Archives for 2011

My Hat Collection

I have many hats. I wear them very proudly. Some hats I only wear for short periods of time, others I wear for longer and spend more time perfecting them. For example, my daughter-in-law hat, it doesn’t match any of my clothes, its ill fitting and very much “not me”. But I wear it on birthdays, Christmas and anniversaries. I pretend to enjoy it and sometimes I do, but mostly, it’s too small and makes my head itch.

My wife hat is one I am still learning to wear, but I look so good in it. People stare at me in amazement when I wear it. They ogle it and touch it. They comment on how spectacular it is. It makes me feel unique and special. It fits me perfectly. The colours and textures of my wife hat are magnificent. They blend well and they bring out the sparkle in my eye. My wife hat makes me smile whenever I wear it. There are days though, when my hat annoys me, which is very normal for wife hats.

My wife loves it when I wear my sex goddess hat and nothing else. I only wear it for her. Don’t get me wrong, others have seen it, but she’s the only one I wear it for now. She’s the one who brings it out in me. In fact, before her, it was just a sex hat, she helped me sculpt and mould it to what it is today. When I wear my sex goddess hat, I feel like a purring tigress. Like a wild woman, free from bondage and inhibitions. This hat is red with black lace. It’s a work of art. It makes me feel sensual; it brings out the sexy in my smile. I get goosebumps all over when I wear it.

My mother hat is the one I wear the most and love the best. It was made for my head. When I wear it, I feel strong. It’s the hat in which I learn the most. And boy, do I learn?! I learn about boundaries, about unconditional love, about acceptance, about pure joy and I learn a lot about SpongeBob Squarepants and Barney. I need energy when I wear this hat. I need to be able to run around, jump up and down, climb things, have things climb me and generally be a jungle gym. I smile a lot when I wear my mother hat. I giggle, tickle, roll on the ground and laugh out loud, A LOT! My mother hat is cool, I will have two mother hats someday, but for now I am perfecting the one I have. My mother hat is cute too. The cutest hat you’ll ever encounter. Ask anyone!

Then there’s my lesbian hat. I like this one. I’ve shared it with many other women. It’s well worn. I’ve been around the block a few times sporting this hat. It’s like my security blanket. It comforts me. I’ve done some crazy things in my lesbian hat. The stories it would tell! It’s seen things. I’ve worn it to marches and rallies. I wore it to poetry circles, clubs, parades and more clubs. I’ve worn it to softball, soccer and rugby matches. I wear it to work and at home with the people I love. I feel proud when I wear it. I feel a deep sense of belonging around other women who wear lesbian hats. I feel a sense of camaraderie, a sense of being bound to others because we wear the same hat. I have listened to coming out stories, told my story and cried so many times wearing my lesbian hat. My lesbian hat is one I will always wear, to show other people that wearing it is not wrong. To show people that my lesbian hat fits me perfectly, just as yours fits you. Come to think of it, I am always wearing this hat, even when I wear others.

Then there’s my poet hat. This hat and I go way back. It took a while for me to recognize that this hat is mine. I denied it for many years. Thought this hat wasn’t good enough to be worn. But as time went on and I spent more time wearing it, I realized that it does suite me. I realized that it looks bloody good on me. I wear it often now. And I invite others to wear it. So we get together once a month and wear our poet hats, and we share with each other. We laugh and talk and learn with each other, wearing our hats.

I long for

I long for the familiar smells of pots of stew cooking on the stove on cold winter days
Winds blustering and blowing,
Bodies reaching saturation point,
Hour long bus drives home,
Falling asleep with sheer exhaustion from the days learning.

I long for the hugs which always came when I felt the weakest
Strong, comfortable, reliable hugs,
Hugs that cushion not only the sadness, weariness and heartbreak
But those tight embraces that protect from the blows.

I long for the long holidays spent playing with siblings in the sanctity of our aloneness
The days spent being playful children, laughter permeating the walls,
Tumbles and tickles on beds that felt safe,
Days that led to nights which are not longed for,
But days that felt so good, that the dark night could come if it may.

I long for the constant stench of cigarette smoke soaked into pores
The well known fragrance of hugs and nicotine,
Not bad, not good, but familiar, real and constant,
Nervous energy infuses with the light hearted play
Causing a deep routed, life long dis-ease that lingers.

I long for the unconditional love that I called home for so long
The motherly love that nurtures and builds,
The care that made my bones strong and taught me to be a good mother,
Love that points you in the right direction, when pointing in the wrong direction seems natural.

I long for the uninhibited joy that was only allowed to surface when the monster was in the dock
The joy that made my heart feel light and carefree,
Like a child’s heart is meant to be,
The type of feelings you get when eating your favourite food, around your favourite people, talking about your favourite things,
The joy that stays in my heart and makes me love life despite all the reasons I shouldn’t.

Time as a boy

When I think about time, I see a painting of a young boy with torn shorts, dirty school shirt, cracked lips, muddy feet, waiting for his time to be loved in a green old car as his bed, waiting to be fed, his soul as pure as a diamond.

Karoo

I am crossing the Karoo

The vast plains remind me about my own emptiness

Emptiness of heart

My heart is empty and broken

I am carrying a desert inside me and each drop of love you give me I soak it like a sponge.

Your love is not less; my heart is too dry for it.

I am like a Karoo soil every inch of rain soaked by it and still stays dry and harsh and beautiful

My beauty is for you but it’s dangerous, it will drain you like desert soil drain each drop of water.

I am not saying you that you go away; you stay here in my heart with me, showering your love,

The way windmills of Karoo works all days and night pumping the water in its heart,

trying to keep it moist and helping it to stand in this harsh world.

You are my windmill. You give me love and my heart needs your love more than ever,

when I am crossing this Karoo

i just want

Who do you expect me to turn to when I can’t turn to you?
What do you expect me to do when you’re love wont get me through
Can’t you see soon you’ll be pushing me into another’s arms?
And now it’s getting so hard to tell my right from wrongs

I just want you to love me, like you used to love me
I just want you to need me like you use to need me
I just want you to want me like you use to want me
I just want you to look at me like you use to look at me
I just want you to see me like you use to see me
I just want; I just want all of you

It’s late now, it cold outside but I’m feeling you tonight
I tell baby, I want you, the flame I tried to reignite
Guess your just not feeling me anymore
You said its too cold and nothing more
My jaw dropped to the floor
Never been let down before

I just want you to love me, like you used to love me
I just want you to need me like you use to need me
I just want you to want me like you use to want me
I just want you to look at me like you use to look at me
I just want you to see me like you use to see me
I just want; I just want all of you

Even more

I admit that I am not the best second language speaker I know.

I am the only strictly second language speaker I know. Perhaps that says more about the extent of my knowledge than anything else.

I suspect that some of my linguistic woes are rooted in this knowledge.

There was a time when I had thought, foolishly it turns out, that justified true belief was about something external, something in the world. In this time, let us call it the times, it was quite true that the language of my ancestors could not speak that which is. It was not the fault of the external world that just was. It was the fault of the language. Geared as it is towards something else, the language of my ancestors is unsuited to expressing a world that just is. It is so static, a world that just is. The language of my ancestors is, of course, not unique in this respect. Many respected languages started their careers inadequate to the task of expressing a world that just is. As one of the most respected philosophers of the times saw, language has to be taught.

I am not sure what first language speakers teach their languages. I am overcome by embarrassment whenever I try following their lessons. They are so right.

You see, dear reader, I continue to teach my language what I have received from my ancestors: umntu ngumntu ngabantu. Let us call this received teaching ubuntu. Ubuntu, as I teach it to my language, holds that between an external world and umntu, the former emerges from the latter. It further holds that unless umntu is, the external world has neither meaning nor existence.

You can, I believe dear reader, now see the source of my linguistic woes. Imagine that you are wrong about, say, the nature of the external world. Even should you speak the language of angels (or God hahaha!) you would still be wrong.

I laugh at this notion, and teach my language to do the same.

Imagine, further, that I teach my language that only the world is capable of being wrong. What, then, would I teach it about umntu, and her relation to the world?

Of course I might have taught my language this lesson even had I been a first language speaker. But being strictly a second language speaker, I really cannot say.

 

more bantu

Bantu is a language.

We disagree about this, it and me.

I think Bantu is more than a language. Of course I am not so far gone as to deny its utilitarian value. Here, in the land of the free, the extremely limited use that I can put it to is apparent.

And so, against the run of history, I tie Bantu up with my innermost being. And where I could spread my wings and fly, should hold my hands out for more and, above all, should realize just how lucky I am, my head is instead filled with thoughts of Nongqawuse. What, I wonder again and again, words did she use to utter her false prophecy.

Bantu, on the other hand, insists that it is no more than a language.

After the first few months of going cold turkey of everything African, horrified at my craving for Mzantsi (so parochial!, that need) the language emerged as an indispensable crutch. Part of it, I realize, is its insistence that I do not need it. And so, just to spite it, I need it. The other is, embarrassingly, the fact that it is right. If only I could be brave, this could be my home. Then, if I chose, I could do more for Bantu in English, as so many of my continentmen are already doing.

It is people like me, backwards retrogrades, who hold everyone up.

I saw just how much I agree with Bantu when I was recounting an experience I had in Mzantsi to a progressive academic. Even such a simple telling (turns out it was simple only to me) quickly turned into a linguistic game. I lost that game.

The problem between the progressive and me, it emerged gradually, was language. I am classified as a second language English speaker, he a first language speaker. When speaking to each other the point of reference for words and their meaning was he. The meaning of my experiences must make sense to him, so that he can meaningfully translate them.

If I am to express my experiences correctly, I will have to learn to articulate them correctly. To articulate them correctly, I will have to learn to speak correctly. To speak correctly, I need no more than the right language.

And so, with that progressive as with retrogrades of every hue, I could not speak Bantu.

 

 

 

 

 

Cupid, Vile Betrayer

You have assailed me once again,
unwittingly, unknowingly, I have become your willing victim
Though this time, I shall give you leave
and allow you the full reign
Haha! for I am in a jovial state of emotions!
I have met my earthly match
The one who melts me at a word
She matches me word for word
Her divine beauty,and her intellect
like the oceans, and the skies, is vast
and her smile, her gorgeous smile
as radiant as the night sky
sweeps me in and leaves me shamefully abashed
and her frame, her form,
so delicate and proportionate…..
and there I shall stop with the descriptions
But all these things
which I find an ease to write,
inspired and enthused as I am,
leave me speechless
when she is standing in front of me

It Comes to this

It comes to this,
Me, admitting this; You, befitting this
You’ll wear it well, it suits you
so take it, my everlasting kiss

It comes to this,
I can’t look away,
your eyes will pierce right through me and see that I am real,
and here for you, my inner bliss

It comes to this,
I hear your voice, my heart so warm
like a raging fire, and i love to burn
as you burn away my emptiness

It comes to this,
I’m blushing brightly, too much to hide
I can’t wait to see you, I don’t know what I’ll do
I’m wild, I’m on fire, alive for you

It comes to this,
that you make me smile
you make my heart beat so fast
you make me want you
and it comes to this,
I don’t want anything more, I don’t want anything less
It’s you I want, I want you..
Jess

Addictive

Its your presence that attracted me,
your smile that lights up a room,
your touch that heals all wounds,
its your kiss that killed me when ur lips met mine and caused an eclipse
and we closed our eyes in each others arms and drowned in our own breaths,
motions of up n down
fusing the colors pink n brown
tongue tasting ur skin,
the softer side of my heart lost in ur being,

ADDICTED to ur tears of PASSION…
that cleanses my soul
making that instance in my life one that is magical, beautiful, perfect, ADDICTIVE!!!