Time

Time, the universal housekeeper,
vacuums up every moment's precious dust.
When she is done with me I shall not be timeless,
I will be out of time.

What do they want from us?

When I grow up I want to be
the clip that holds your hair back
and when you ride your bike you won't go off track.

When I am grown I wish to be
the foam that rides upon the sea
fizzing with the joy of speed, loose and free.

When I am older I want to be
the raspberry juice that dribbles down your vampire face,
the tumbling drips your tongue will chase.

Why must they lasso my innards to a chair
and say, you'll make a good banker, now sit there?

American sentence

I fight most against that which I expect to be expected of me.

Manga girl

Breakably unbreakable with her marble eyes
fixed on the road ahead we know her lycra catsuit
is spraycanned to within an inch of her lycra life
hiding nothing except everything,
which is what she left on the bus
in the suitcase, behind the dartgun
wedged under skyhooks and rope.

She anchors earth to sky with heels so high
she looks down on us like a goddess
and wonders why us mortals
expect so much from her and yet
so little.

Rain

I went to the beach.

It rained, so I left.

There are different types of wet

and being rained on is having your biscuit

licked by a slobbery dog

but the sea welcomes you in the warm tears

of her wide throbbing heart.

finding self

What defines Self?
Girl, white, freckles, short,
this country, that thought?
The phase of the moon when we met?
The greatest fear
the smallest hope,
How many times a mosquito bit?

What is written on Twitter,
that must be it.

It has to be said

You who choose to end your lives yourselves:

When you leave
you leave behind broken people,
you take with you a piece of us.
We will stumble for the rest of our lives
trying to find that fragment
and always slightly long for death
to be there reunited.

It has to be said.

American sentence

Fate will always demand something in return for Tall, Dark and Handsome.

Not named

A strange sweet sadness haunts me these Saturdays.

Time alone in my head.

American sentence

I have lost something, and when I know what it is then I will not be.

Random memory

Me, alone in a tiny granny flat in Potchefstroom. Listening to the rain pounding the parched earth like the sky was crying for her torn-apart soul.

The smell is always like a new beginning.

Youare but youaren't
stayaway gohome
don't count don't care
who are youanyway?
where did itall begin?
how does it end?
Inbetween feeling solost
so fuckingtired.

American sentence

Am I even real, this shambles of a facade wearing thin with use?

The violence of the colonised soul

Much has been written about the psychological and spiritual violence suffered by the colonised native. I agree wholeheartedly with this but I would like to add all citizens of colonised countries to this list, not only the natives of a country.

This is not to detract from the suffering of the indigenous peoples. That they have had foreign cultures thrust upon them and have suffered as a result is unquestionable. They had no choice but to adopt the new culture and weld and meld it with their own as best they could. They became hybrids in order to survive.

My ancestors came to South Africa at various times. They were white, they chose to come to a new country, but to ignore as much as possible the local ways and culture. They chose to follow only their own ways, and to force those ways upon the locals.

There is nothing I can do about this. I am sorry it happened. But us descendants of the colonisers we are hybrids too. We find ourselves citizens of a country that does not much want us any more. We are told we are Europeans. We go to Europe and they tell us there is no way we are European. We were born on African soil and taught to love that soil with all our hearts, but we are not allowed to be called African.

I believe that all citizens of a colonised country suffer from hybridity, psychological violence, dividedness, a confused sense of self, a crisis of identity.

Will an Indian South African ever be "South African", even if they are 6th generation South African? Or will they always be "Indian South African"? Will a coloured person, the most glaring example of hybridity, ever be allowed to forge an identity that is neither white nor black, but South African? Does a "South African" identity exist at all? Black people have had western ways and ideals thrust upon them, and must choose to adopt them and be called a "coconut", or reject them and battle to fit into a Westernised job market, or weld them into a new hybrid form.

We are all hybrids, and we can fight this or we can embrace it. It makes us who we are, it challenges us. We will always suffer this confusion, this sensation of not quite belonging to anything, but it need not damage us. We should allow it to drive us forward, and while it may never unite us into a common South African identity, we can remember that we all suffer from this fate of existential confusion, whatever our roots.

American sentence

There must be a better way

Communism is Capitalism disguised: we want all your stuff.

Es'kia Mphahlele has died.

I have just read that Es'kia Mphahlele has died. I wrote this post in appreciation of his writing, and his life, just a month ago. I am kind of in shock. 

He was a great man, a great South African, someone whom I feel was under appreciated as a South African icon.

He achieved unbelievable things in extremely difficult circumstances, and should be a role model to all of us.

I have never read any of his novels, but will take the time to as soon as possible.

If you get the chance, you should read his autobiography, it will teach you much about South Africa, and life in those times.

Rest in peace, Prof. Mphahlele.

Bewaaaare the jumping buck

This haiku was inspired by this Thoughtleader article.

Beware: Jumping Buck.

It will give you bad luck, and

cause crate-loads of kak.

people on the streets

This is an extract from a short story I wrote, so it is not really poetry at all. It is a paragraph about people on the streets in Cape Town. Most of the people described are based on truth. 

There was the proud lady who asked only for water,

 the wizened man with the startling beard,

 the child who carried a letter telling of her troubles,

 the young schizophrenic who swayed on one leg for hours and then burst into a heated tirade, 

the man with the recorder, 

the one with the club foot,

 the wire flower seller, 

the card seller, 

the bead seller, 

 the sweeper,

 the leaf-raker, 

the candlestick maker, 

the one who helped you park your car,

 the one who guarded your parked car, 

the ones who cleaned your car windows while you stopped at the robots.

mischievous moose

A moose on the loose

ran into my garden and

terrified the goose.

Grey day.

Grey is the morning.

I have no fire left in me

to light the grey day.

(haiku)