Archives for May 2013

End of the tunnel

There’s a light coming,
It edges a moment at a time
It says “hold on, draw close, step forward”

It was there in the distance,
Too faint to trust
Never stoked by shut eyes
It flickered, whispered, and dimmed.

It grew. Spurned on by other wide eyes, cheering for attention.
It started to call softly
Fearful shut eyes crept open
I see you they both said

What a sight it was to see, a light burning, eyes glowing
Still far off, the two gazed.
Fearfully moving gainfully forward.
It won’t be long now

It won’t be long now till the two meet

The Last Romantic

Our second date, was there a diminutive feasibility that today would be as enchanting and delightful as that magical day before? But there was nothing in the laws of physics that denied me repeated marvelty, for I have always believed the same laws which keep the planets in their orb are not dissimilar to those which govern and swivel our hearts.

I waited anxiously for her call, akin to a boy just before Christmas
“A few minutes now,” I muttered to myself as I starred at the clock on the wall, which took its precious time to arrive at 4p.m, procrastinating to reach there as if 4 was its fearsome foe… my eyes alternated between my mobile and that clock on the wall. My hair was tremendously combed and my breath was fresh. She had told me she would call, and I believed she would call.

Only in dreams do those creepy arms of the clock not reach 4, but this, although it felt so much like one, was no dream. It was 4p.m; finally, I would see that rare beauty that only lives in a handful. But my mother always warned me how too much excitement always ended in rivers of tears, how could I have forgotten this; my basic teachings? Those creepy hands on the clock ticked and tocked, ticked and tocked and the sun went down.

I stared at the falling sun by the window in my lonesome dark flat, perhaps something happened I thought to myself, but worse still; perhaps nothing happened.

Strange was how I felt, but even more stranger than this was the mere fact that I had only seen and known her for two days, but I was certain of it, just as I am certain that there lies beauty in the world, that I was madly and undeniably in love with her. My theory was, when we were being conceived, God was creating her lips, so sugary so pleasant with mine in mind… just perfect for these lips of mine, so when we kissed even stones would cry. This theory that he was fashioning her heart with mine in mind, so when we met to touch… our hearts would beat and make music as flute.

It was evening now, still she had not called… my senseless ego and Manish pride prohibited me from calling her, but I owed it to myself and the one that beats within me to have the courage to my own romantic convictions. I hanged up a few times before I ultimately gained the strength and valor to let it ring.

Her silky voice answered at the other end.

“I wanted to call, I so desperately did” she said to me

“Then why didn’t you?” I questioned her

“You-” she breathed heavily “you wouldn’t understand,”

“Then make me understand, Fiona… what’s going on?” She paused for awhile, than proceeded to say

“It was all a dream… a beautiful dream, but a dream nonetheless.” She was crying when she said this, I’m sure of it, there is something about a cry which you cannot miss. Before I could speak, I heard a voice of another, than the call was abruptly ended.

I had hopes that calling would provide me with the answers I so desperately seek, in order to grasp and comprehend this elusive matter of the heart, but all calling provided, was a stream of questions which bombarded my already troubled head.

These questions took me back to the first time I ever set eyes on her, a few days back.

The day began like any other day when something spectacular transpires – as if nothing would ensue – I was sitting by the Arcadia park observing the world, a writers curse, the wind swayed from east to west, east to west… and than she came. Blind men must have seen her that day for a sight of an angel walking on earth was exceptionally hard to miss, an angel which walked and breathed like us.

She was slender tall, like August fall. Her hair was dark and long and her race was mixed.

If only I alone possessed the gift to see angels, but everyone around me was as enchanted and captivated as I was. As she walked in her high heels she had that nameless feeling which leads men to flaunt as peacocks and make fools of themselves. She sat a few feet away from me; on that opposite swing. She would, swing, swing and listen to music. Swing, swing and look at blue sky.

I admired how liberated and free she was. The flaunting peacocks came one after the other. Those who thought were smooth-talkers, went back clumsy. Smooth-walkers came back staggering like old man. Man after man came with smiles on their faces but sadness, when they left.

When finally I glanced at her, I found her staring at me. Sideways I looked there was no-one there. She smiled. Roses instantly bloomed. I hesitated, to conversate, as I knew she burnt more than raging flames… I wished not to stagger like old man.

But, if my ears would not have heard the sound of her voice that day, irrespective of the nature of those words, I would have regretted it for all time coming, I knew this.
Like a brave little soldier I stood up and slowly walked towards her. I reached, she stopped… smiled again, violets bloomed.
“How are you, my dear” I asked, as she took off her headphones

“I am well” she said in a welcoming tone

“Do you have time?” while looking deep in her sea blue eyes, when she glanced at her watch, I interrupted

“Well Ms. I meant do you have a lil time… to spend with me?”

She blushed, I sat next to her. We conversated for hours, as if I knew her for years, but feeling as if not, a second had passed.

When it finally came time for her to leave, I asked her
“Can I see you once more… this coming Saturday” It was a Thursday that day
“What are you doing tomorrow” she asked “Cos I would love to see you tomorrow and Saturday” She stood up and left… but then she turned and smiled once more. Flowers bloomed.

The day which followed, till this day I cannot possibly put in words. I was a dying breed; here in the capital of South Africa, the numbers of my kind had dwindled, like water on desert sand, perhaps the very last of my kind – the last true romantic. But even for a writer, a romantic, not even in my dreams have I dreamed that such a day would exist. I kissed her beneath the stars, she held me tight and refused to let go, beneath the stars. Ask the stars they will tell; love happened beneath their eyes.

Now here I was in the night, after the day… with those stars who where so kind so bright that yester day, where so dark this day. For I asked and asked what did she mean? What did she refer? How could a dream turn so quickly into a nightmare? But a man’s pride is a man’s pride… and I would not subject myself to such torture from another being, even if that being caused my heart to beat like drum. So I did my best to put her off my mind.

A few months had now passed, since my hopeless affections… I had convinced myself that she was just another page in my life’s book, neither that graceful beginning nor that violent end.

The life of the arcadia flats was not for the weak and sensitive at heart, for here men exchanged concealed gifts which they called ‘cloud powder’, and the majority of women wore tight clothes and worked at night. But it was an appropriate dwelling for a writer.

Tired of the sound of my typewriter, although at other times it was heavenly music to my ears. I strolled to the local supermarket which neighbored my apartment, halfway there the earth stood still. As I gazed upon eyes which I never thought I would catch a glimpse of again… still as enchanting as if she lived in the sky.

But there was something peculiarly different in the subject of her; her make up was overly redundant. She wore too little, her hair color was too much. Her company was worse, as they looked as if they went there and back again. She was too loud, how could she have changed in so little a time? The moment she saw me, her laugh evaporated like water, as she was struck by a lightning of awe. The glass bottle she carried met with the floor; the acquaintance shattered the other into a thousand pieces of glass. We both froze like we were in a freezer, as the earth stood still for us. She was a working girl I was sure of it. Her company shook and woke her up. Without a word I left, without a word… she left.

Back in my lonesome flat, those rivers of questions and I rallied once more. But unlike the time before the time. There existed an evident disparity. This time I had responses to the questions. As everything became lucid and clear as day. She sold her body for money; we both knew a relationship was impossible and immoral.
As days turned into cold nights, and nights turned into days… I yearned for the sound of her voice, the feeling of her touch… it became worse and worse, as I thought spoke and dreamed of her. What was I to do? It would be a sin to my reverends eyes, a shame and insult to my family eyes. But I knew that if my ears did not hear her voice once more they would have went deaf, if my eyes did not see her once more, I would have gone blind, so I found her and accepted her past, embraced her present and told her she was my future.

Our relationship was of the strange kind. But we both did not mind. Her folks had passed on. Two people she could call family, was her brother Vincent and now me. She paid the mortgage and all his fees at varsity… with the cold money she earned. He knew little of what her sister did for a living and we kept it that way for all future times.
She was as kind as a butterfly, but every time she worked in those wintry streets, her essence her soul was slowly departing.
At all times I kept her sane and showed her north. The challenges we faced were more than the leaves in the forest. But we kept strong like a rooted tree and our love beat the odds against us; at least momentarily.

Weeks went away, months followed… together we found the joy of Eden, before the sins of men. Together we found bliss.
This strange day, I recall like no other… as it hurt like no other.
Tears were filling her sea blue eyes, she told me her love for me was killing me. This could not be true, how could she say this? The reason I touch is to touch for her. Reason I live, I live for her.
My love my sweet was leaving and I could tell her mind was made.

“Me being with you kills your dreams… You deserve more than this, you deserve more than me” She said
“Promise me that you will meet someone normal, and fall in-love, grow old and have kids,” I had never seen her cry as much, she continued to speak
“Promise me, that you will not wait for me or try to find me but to always keep me in your dreams, as I will always keep you in my heart” placing my hand on her chest. Although at the time I did not wish to admit it, she was as right as day… I promised her a promise I kept for forever and a day.

Today just like all days following her miserable departure, I received a call, the person kept silent… but I knew it was her on the other end, missing me as I do her. I have little knowledge of her whereabouts, but wherever she may be I hope she found peace… at least she left me with her astounding memories, I needed something of hers to keep me company.

By Dick Romeo Matshaba

Ode to myself

No words will ever describe,
Your beautiful description.
Your image pierces an unexpected distraction.
My God, you are beautiful!
How are you able to deny that?!
Muhle intombazane, Aḻakāṉa

Golden glow, more than a suns kiss
Soft smooth stretched bronze
Scents of cocoa, sweetness and spices
Decorated with strips and stripes
Cautious to a hands touch,

Belowing black mass of mess
Fingers run in unrefined silk
Staining pillows with flower smells
A crown on a boredroom princess
Enthrall, entangle, ebony

Brown eyes and big smiles
Full cheeks n dimpled sides
Dimpled everything.
Unprecedented voluptuousness
Filling, struggling, tugging, squeezing
Mocked and worshiped

Small hands, worked feet
Deep voiced and bright mind

You are a beautiful woman.
Believe it.

Sons of the invisible

“He is safe with us…” She stood there, anchored to earth by two concrete pillars of skin and blood. This hollow assurance meant nothing.

“Please, do like all the others have and just leave.” It took her decision mere seconds to become fully fledged, stripped of all doubt. “Give my boy back to me, right now! I’m not going anywhere!”

The haze of her tears obscured his response. The barrel arose, pointing up at her face. His mind fixated on one thought. “MY mother couldn’t get ME back…” This magnificent boy with his toy gun; and then his gun spoke…

The Whisperer

She had an affinity for the pronunciation of names. No matter the language or dialect, her tongue snapped around its intricacies and held fast, until names blossomed from her lips like butterflies escaping their cocoons. There was the croak of a sleepy frog in her susurrant “Mbembe”, the crack of a breaking bough in “Cormac”.

It was only her own name that flapped from her lips and fell, flaccid, to the floor. She did not speak it often in the village. She spoke her name so seldom that it was forgotten after some years.
She fashioned a new one through hints and nudges, never uttering it until its being was roughly fashioned through the tongues of others. They struggled, lips clawing over syllables, chipping them jaggedly until at once the name took off, exploded into the air like a spout of water. She caught it, and in her mouth the malleable sounds were softly smoothed into a gentle stream, a rush of water over cobbled stones.

She was The Whisperer.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow called my name aloud
Said it true and said it proud
Said it with the will of one
Who knows his duty done

Tomorrow called my name aloud
Hiding truth behind that bitter shroud
Knowing that the words he said
Would fill my ice-cold heart with dread

Tomorrow did his duty true
Brave and cold and knew
that life would never be the same again
once I knew of Tomorrow’s gain

Tomorrow trembled as he saw my eyes
Saw the fear and saw the wise
and knew I knew the message true
and what his words would bring me to

I saw Tomorrow regret the day
that he took a young girl’s hope away
I saw him weep and plead
For a young child’s hollow seed

The branch that would never grow
never simple blossoms know
Instead would lie in Forever’s hands,
Tomorrow’s and his ally,
Death.

Begging to die

The day breaks but it has no meaning,
We find no reason to live.
Hunger is unbearable but it already seems normal.
We live in shelter not suitable for humans.
Are we worth anything?
Do we mean something to anyone?
The world produces twice as much needed but we see no evidence of this.
Our Babies have no milk to drink and they die of hunger.
Watching our children’s hunger is worse than death itself.
Our leaders have abandoned us.
Humanity has abandoned us.
Where do we go?
What do we eat?
What do we do?
All we can do is cry for help but it falls on deaf ears.
There is nothing we can do but beg for death.
Life is not worth living.

Dearest Dorothy

Dearest, do you make flowers bloom in the days
And meet angels in the nights?

I heard beauty lives upon your face,
But not beauty of sufficient end…
Beauty of natural depth

They say, your mind too kind to exist with hate
Your eyes too bright to see the dark

But beloved, will you gaze upon your heart and find me there?
Will you gaze upon your mind and dream me there?

Upon these eyes, gaze awhile, dream awhile
For longer than awhile… my eyes will die

Call For Writers Deadline June 30, 2013 – Mother Earth International Literature Competition

$50 cash prize for gold winner. 3 prizes of publication in ArtAscent Art and Literature Journal including links to your website, promotion on ArtAscent website writer directory, and exposure in social media.

The competition theme is Mother Earth. The concept evokes visions of environmentalism, spirituality, wellness, cultural unity and responsibility. Who is Mother Earth to you? What needs to be expressed about Mother Earth?

Entries may include fiction, non-fiction, poetry, short stories and other written explorations (up to 500 words).

Submission deadline: June 30, 2013
Entries are $7
See www.artascent.com for submission details and to enter.

Kunta Kintes

The black man, dark and shinning,
shining so bright like a piece of
china ware.
The black man, dark in the body but plain in
the mind, yes! It is not black magic, but a
personal choice to be plain hearted, like
saint Peter and other saints.
For a black man can also be dark hearted
if he chooses.

Colour is not a barrier, because if you call
me a black monkey and I call you a white
pig, we will both be dark hearted. I the relation
of the slaves taken across the Atlantic , is now a
black president, it is not colour, so if you are a kunta kinte,
don’t call your brother a white maggot .
A real Kunta Kinte has forgotten the slavery encounter
,he has forgiven too, it is a world for humanity as one
,yes it is.Am proud to be a Kunta Kinte.