating allowing the self into a new
all forms of energy to elevate dimension and creation blessed are those who see the light in the
smile my brother bcoz with me you shall live and rule for ever and ever and evermore
Holes in the brain

blinding light stares at my eyes momentarily messing up but it does not destroy my so it goes till we become zombies in the night with no proper direction & the we have ever perceived it bubble bursts & everything as gets fucked & we sometimes
my sight & lowering my height line of thought as i piece &
pull rule 2getha the movements
of everything connected to being black first they create false images for the eyes to devour then create holes in the brain &
fall backwards & forwards in time then my rhyme forces itself out from within the roots on my tongue & a vulgar
52
language pours out into the
open space attacking the race which pulled the gun at the freeman turned slave
i go on rocking the strings on a huge exodus away from the ways of Babylon.
my black pen striving to create
my vision is kaleidoscopic & so
Symbols from my right hand

i walk & talk shock da p.e. females are prostitutes dey fail to watch dey steps i streets where men are weak neva tyk shit 4rm anybody these lines are rowdy muddy waters i spit mansions neva fail to mention ma disgust
in your face i blowaway government
face hell in the eye struggle
& fight with the beast sumtymz i cry & fly to unseen existences but in an instance i take a
at white skins wearing black masks frontin as B.E.E. patriots im a griot drumbeater wordspeaker melodymaker heartbreaker see me smiling when im sad angry when
radical political stance against demons 4rm the east shitthe light i cr8v the sun i befriend da
darkness i turn in2 happiness let it inspire me 2 cr8 mofayah
im happy take a good look at ma eyes da
then you will begin to understand what st.solitudemonksoundsystem is all about: destruction of grammar rules
mr prezdent i come 4 your head
dis ma ak-47 shooting im buckwild
Ma irie
ma irie is muslim im a black prince shining the ultimate mission freedom to da ground while i move & drop a hot bombshell inside the belly of da beast some are intelligent gentleman sipping expensive whiskey lose prostitutes their keys & kids to robbers pimps & i pull out a gun & start
is war war & more war towards peace & i survive & live exist amongst a peoples fooled by the system they always holding onto the shitstem some are dumb numb they fall
a revolution self elevation motivation

53
a locomotion of ma mental
some are hypocrites fronting as bible readers but all they iswoman chasers renting rooms & get fucked till they bleed white some are stupid they oppress their own black people trying 2
please the slavemaster while ma irie is muslim i pray i cruise the sky count the stars
they mutilate their souls & drown in hell at night look into da darkness
ask 4 blessings 4rm the ancestor
Fluorescent light
with the bulb buzzing my ears become fuzzy forcing me to think about this planet using a steel net creating metaphorical web magnets my train of thought refuses to of my tongue is flamboyant
building umzi where creativity
crash collisions with love/warmth spacious is the basement
be stagnant & the literal speech as i step out & face wolves in & leave behind a bomb blast
where music of the mind
travels on the artistic bloodlines of my soul & im forced 2fly high deep in the dungeons of
presidential skins sharpen ma skill a space where ants search for light.
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Gillian Schutte
Johannesburg
Johannesburg where the landless scour maps of and comb scars in ragged earth for bits of yesterday in the wounds cut deep nobody sleeps in city streets where while bodies shift beneath cardboard boxes plastic bags and last weeks then wrap their pain in pseudo cloaks of Jack Daniels and
politically incorrect jokes
on pavement cafs in trendy streets where the have-nots peddle their beaded fare to the well heeled who sip cocktails and trade platitudes
behind designer sunglasses that shield Them from Us
yellowing newspapers
that only tell half the tale where madness skulks in from hollowed eyes of harrowed lives
while the implicit mantra of Us and Them Us and Them
shadows that steal the dreams
is swept beneath falsehoods stealthily woven into complex weaves
that hide themselves
that comfort barren minds where insanity simmers in social ties where broken soldiers carry faulty compasses maps of scars and traverse drunkenly mining what is left of their diamond selves with gilded psychosis
in downtown creases where lighted billboards promise hope in the smooth forked tongue of those who occupy the highest rung rhythmic rap
and poets deliver love in
55
they carry the halitosis of
days gone by in gagged mouths and wrap their sorrows in cloaks of Jazz
bottled promises
and small brown packages Johannesburg where fear wears the face of a black man and walls are built to keep Them from Us
while the newly rich wear the stench of things unsaid crooked bowels of our history
things lodged in the
which is not yet the past dressed in this unspoken heady nights of fancy footwork
where love rots on garbage dumps and even god can be seen picking his way through carrion
they salsa their fears into bullshitting and paying for illumination in
looking for scraps of celestial revelation in this gold dust wasteland of our
hope and our horror.
The revolution sure is over

Ja my bru, The Revolution is sure over It found its demise In the significance Of the pipi rhetoric Chocolate milkshakes Opinion Neither of which has an Whose pipis stand erect Only when Bleating the loudest On soapboxes; Renditions of Delivering popularist Revolutionary speak Covered up with Pubic hair
Of the now generation But never go down
Who eat sushi off skin buffets Who stick their pipis Strawberry and
Like MacDonalds straws into
56
Tnuc, Tnuc
Is the sound of those who Read backwards Laughing at the Pipi politics of
The Revolution is sure over It ended with the bleating of those Whose pipis remain Flaccid In the presence of Foot soldiers
Ja my bru,
They who presume To have measured The immeasurable and Found its genesis In the massacre Of their Lower
Whose cunt commentary
Lost somewhere Between Blackberries, Baby oil and The Washing of the Spear.
Chakras
57
Pratish Mistry
Rainbow revolution
Smiling in a happy queue, as far as the eye could see true African victory, as best it could be. Rainbows indeed, lives leadership with sexy ethics, and what example can our youth follow The rainbow of colour when their boss fails basic mathematics.
with every colour and creed
has become a rainbow of class But soon we will learn we will never be rich,
1994 what a year that was. Now, fighters for freedom still standing so proud, teleported to power way above the crowd.
Uneducated, not united we stand.
unless riding the Train
and not giving a stitch.
Forget the rainbow, follow the gold told.
Rainbow darkened yet bright to the townships delight. Sadly, it is only election time. Almost decades have passed and the poor still weep, sure a few diamonds alright
Lets hope thats not how our story is
So pray dear Leprechaun take away your pot, replace it with a book,
so we can improve our lot. redound on their makers,
but many townships to sweep.
Let the decisions made above make them victims of inaction to South Africas satisfaction.
Rainbow clouded over, nowhere in sight the masses duped by world cup delight. Countdown, to think up new promises. Hidden behind fat cultural walls
A wake up call is long overdue.
58
Shabbir Banoobhai
The walls lament
I have no strength besides the strength you give me. I have no hope unless something in you that created me, dies with me. But it is easier for you
besides the hope you place in me. I have no will me.
to recreate me in other forms call me by gentler names
besides the will with which you build
that conceal the harm they perpetrate than to allow me to vanish without a trace so fearful are you of losing an essence your belief only survives
I have no courage to match your fear me.
now cemented in the concrete within
When you are blind I become blind.
When you allow light into your heart a gate I had almost forgotten existed opens, deep in a recess in my spine. So really, I have no sight at all yet I see what you see in me. I have no dream, not even
within you because of me. I have no strength
besides the strength you give me. I have no hope
besides the hope you place in me. I have no will me.
if there is barrenness around me to find out if there are orchards growing on the other side.
besides the will with which you build
I have no courage to match your fear me.
now cemented in the concrete within
I cannot live unless you live within me. I cannot die even if you dismantle me
Attempting to separate
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your hopes from your fears you inevitably convert
besides the hope you place in me. I have no will
your hopes to your fears. Trying to be free
besides the will with which you build me. I have no courage to match your fear
through separation you lose your freedom through isolation;
now cemented in the concrete within me. Some gifts have no meaning
when we possess them entirely; and some ailments are themselves tute.
for the beauty of a cloud does not lie in the cloud it lies in drought;
the only cure for the illness they consti-
the beauty of the day does not lie in the light
So unless blindness itself becomes the cure for a flawed sight, you will rebuild me in your heart, even when you reduce me to rubble on the ground.
it lies in the darkness of night; the beauty of infinity lies in rootedness.
Can you not see the futility of striving for perfection
And if you cannot form me
in the full light of your nightmares you will form me in the half light of your hidden fears;
with a flawed understanding of imperfection?
Can you not hear the disquiet
see in the half light of your waking a bridge fall, in its place a wall;
in the very silence you are creating? I have no strength
see in the half light of your sleeping a mist-like veil enveloping the sun;
see in the half light of your dreaming
the moon reddening, the sky blackening.
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O when will you learn
what lies within you lies within me? O how will you see
besides the hope you place in me. I have no will
what lives beyond me lives beyond you? I have no strength
besides the will with which you build me. I have no courage to match your fear
now cemented in the concrete within me.
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Gona Pragasen Kathan Naicker

June 16
young minds burning Impatient, restless, by racist hands young minds wasted hopes spurned, hopes dead no rights, no freedom seeds of discontent sown hatred, anger, bred fuelled by agitated fires set alight by restless rage the scent of freedom schools, houses, tyres burn, unleashed on streets with fury young feet stomp, dance in freedoms trances
disenchantment, turned to rage in dangerous young minds fate confronted
young voices singing, chanting raze, burn to the ground the godless racist regime. they came
had no where to go
pledges with death made young voices chanting for liberation death for freedom death the fuel spilled defiant, wild,
the inhuman apartheid machine with deadly guns ablaze to pit its formidable strength crush the unarmed children epitaphs written in red on this day young martyred blood flowed on dusty township streets history written
the sparks ignited riotous fires raged, flames spread, black fog devoured the land tyrannies fumes, inhaled by young innocent minds
history reshaped
with stones and petrol bombs and blood of fallen children the wave never broke
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Freedoms an illusion
beware black man beware a mirage your freedom is an illusion obscuring the bleak barren landscape lush green oasis beckons you to come and drink from freedoms oasis beware black man beware your freedom is an illusion beware black man beware of your former brothers and comrades in arms
beware black man beware
they have flown to greener pastures they now don the fancy garbs of the oppressor they have learnt to talk with glib tongues of double-talk they have mastered the artistry
freedoms oasis is an illusion our oppressors proclaim how can this be?
the freedom of the black man there is treachery
garbed in false freedoms attire they offer us not freedom but a new brand of slavery beware black man beware your freedom is an illusion the oppressors cheer
they have adopted airs of sophistication have become pretentious bourgeoisies with their cheap rhetoric allegiance they tell us about their unchanging to the common people and freedom beware black man beware your freedom is an illusion from their elevated towers of glory its called bee philosophy with its elitist exclusivity they have invented
from their golden pyramids you are free, you are free
we have liberated you black man celebrate your freedom rejoice and sing how can we celebrate
they now preach a brand new ideology
we who have nothing
we who have slaved and died to unearth the wealth from deep down
new terminologies and phraseologies of the common man they have found
which are beyond the comprehension
the bowels of mother earth of grandeur and splendour
to build their golden pyramids their opulence begets our poverty

63
to legalise and justify
innovative ways and means
their lucrative extravagant life styles
in stark contrast to our poverty beware black man beware your freedom is an illusion beware black man beware
beware black man beware they enjoy the spoils and the bounty from our struggle while you and i naively believe the sacrifices in the struggle for freedom would set us free exploitation
how comrades unashamedly
flout their prosperity and justify
the multiplication, accumulation as a just reward
from want, hunger, poverty and and our beloved country will prosper and bear fruits for all its children alas! black man, alas
and division of material affluence for the years spent in the struggle for the liberation of the black mans soul
our rewards are but empty promises beware black man beware your freedom is an illusion.
beware black man beware
your freedom is an illusion
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Harry Owen
Questions to ask in South Africa
A monkey tail waves from the rear wiper of Dumzas taxi and I ask myself: When do you taken your heart solidifying, congealing like a crust into what youd rather not be: the cost of a breakfast, a chicken, a conscience or a soul? Named, we are owned; known. When do things become too much? start to begrudge it, feel youve been for a ride, the word borrow meaning give, you, and resent the assumptions made about your character, your wealth? Why do you sense
spoken, we are real; lived, we become
Only a toy, then, but that monkey clings to the back of the taxi, its brave tail happens now? asking, What happens now? What
Hadeda
Certainly not posh. No Knightsbridge or Bath, no golden regency Crescent, no plum primordial as swamp one step up from reptile. Real. Concorde snout. Propped. Like so much of here, shacks and townships, tyres, tin and cardboard, half a forest balanced on each womans head Hadeda. This held proud, still, elegant as models.
not la-di-dah but the bleakest raw screech,
Less pretty by far than rosellas
and fairy wrens ripe for picturing, with blocks of rusty parts, a spare
but heavy, squat and chucked together
beautiful bird. Ugly? Rough? Unfinished? True.
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Stephen Marcus Finn

Rainbelt
When alive and filled with drive who drummed the idea of a rainbow nation into us. Not Tutu, truth be told it was Richard Rive, unrhyming,
who drew the sheep into his fold. And in a talk before the fall of whites that held all the hues,
it was rich to hear him say
that so much writing was rather grey. Oh, brothers and sisters under the sun, Our music is the machine-gun, Unbegun with a rhythm to shoot the schism, Colouring our eyes with more derision. That pot of gold is a chimera, Showing it broken, split, shattered, Rive got it wrong where the rainbow ends,
In two, in more,
A dimmed sclera, not clearer. Stand on a hill and look around
The belt is whole not touching the ground, Encircling us all just as we gaze, We are the gold, it is we who amaze. [N.B.: Richard Rive wrote the poem Where the Rainbow Ends as a prologue to a short story published in Drum in May 1955.]
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The sacrifice of Isaac

Out of touch with the lighted essence of humanity, Knowing that terror can be found in grains of sand That reflect our nothingness if we submit To error in the guise of the holy. Rots the spiritual from within, Without which all is nothing, Archaic and current Flowing together as one, Power, the kernel of commitment, The world looks to the heavens from whence cometh our hell,
Forever forgetting and then
Foregoing the high truth behind all. All see their antagonists as godless, All claim their own godly share in creation As each, lurching, gyrates to sacrifice anew The child in the thicket. And the one bound in blood pleads, Not for me my Abraham will you sacrifice the ram.
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Kogi Singh
Shattered hopes
When will this troubling time come to an end? When can we hold up our heads in national pride? Each day brings further revelations of theft, corruption, crimes committed by those we placed in power Our comrades who promised change to erase the curses of the past. Yet we still see the haves and the havenots Only, now, their skins are the same colour. Better the enemy we knew their inhumane and calculated acts raised our voices in song and poem, drama and rallies in township shebeens and church halls in the sheltering darkness of the night, surreptitiously keeping the flame of resistance burning hounded but not beaten. But for this? Yesterdays comrades are todays capitalists their thoughts and efforts focused on accumulation of personal wealth and power. They strut and preen in their social hierarchies, pillage our resources for personal profit, live in high style in elaborate mansions set up a jetting lifestyle in foreign lands while our people still struggle against poverty and disease and hunger. darkness, We prayed for peace, for light after for freedom from oppression. right
We fought for what was morally our But won only betrayal by our own. Yes, Black rule is here that belongs to all?
but where is the free South Africa
68
Sue Conradie
A ballad
In the middle of my country close to nothing at all Its surprisingly small lives the little town in the dust I feel a great, deep sadness here the priest slash medium said are not yet properly dead As if the people who have died
Many people who reside there say life is just sublime but if you scratch beneath the soil the earth is all but grime
Go way up to the monument the concentration camp lying there under damp youll see some heels and toys as well
A kind of weirdness buried there that not all men can sense its really quite intense its like, well, like possession man!
Perhaps its from the sickness the leaders refuse to fix or maybe sadness of history aids this disturbing mix
People who come so far to live instead of rivers flowing fast find tiny dried up streams
packed with their hopes and dreams
Whatever the reason he said Whatever be the rhyme There will be no healing here, with the passing of time.
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Geoffrey Haresnape
South Africa
(After Allen Ginsburg) South Africa, Ive given you my best shot, and now Im deprived. of cents, May 15, 2011. South Africa, two rands and a handful I cant stand my own poverty. non-delivery? not beautiful know he cant come back You claim that you understand his poems, but is this some form of practical joke? Its a pity.
South Africa when will you end the Go fuck yourself with your black but grubbing and greedy BEE.
Im trying to offer you my point of view. I refuse to give up my sense of the Struggle.
South Africa, stop pretending that you share where Im at. cut down South Africa, the pine trees are being not as aliens but because they bring in
Im not feeling proud, dont hassle me. I cant write my poem till Ive bought my own SeriesThree. egalitarian? South Africa, when will you be South Africa when will you take your stand against Zimbabwe? diplomacy. Im baffled by your policy of quiet When can I go into the supermarket with a pocketful of real money? leading the emerging world. me. South Africa, after all it is you who are Your double-standards are baffling to You made me want to be an African hero. There must be some way to solve this conundrum. Denis Brutus is in the Great Beyond, I
the Bucks,
and the people are dispossessed.
Ive been troubled by SATV for months, every day some leader is fingered for corruption.
South Africa, I feel a sudden pang for pavement singers. when I was a kid South Africa I used to be an idealist Im not sorry.
I smoke dagga every chance I get keep my eyes
I sit in my shack for days on end and on the outside toilets.
Every bowl is DA or ANC, uncovered and equally open. When I go to the shebeen I take
70
Klippies with ice and hope to get laid.
I wish to escape this miasma of troubles. You should have seen me reading Mao. perfectly right. My cell commander reckoned that I was I wont sing Nkosi Sikelela, tied in a yoke to Ons vir jou. of change. I have political perturbations and dreams South Africa, I still havent mentioned how you lost Chris Hani somewhere between a reactionary
a testosterone-driven desire, whizz out like shells primary care.
a caisson of colourful slogans that can
and 25,000 dilapidated clinics for I say nothing about Correctional Facilities nor the millions of in my brainbox those testing positive for HIV who live under the glare of a carcinogenic sun.
WESSA and a crazy Pole. Hey, Im speaking to you. be run by
I have done away with human trafficking. Gang rape is the next to go. the fact that I am a native My ambition is to be President despite without family or connections.
Are you going to let your economic life Business Day?
I read it from time to time. saunter into the CNA. Library.
South Africa, how can I speak of justice in your twisted mood? though my poems houses. I will continue like Tokyo Sexwale are more individual than his RDP South Africa, I will sell you my poems at two grand a piece printed on superfine paper coat-of-arms.
Its headlines flash at me every time I I read it at a greasy table in the Public Its always informing me about wealth. Enterepeneurs wealthy. are wealthy. Mining magnates are
Everybodys wealthy but for me. It seems to me that Im South Africa. Im speaking on behalf of what I am again.
under the imprint of our Khoi Khoi
South Africa, honour Solomon Plaatje. South Africa, remember the postal workers union organized by Patrice Lumumba. Kwame Nkrumah must not die. Guevara.
Asia is getting rich beyond my reach. I havent got a Chinamans chance. I better reassess my national resources. My national resources consist of two zolls,
South Africa, the name of the young South Africa, I am an unsung Che
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South Africa, when I was seven my momma took me to township for each ticket a ticket cost meetings they sold us a golden mealie ten cents and the speeches were free everybody was a black angel it was all so sincere you have no idea
She needs to infiltrate the Big Issue The US is thirsting to suck up our offshore deposits for her filling stations. The Brits and the Dutchmen want to frack our Karoo sending the merinos sliding. want our children to read.
what a good thing the ANC
That aint no good. Ugh. They dont Theyll make us all work sixteen hours a day with no percentage and no housing allowance. Help. South Africa, this is quite serious.
demon, a real fat pig with an R4 in his trotter. The talk of the Soweto Uprising made me cry. One in ten there must have been an apartheid spy.
was in 1910. P W Botha was a white
South Africa, this is the impression that I get from watching SATV 1, 2 &3. South Africa, is this correct?
South Africa, you dont really know how to take a stand. nations. South Africa, its them bad First World Them Europeans, them Canadians and them citizens of the US of A. Europe wants to eat us alive. Europe is from out of our
Id better get right down to organizing a disability grant. Its true I dont want to be exploited in the formal sector. I cant afford spectacles and Im half bombed out of my mind anyway. South Africa, Im putting my
power mad. She wants to take our gold ground.
idiosyncratic shoulder to the wheel Renaissance. of the African
Canada wants to grab hold of Tshwane.
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Dr Death
on refusing to join the medical staff of a hospital in industrial action In maternity
Im dedicated to this service look for no reward. By night or day youll find me gliding through a ward. My simple tunic
it seems Im never late of a neonate.
to squeeze the unwatched drip-line
bears no badge of rank:
By adult beds Im languid, but more than a few in the ICU. receive my attention
yet, when theres an august event, its me you have to thank. I give my all in all and not just half. If necessary I can be
I kill the squiggle on the monitor with one, deft sweeping action of my scythe.
or cut the nerve that feeds a writhe
my own skeleton staff. My lantern jaw is hidden by a sombre hood. and that is good. Im the acme of narcosis
Plead for my co-operation. Try anything you like. that I will strike. This is the one and only way
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Irene Emanuel
Soweto Uprising
grumbling rumbling roar, NO MORE.
muttering
uttering
Afrikaans
shout, GET OUT.
no chance
stampede
voetsak, GET BACK.
impede
unarmed
cop, GO DROP.
were harmed
senseless
bullets flying.
defenceless
Hector
children dying.
spectre
GHOST OF SOWETO.
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Then and Now

THEN: There were
fools, rules, There were
separate schools. signs, fines, There was
multiple crimes. segregation, agitation, annihilation. There were tyres, fires, There is NOW:
political liars. There were pass-laws, bylaws, live or die laws. There were
integration, communication, fornication. There are
crashes, bashes, traffic clashes. There are
sages, changers, re-arrangers.
colour shades, scorpion raids, death by AIDS. There are drugs, thugs, There is
computer bugs. empowerment, sentiment, government. There is
caring, sharing, colour pairing. There is
SOUTH AFRICA,
THE RAINBOW NATION.
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Karen Lazar
Spike
All my windows are barred Horizontal bars--A metal lattice Vertical bars///crisscrossing bars/\\\
Custom-made for Johannesburg For woman in wheelchair Easy prey.
One window no bars On the garden side At first I dislike Hostile hooks indigeneity A robust twist of six aloes. Their tense green-grey bulk Misplaced suburban
But when they grow
Their proud phallus of flame Im humble in beauty, Secure in spikiness.
Could not all our barricades Be this organic?
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Ravi Naicker
The beautyful ones are not yet born
The Apartheid sluice gates Cape. Unlocked at Victor Verster in the fair An icon ushered in, a multitude in ecstasy, Clamouring to listen to his maiden speech. proportions Freedom of speech challenged Billions embezzled Democracy stretched to the limit doubting Thomas
ARVs withheld to quench the thirst of a
Negotiations, elections, a calm sea As the globe watched Nelson Mandela installed as President. South Africa became the Darling of the world. Freedom of speech, gender equality. All beautifully enshrined in our constitution
The Education system rapidly transformed To be on par with the world. Bribery and corruption The order of the day. ignored.
The Freedom Charter deliberately
Freedom of association, free enterprise
Old Majors vision, now sadly myopic. The Struggle no longer has any significant meaning. themselves New Comrades rush to enrich Without an aorta of ethos nor pathos. Oh Africa!
Making it one of the most progressive the world over. We were proudly South African. That Utopia was short lived. The cracks became visible. An ideal world crumbled
Where is your Ubuntu? Yeah, the BEAUTYFUL ONES ARE NOT YET BORN. [N.B.: The title of the poem was taken from Ayi Kwei Armah, the Ghanaian authors novel by the same title.]
As Mandela faded in the backdrop Against an altered landscape. His swan song gracefully
Sung and resonates in every household. Affirmative action abused to epic
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Peter Horn
An unreadable bloodstain
Wenn man die Anarchisten der Gesetzlichkeit milderem Licht. am Werk sieht, erscheinen einem die Bombenwerfer If one sees the anarchists of legality doing Karl Kraus
their job, one sees the bomb throwers in a milder light.
Everywhere there were voices
loud voices, salted by tears and laughter,
one night in the red shine of the fires a luminous white eye appeared in the sky. That night one heard the tongueless speak and they spoke without reason, guns,
bread was scarce, and the work was hard to wash in a bowl before the shack. But there was maize, and meat sometimes,
sweaty bodies came home in the evening
although many were unemployed, head,
while lives were burned to ashes, fire and caspirs and buffels protecting the murderers, bandits who collected protection money, bandits who collected municipal taxes into their own bottomless pockets,
and there was a roof of sorts over the even if it leaked in winter, clapping hands huts:
and a pulse of feet and drums and filled the spaces between the plastic Market stalls on illegal MandelaSquares, mielies, potatoes and tomatoes, onions and the all-pervading smell of life.
bandits with a Mercedes, black bandits, licensed bandits with police backup and grandmothers and cripples, cackling hyenas came along the road to kill children and the metallic armour rattled as the moved with purpose after their victim, stumbling, stumbling along in the dirt road, and in the sand black skin and red blood
One night all this was flaming,
as they entered with home made guns, R1 rifles on loan from the police, pangas, knives, knobkieries and shields,
78
mingled with shredded bone and torn
muscles,
the blood soaked up by sand, flies, blue buzzing meat-flies. Now there remains
In the light winter rains,
this liquid and rushing crystal, we walk through the carnage, fingers, letters squelch between our toes and our muddied names: names to be washed when we greet the thinking lions of tomorrow: One scarlet flower is cast
a name sweated out of a bare wall left standing in error: a bloody wound dripping black and intestines hanging from The acrid smell of burning: doors torn out of their frames.
on the bone-white stone.
A bloody cross against your name

In memory of Nomthunzi Mashebelele O poeta un fingidor. They are: more than we can ever hope to be. The evening extends across a line of fire a barricade of burning tyres, suspended in the night, clouds, freedom which breaks through the while some people draw bloody crosses on white paper to protect their silverlings.
murdered at the age of 5 years in Site C Finge to completamente A dor que deveras sente. The poet feigns. He feigns so well
Que chega a fingir que dor
That the sorrow that he really feels Becomes a feigned sorrow. Fernando Pessoa, Autopsicografia A tremor runs across the black asphalt, the hollow sound of a fruit that drops from a twig: the silence of feathers cut by a saw.
A human face, this glorious thing, alive, wanting to speak to us who are also mortal,
who can love and understand: we hear the step of a shadow shoe walking home with parafin. Forever. body. At the age of five a bullet in this soft Which is not yet, which is in the process of emerging,
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This day knows nothing about children who were given a body to know the silent pleasure to breathe, to live, they need to be taught: nothing.
music it is and words to become: breath. hastily,
already drinking death with every The air gulped down, the last breath, none left: our bread is poisoned
and guns.
How will these wounds heal? Ever? warm only
Dying. And the sand is cold that was yesterday, glowing in the sun light. blood.
by those who draw crosses with pens
Black with blood it is today. Boiling
Stage Fright
I stand at the beginning surrounded by hollow analogies: floatsam on a dirty puddle in a stolen voice: a chance to deviate from what really happened wooden planks replacing words studded with rusty nails and spears reaching out across the void
drifting through the oily eyes words whirling through the rubbish in some malign dance a recollection of the mutilated girl by pangas and axes of law and order
to make contact with unknown evils in a theatre of furious constructions penetrate living flesh words substituted for bullets never reach their target they lick the dust
her wings hacked away gang-raped by the vigilantes her life-blood spilled on hot, dusty roads under the acrid smoke
thrown up by marching feet a final grimace ends the act:
until they choke in their own saliva
of burning third-hand easy chairs we lose the present twice as each beginning is a heresy
that giant father
who cracks the skull of his child with sharpened teeth to suck its wisdom into his own stomach
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Gary Cummiskey
Today
Today a young man Today a child was hanged himself in his bedroom Today blown to shreds by a car bomb Today
a woman was found dead in a drain
you left and will never return
And we watch
And we watch the baby seals being clubbed to death, one getting knifed in the stomach as its mothers milk spurts from its mouth And we watch the minister of education scolding school kids in Mitchells Plain for writing poems about poverty and crime, he suggests they pen odes to Table Mountain And we watch the naked bodies of young men at the side of the road, shot through the head And we watch the woman rushing around wailing because she cannot fathom why her husband has been taken away And we watch the township lesbian
81
being gang-raped, this will cure her and teach her to appreciate cock And we watch the humanitarian development companies with billion-dollar contracts in Afghanistan and Iraq And we watch the twelve-year-old boy in hospital with his arms and legs blown off And we watch the old hag in the street being kicked around by beer-gutted policemen And we watch the drunken mother hysterical because while she was busy getting laid outside the shebeen her child was butchered up for muti And we watch the Vietnamese
restaurant that looks like a pet shop And we watch the monkeys being ripped apart by dogs for sport and money And we watch the torture and beatings continue in Harare And we watch the mutilated corpse removed from the wreck of a car bomb And we watch the girl in the backroom
sticking a knitting needle up her hole And we watch the unemployed in the parks growing more desperate more hungry and more deranged each day And we watch the parrot having its huge wide eyes poked out with a screwdriver And we watch
Whats on todays menu?

A cold-storage plant filled with naked underwear A pocketful of razors A pecan-nut pie found on a sewage heap A half-burned steak gone rotten with global atrocities A can of baked beans farting its way to the White House
A frigate of onions marked HIVpositive A bowl of soup seasoned with sinister suspects politics A lasagne sold out in the name of petty A pizza topped with the succulent massacre of penguins
A fish stunned into silence A DVD played backwards on the neck of an astrologer crack cocaine seal A cherry farm riddled with last years A loaf of bread rejected by a slaughtered A scrambled egg fried on the remains of Lorca
A half-burned steak gone rotten with global atrocities A fish stunned into silence
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Never forget
Never forget Dawn breaks over the skyline Never forget Misery runs deeper than fear Never forget Better to be beaten by sticks than by rifles Never forget Sanity has a different ring Never forget The caved-in faces of children Never forget The doubts on TV Never forget Being sodomised on a stone prison floor Never forget The shudder of being caressed at night Never forget Children are children and leaders are leaders Never forget No one stands a chance right or wrong Never forget The sea has a different flavour Never forget The huntsman lost in the fog Never forget Flies help keep your mouth shut Never forget Who beat up Miss Molly Never forget They took her down to the edge Never forget Jackboots rest on her shoulders Never forget The sky swarming with blackness Never forget The silence that was
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Amitabh Mitra
Mdantsane
1 its a road twisting and turning years of rushing nights and days melting familiar sounds. on the bridge only looms up far beyond shacks and a sky touching collective greys and then the gothic structure cecilia makiwane in old time thoughts still stands sprawling in coherent rivers talking of people sickness here is living as are evening lights raining in sudden staccato stillness often hope remains undefined as i take this road everyday. 2 two blind men at makiwane held each other and screamed at a broken sky asking for alms they wanted to smell light they wanted to taste light they asked for a reason and the unforgiving long years of silence of fettered undergrowth a sun remained quiet a wall grew taller we only heard them shuffling two blind men at makiwane mdantsane. 3 that was a different time colors were understood cared and polished unblanched gunshots sometimes shattered an unbelieving night shadows stood still in many a ways in many a murmur there arent any ghosts now in mdantsane freedom flutters higher than the moon days remain warped in pot holed tummies gunshots still search those abandoned nights. 4 and in some coral nights i see you through panes
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in an unblinking sky stare thoughts in a travelling glow outside a mad man lurches demands to be seen his thoughts are purple his voice guttural enduring the window glass disappears mdantsane echoes again in some afterthoughts of such coral nights. 5 it has been nights i have spoken to walls the floor on a soft thud tries remembering history skies correlate to different suns nights always remain the same patient from many takeovers
people here seem faceless healing stays structural as always tonight lets just talk again of fears in the eyes of man he wakes only tomorrow his shack suffocating under a strange new sun in mdantsane 6 mdantsane early morning thoughts run on passenger trains to a white city
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Arja Salafranca
Apartheid miniatures
Amongst the desolation of a gritty beach, abraded by years of abuse a pole stands free.
The paint, once vivid orange,
is now rubbed back into original hard grey steel; but the plaque above it remains legible. No Non-Europeans Permitted repeated in Afrikaans and Zulu. The winds scrape,
the howling prowls ceaselessly
against the expanse of washed-out beach. deposited in blobs long ago. a sluggish churning.
You can see corroded stones and bits of grease The sea attacks the shore as though it had no choice, Theres a searing wind which cuts and tears, astringent to a peeled skin. scraping quietly, Grit which sticks under your eyelids, till your eyes water and the grit pops out like tears. Far away a hut stands disintegrating, deserted, You shield your eyes against the hardness,
crumbling with every new weed and strenuous effort of tide, and feel the slap of salt water stinging on your face.
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Joburg pix, not taken

A man, having his head shaved, highlighted by the dusk of early evening. this small stall, lit by phosphorescence, A flash of colour. I drive on.
All around him, gathering darkness, except his head, haloed by a weird greenish purple light.
Another man, lurching across the road. Perhaps forty, mouth already gummy, long brown hair scraggly, but they mean nothing. before he reverts back. head shakes, words spill out, I let him pass, a smile of gratitude,
A woman, whose breasts are wide and flat, fat bulges under her cheap beige knit. She strolls, slatternly, slowly, I must wait, gunning my engine. The man who puts his hand through my window. Takes hold of my keys: Give me money now. Eyes darting, afraid, he runs away. Money in the boot, not much. I dont carry much these days. Money, along with camera, tucked away in the boot, No, I say, surprised. No, again. I wont give you my keys.
No, I carry on, although no-one can hear me.
where they can hurt nobody.
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Contributors
Amitabh Mitra is a poet/artist and a medical doctor. He has been working at the Cecilia Makiwane Hospital, Mdantsane, Eastern Cape for the last nineteen years. A widely published poet, he has six books of poetry to his credit and has exhibited his art worldwide. More information about him can be found at http://www.amitabhmitra.com.
Anna Hamlin graduated from the University of the Witwatersrand in 1958 and
set off for England. She worked in radio for the African services of BBC Radio, and later produced a weekly television series for East and West Africa on which Dorothy Masuka and Andrew Tracy made regular appearances. She returned to memorable South Africans like Zakes Mokae, Lewis Nkosi, Arthur Maimane, South Africa in 2006 from New York. Apart from writing plays and songs, her but still ignored South African history.
major professional objective is to promote the teaching of the newly written
Arja Salafrancas collection of short stories is titled The Thin Line, published in
2010. She has two collections of poetry, A life Stripped of Illusions and The Fire in Sanlam Award for fiction and poetry. She co-edited Glass Jars among Trees and selected stories for The Edge of Things. Blog: http://arjasalafranca.blogspot.com/
Which We Burn. Her awards include the 2010 Dalro Award for poetry and the
Betty Govinden is an academic, researcher and writer, with varied interests. Her Writing (Solo Collective, Durban, 2008), Sister Outsiders Representations of
recent publications include A Time of Memory Reflections on Recent South African Identity and Difference in Selected Writings by South African Indian Women (Unisa
Press, Pretoria, 2008), Words on Water Reflections on Writings (Lap Publishing, Germany). In July 2008, she co-edited an issue of Scrutiny2 with Professor Writings in South Africa. Isabel Hofmeyr from the University of the Witwatersrand on the theme Indian
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Brett Beiles works as a copywriter in Durban, South Africa. He also adjudicates published in anthologies and journals in South Africa and abroad, has judged a few poetry competitions, won a couple of prizes and curated and appeared in 1995) in Durban from 2001 to 2007.
festivals for the South African Speech and Drama Association. He has been
several literary festivals. He convened the Live Poets Society (LiPS, founded in
croc E moses is a drummer turned poet. He draws upon exposure to extremes. His work is serious, sensitive, deep, sometimes profound, but equally flippant and possibly humorous. Primarily a performance poet and musician, he also lived well over half his life in Southern Africa.
independently publishes his insights. Born in sub-arctic Canada, he has now
Danny Naicker, whose real name is Gona Pragasen Kathan Naicker, is the Co-ordinator of the Live Poets Society (LiPS) in Durban. His poems have been journal, A Hudson View. published in various anthologies and in the popular international print poetry
Deena Padayachee is a physician who has been awarded the Nadine Gordimer Prize, the Olive Schreiner Prize, the Fay Goldie Prize and the Quill Prize. His books include A Voice from the Cauldron, A Taste of Melting Chocolate and Whats Love got to do with it? His writing features in many literary anthologies including A World Anthology of Love Poetry, Crux, The Omnibus of South African Short Stories, Best South African Short Stories. The University of Cambridge's Writing from South Africa and Reader's Digest's
Fiona Khan is an internationally published, award winning poet and author. She is a leading Indian children's author in South Africa, with more than 20 counsellor and motivational speaker. She launched her career into novel writing with Reeds of Wrath. titles to her name and titles on the schools catalogue. She is an educator, lecturer,
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Gary Cummiskey is the author of several chapbooks of poetry, including 2011). With Eva Kowalska, he edited Who was Sinclair Beiles?, a compilation of writings about the South African Beat poet, published in 2009. He is currently preparing a collection of short fiction. He is the founder of Dye Hard Press.
Romancing the Dead (Tearoom Books, 2009) and Sky Dreaming (Graffiti Kolkata,
Geoffrey Haresnape is a South African born poet and scholar, currently an Emeritus Professor of the University of Cape Town. He has published four Autumn (1996) and The Living and The Dead: Selected and New Poems (2000). books of poetry: Drive of the Tide (1976), New-Born Images (1991), Mulberries in
Gillian Schutte produces films that explore the political through the personal. She has developed a strong and quirky narrative and film style as she explores issues of race, relationship and family in the New South Africa. She continues to work in the environmental justice sector and is currently shooting a hard-hitting
film around air pollution called The Asthma Chronicles. She has also completed
her first novel, and writes poetry and fiction for publications such as Litnet. She is currently working on her second novel.
Occasionally, she writes for the Mail and Guardian column Body Language.
Graham Vivian Lancaster is South African Writers Circle Quill Award the judges of the English Academy of Southern Africas Thomas Pringle Award
winning author and a 2010 American Pushcart Poetry nominee. He was one of for Poetry in 2010. He writes in ten genres from the many eclectic facets of his adventurous life. He is widely published in anthologies, with thirty one published books of his own. His teenage adventure series and poetry are being taught in
schools. One of his poems was chosen to represent South Africa at the 2010 Romanian, Hindi and French.
World Poetry Festival in Canada. His work has been translated into Spanish,
Harry Owen lives in Grahamstown, South Africa. His collections of poetry are Searching for Machynlleth, The Music of Ourselves, Five Books of Marriage and 2011. Hadeda comes from the collection Five Books of Marriage, and Questions on his web site www.harry-owen.co.uk. Non-Dog. A memorial collection for his father, Worthy, was published in March to Ask in South Africa from Non-Dog. More details on his work can be found
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Hugh Hodge is the Editor of South Africas premier poetry journal, New Contrast. He lives in Cape Town.
Irene Emanuel has lived in Durban since 2002. Poetry allows her to get her message across with rhythmic speed and clarity and is the written word that she likes best. Her passions are music, reading, movies and cats. Her poems have Sings, was published by Trayberry Press.
been published in journals, and in 2006 a collection of her poems, A Scorpion
Jean Marie Spitaels who writes mainly in French under the pen name of Jean
Cornet was born in 1939 in Belgian Congo (now the Democratic Republic one of his teachers, was published when he was fourteen in lEssor du Congo, a daily newspaper for which his mother wrote a weekly chronicle. He qualified as a medical practitioner in 1964, worked in Congo and then in Durban as a
of Congo). His first poem, a sonnet composed in response to a challenge by
Lecturer at medical school. Joining the Live Poets Society (LiPs) was for him a driving force to write poetry in English. His poetry throws a disillusioned glance of poems and drawings, was published by Poets Printery, South Africa, in July 2011. at todays world without ignoring its fragile beauty. Dust on the Road, his book
Jennifer Ann Lean works in Cape Town as a teacher of languages and drama. She has had short stories and poetry published both here and in Taiwan, including Award collection. She loves radishes, mountains, the sea and her daughter. a submission published as one of the finalists in the PEN/STUDZINSKI 2009
Karen Lazar is an English educator at the Wits School of Education. Her She is the author of Hemispheres: Inside a Stroke (Modjadji Press, 2011), a
doctorate is a feminist study of the work of Nobel Laureate Nadine Gordimer. first person narrative account of the stroke she survived in 2001. She lives in Johannesburg.
Khadija Tracey Heeger is a Cape Town based poet, writer and performer. Her was commissioned to write a piece for the Spier Festival 2008 and she closed
writing has been characterized as stark, unapologetic and moving. In 2007 she
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her performances to standing ovations. This piece travelled to Grahamstown Festival in 2009 (funded by the National Arts Council). The title of this piece is Stone Words, the first part in a trilogy called Separation Anxiety. Heeger is currently writing the second part called Blood Words. She has performed on many Beyond the Delivery Room. and varied platforms, and her first poetry collection published in 2011 is titled
Kobus Moolman is an award winning poet and playwright, educator and editor. He teaches creative writing in the Department of English at the University of KwaZulu-Natal in Durban. He is regarded as one of South Africas leading lyrical poets. He has published six collections of poetry: Time like Stone (which received the 2001 Ingrid Jonker Prize for a debut collection), Feet of the Sky, 5 Poetry, Separating the Seas, Anatomy and Light and After.
Kogi Singh is a retired educator and author of A Labour of Love: The Biography of Regional Hospice Association. Her interests are reading and writing.
Shishupal Rambharos. She is currently Honorary Vice President of the Chatsworth
Molefi Vincent Kau is a Soweto born poet. He is a member of Community Life Network, a non profit organization operating in Gauteng and assisting upcoming artists with poetry and writing. Kau believes that poetry is the language of the soul, with words that describe meaning in the hearing ear.
Naomi Nkealah has a PhD in African Literature from the University of the including gender, xenophobia and human rights. Her articles have appeared in
Witwatersrand, Johannesburg. She has published widely on various subjects, South African journals such as the English Academy Review and Tydskrif vir Letterkunde ( Journal of Literature). She has also contributed chapters to various books published internationally. Besides her academic writing, she writes short stories and poems which have appeared in various magazines, journals and anthologies.
Patrick Tarumbwa was born and raised in Zimbabwe until the age of 18. He
received his university education in Cape Town, South Africa, and is currently is a poet who tries to capture all the facets of his life and experiences.
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doing a Masters in Management at Stockholm University in Sweden. Tarumbwa
Peter Horn was born in 1934 in Teplitz-Schnau in Czechia. He grew up in Bavaria and Freiburg in Breisgau before immigrating to South Africa. From South African poet and short story writer. 1974 to 1999 he was Professor of German in Cape Town. He is a well-known
Pratish Mistry is a poet, writer and corporate strategy expert. He is a citizen of the world, having lived in seven countries and travelled in over sixty others. He sane, he also runs a cartoon blog called Wonkie.com. spends his time on strategy coaching and business consulting. To keep himself
Raphael dAbdon holds a PhD in Linguistic and Literary Studies and is the winner of the 2010 Anna Panicali Literary Prize (Italy). He has published essays, short stories and poems in several volumes and academic journals and is currently collecting an anthology of South African erotic poetry.
Ravi Naicker was raised on Glen Albyn Farm (KwaZulu-Natal). He teaches English at KwaHluzingqondo High School at Amahlongwa Mission and is a poet, previously published in A Hudson View, Criterion and Poetry Institute of Africa. He initiated the idea of an exclusive anthology of poems on Haiti which and has been researching his family tree, dating back to 1891.
was published by the Poets Printery in 2010. Naicker is passionate about ancestry
Sarah Rowland Jones was a British diplomat for 15 years before being ordained
as an Anglican priest in her home of Wales. She moved to South Africa in 2002, on marriage, and works as a researcher for Archbishop Thabo Makgoba, having also worked for his predecessor, Archbishop Njongonkulu Ndungane.
Sarita Mathur is a poet/artist living in Durban. Her poetry has been published in A Hudson View and Poems for Haiti, A South African Anthology. Her book Once Again, Love ... is being published.
Shabbir Banoobhai was born on 23 October 1949 in Durban, South Africa. All his published works, mainly poetry, essays, and philosophical and meditative reflections may be found on his website www.veilsoflight.com. He has just
completed his first novel. Regarding his poetry, Douglas Livingstone has said:
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Almost every line of the work was subliminally ignited by the ancient great Islamic poets. Michael Chapman has added: A wise distinctive voice; pure powerful poetry.
Sonwabo Meyi was born and raised in Grahamstown. He has been writing protest poetry since 2004. He is a theatre director, performance poet and audiogiant leap into the unknown. visual producer. The word for him is a link between the writer and the space, a
Stephen Marcus Finn is Professor Emeritus in the Department of English at Soliloquy, was critically acclaimed and received plaudits in the national press.
the University of Pretoria. He is a novelist and playwright. His latest novel,
Sue Conradie is 46 years old and an artist who writes poetry. In 2008, she completed the UNISA Creative Writing Course. Her poems were published in children, and against people harming people, no matter what race or class. the Rhodes Journal 2008 (Aeriel). She writes against the abuse of women and
Tauriq Jenkins is the founding artistic director of the Independent Theatre Movement of South Africa. He works as a playwright, actor, director and poet.
Vivagalatchmie Ananthavallie Naicker is a Tourism Educator at Sihle High School, Malangeni. She was born in Umzinto where she still resides. Her hobbies diversity, reading, correspondence, crossword puzzles and global travel. and interests include philately, short-story writing, vegetable gardening, cultural
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Unbreaking The Rainbow: Voices of Protest From New South Africa

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Unbreaking the Rainbow

Voices of Protest from New South Africa

Edited by Amitabh Mitra Foreword by Ela Gandhi

Unbreaking The Rainbow

from his book If I could sing

The Poets Printery PO Box 12560 Amalinda 5252 South Africa

Like kolanut from Equatorial Africa. The Minister Ultimate of Finance

Bitter truths to make them feel justified

Of shameless eaters and helpless onlookers?

Of a truly African Government On the face

And the sentiment was one of joy, Of everyone,

While corruption reigns supreme Of millions ...

Houses made too unsafe to live in

Do you think I make a fuss?

I for one am often nonplussed

In those places, those public spaces Where I have no memory

Where I never ventured forth before No childhood reassurances

The things I love so much My books are in those libraries

Freedom is all around us Stealing

And around me the ill-at-ease feeling Into my consciousness,

Dis-ease tingles underfoot

Such a simple sample Perfect example Of deprivation.

There had to have been millions of paper clips

My memory trips upon a paper clip

Surfaces, swims, subsides, nosedives, When does dis-ease become disease?

Sarah Rowland Jones

be sleeping in its siding when dessert is served

into new prejudices based on the colour

of our money. Why should they honour

beyond the mountain. And way past midnight,

Inauguration Day, that was!

statuette stance imposing.

Husbands blood spattered corpse

Why? .....Who? ....Where?

her heart is cold with oppression.

They drove carefree

with the new democracy.

Hamba Khale! Hamba Khale! jubilation

the warm African wind sang the dirge

Often you must have watched the moon

In the face of so much timeache in the face of so much dreamache

How do we forgive lovehow do we love without lying

Right here with huff puff laughter

and the perils of the assassins bullet

You made your home

You lamented a world that has to steer it back to its contract.

lost its compass and you worked

healed of its innumerable fissures

When we think of you -

your words, your gait, your stature somehow tenderness survives.

I see you in bright plumes of a rare bird2

Vivagalatchmie Ananthavallie Naicker

A roof for the roofless from the RDP monopoly.

All eyes glued on the subcontinent How proud we were

Affirmative action to level the playing

A phenomenon of the past, so we

46 years arms wide open 27 April 1994 end

Selective amnesia, perhaps?

17 years and what do we exhibit? - the arms deal - travelgate

- defunct education system illiteracy. delivery

increase in street children, our shameless strikes, retrenchments, load shedding.

For our liberators

Europeans Only, No dogs allowed.

But you, you will never lie on a bed