We are forever…
We endured the bite of the flagellum,
And survived the blade of the guillotine.
A Broody Hen.
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My Grandmother’s Definition – The face of a home,the representative of the interior, the first and only thing from the inside that anyone can see from the outside.
Hood/Slums Definition – A tavern regular (always there)
This piece has been around since i was in grade 9.
The first time visiting my cousins for summer holidays,we went to this local alcohol den, a decrepit slum that looked like it survived years of consecutive tsunamis,
Before we sat down and enjoyed our strong black label lager,they looked at me with their piercing dagger eyes and demanded my full attention, they made me swear i would never stray from their very precise warning. When i finally agreed, i was warned to stay away from a certain ‘curtain’
That being my first time in place of that sort,not familiar with the jargon, i thought it was probably because she was the most prettiest person in that Tavern,
No inhibitions, no luxury,she wore her excessive confidence as an expensive fragrance. Her routines were short and intriguing whenever she decided to dance,she could twirl her waist as if it was mounted on a socket ,those luring occasional jerks and seductive twerks, that seemed to ignite sparks and exude a magnetic energy that captured the eye of naive admirer ,and of course, the prying eyes of the husbands who left their wives to seek pleasure where it is served without commitment.
Every time her body bent to the ridiculously fast music,it charged the air around her..
I realised after some time of indulging on her agile and smooth dance moves,that it was not how less she wore that i found appealing,but how much she kept hidden behind that bibulous state she gave a bit of herself every night to maintain .
Ufinished Piece November.
Rudo – Love (Shona).
This could’ve been a very great short story,love in the ‘new’ South Africa. Where Africans are called foreigners and amaKwerekwere . How do you express love in a place where hate is the official language?
Built like a sacred Mayan figurine, toned like over ripe pears ,
dun rings circling her eyes like boundary marks ,cautioning of the dangers of being lost in those naturally protruding windows of her soul.
Her chunky,dainty cheeks are sculptured delicately with inflated beauty..
Her hair sprouts out her head like a natural diadem .
However much she tried to ignore him,she could feel his stare burn little hearts on her skin, embroidery of love totems engraved to forever ignite a memory she so wish to erase..
Around him,her body erupts with goosebumps and itch for an embrace,
She chastise herself and feels betrayed by the pace with which her blood would race.
Unfinished Pieces November .
I am 6 days late,i meant to make November a month of letting go,the most important part in the process of recreation. I read once ,from a beautifully written drabble that unfinished pieces are like puzzles of a beautiful picture. Frustrating ,irksome and dreadful when you’re still trying to put your pieces together, but the end product is always worth it. They might be helpful in my writing at a later stage, i fully concur. But i feel like they are holding me back,quelling the urge to recreate and reinvent ,leaving no space for growth.
So this here is what i have been miserably dwelling on for a whole year and few months .Enjoy.
Mama needed not to be verbal to warn us,
It took one fierce facial expression to make us repent….
..that fiery stare ,
Eyes glittering with calm rage ,her deep brown lenses on pure white retinas flashing alert lights like pulsing arteries ..
Gritted teeth ,and taut forehead muscles bulging.
An intense moment of silence that screams:
“Retreat…or face the wrath of the stir!”
It still astounds me how that wooden spoon would suddenly appear,
Or how Mama’s rage would quickly dissolve into the thin air.
Unfinished Pieces November.
I have been dealing with chaos(i still am) Anxiety:
I liken it to a loud,pesky female mosquito,keeping me up all night…determined to sink it’s proboscis into my flesh and extract with my blood my confidence,injecting with it’s bite a disease of self-doubt …not only wounding my esteem ,but poisoning my soul.
Or more appropriately….
A voice of contention chanting war cries to incite conflicts between the hemispheres of my brain.
I am not defeated ,at least not yet. And this here is my first performance in 6 months, because i have been cancelling some and not showing up for some.
Down Second Avenue: Spoken Word Poetry Revival .
PoPArt Theatre ,Johannesburg ,Maboneng.
17 November 2018
Hope to see ME there!!!
As if tired of carrying all that voluptuous beauty on herself..
.. with clumsy finesse ,
Her thigh long locks adorned with colourful beads moves in accordance with her every hip sway.
Her limbs carry her body like obedient lackeys…
….the rhythm of her strides, a nature choreographed gait.
As graceful as a well fed feline.
Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.
The Broody Hen (A Narrative )
Conversations With The Notepad.
Just yesterday a very great friend asked me a question and i quote : “If there were no destinations and you could travel forever, what form of traveling would you take and to where?”
I said First Class Armchair traveling through a creative soul’s rich imagination ,exploring and sightseeing places beyond touch ,fuelled by the inspiration fanned smoulders of passion,the love for written arts and of course; the silencing of the nagging voice of scepticism . What there a better way to travel or place to travel to ??
Than through the path made of threaded words and within the minds and bodies of fictional characters that can take you as deep as the past and as far as the future , or the vivid narration that can dangle you just above the presence,with buoyant prophecy ; as if you were a superior being with the power of foreknowledge only without the ability of altering fate (and yes, the thrilling pleasures of suspense to constantly incite and intensify the anticipation ).
But then comes the most loathed and quite inevitable part of Armchair traveling for every avid reader . The Destination. Those little words often written in bold italics : “THE END” as if to forcefully yank you off the cockpit of fantasy. You dread turning the last page and wish for a sequel, however satisfying the resolution or denouement might have been . More so because you know that reality is impatiently waiting for you to digest and sober up from the stupor of the utopia . Panting like a tortured bull ready to pounce ,swollen and inflated with even more tragedies because every book you read makes you conscious of at least one more human error . The legendary Mark Twain was spot on when he said : “Books are for people who want to be somewhere else” .
My greatest respect to the fictionate sculptors for creating a place of refuge and refill .
The Poetry Monarch
Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.
The Broody Hen (A Narrative )
Conversations With The Notepad
Open Heart Forgery is a free monthly journal of poems & lyrics that aims to energize Halifax writers from the grass roots up. Created in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, and read everywhere.
"Something wicked this way comes"