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Archives for September 2013

What’s my lesson?

I tend to wear black
Almost everyday
Thing is- I’m in mourning

I lost a little girl.
She was…wait…
She’s was GONNA be all these things,
That I’d now list-
But you already know
Coz’ there’s just something that little girls are always gonna be

This little girl stepped into a world
That would never see her,
Pushed and pressed in untoward directions
Creating a person that shouldn’t be,
But now, well, here she is.

With baggage of her birth
Contamination in each breath
A life-long loving parasite

We’re all never gonna know now,
Who this little girl would be
Look, she became me.

But,
I mourn for her.

Nothing happened here

There you lay
Breathless
Having had your centre knocked
Your body’s urge to grasp air
And remain alive

Deep breaths
It aches
Somethings been hurt
Crawl up
Settle down
In
Out

There’s pain here
Oh there to
Ringing ears
You can’t think
Where do you start

It hurts.
Your body.
Creep of to a locked door
Regain your composure

Your mind knows
Your eyes saw it
Your body felt it
You don’t believe it

Too broken to begin to feel
The repercussion
Of a beating
So severe
You are changed.

Rubble

A thin string of smoke rises to the air on the mountain. Then another and another and another. People are settling in for the long night ahead as the sun says its red goodbyes over the peak. They’re stupid. Letting them know exactly where they are. Making it easy for them. Like killing an ant. Around me, smarter people hide under the trees and next to the rocks as the long grass of the field keep guard. A small river breaks the field into two. It runs with a steady stream of water only interrupted by the occasional floating, rotting island. A year ago people would have cared. They would have tried to get them out, but know it just seems like a task that would waste energy and make too much noise. Rubble and remnants of structures that were once houses line both sides of the street that was once a home. Up closer to the mountain, I know, stand another, collapsed and empty. A creative mailbox would have proudly displayed its number as 831. 831 26th Avenue, Rietfontein, Pretoria. I can still remember my address. Useless, I guess, but it is like a memento of yesterday. Just a piece of it that can’t be stolen or ‘forced-extracted’.

“Why are you standing in the middle of the street,” I hear a voice from behind me say, “Aren’t we going in there?”

I look around to find her standing behind me, a frown settled on her brow and a look pointing past me to a bare, concrete structure. “Maybe it would be better to sleep in the field,” I say, “Safer.”

She doesn’t even take time to think about it. Her brow frowns and her lips pull tight.

“Boetie!”she says, the word still as innocent in her mouth as ever, “You promised we wouldn’t be sleeping in a field again. You know I hate the…”

“The rats and the spiders and the snakes,” I finish for her, “And the crickets and the grass sticking to everything.” I look to her with a grin.

“Well I do,” she says and walk closer to me, “Please can we just sleep in there?”

I know we shouldn’t. The field will hide us from troublemakers and FFE troupes. The structure won’t. I listen for a familiar crackling sound, but none meets with my ears and I let a sigh escape from my lungs. She still stares at me with those big, blue eyes. The same ones my mother used against me to do the dishes.

“Fine,” I finally give in, “but just because it’s your birthday, Anne. Tomorrow we’re sleeping in the field and you’re cuddling the rats, Okay?” She laughs and pushes past me.

“Race you there!”

The structure is cold. A breeze runs around its corners and whistles at the next. No one else occupies the destroyed space and we walk towards a section that still has some of its roof intact. I set our bag down and point Anne towards the floor under the roof. A few tiles still managed to survive their cracked siblings. She does as I instruct and I decide to take a look around before settling in myself. Here and there something different peaks through the normal piles of rubble. A television, its screen broken, lies next to a shopping cart with only two of its wheels left. The television once would have shown his face declaring war against anyone that opposed him or he simply didn’t like. It would have shown those first few months drenched in red and it would have shown the week that the bombs started destroying everything. I walk back to Anne where she sits rummaging through the bag. She looks up as I come closer.

“Where’s the juice box I found?” she asks.

“I gave it to that kid remember,” I say knowing she wouldn’t. I didn’t tell her.

“Not again,” she moans, “You always give our stuff away.”

“We have enough. Bread and water. Those kids don’t even have brothers or sisters like we have. Right?” Her lips tighten again, but I don’t let the frown climb back up her forehead. I tickle her and she falls on her back laughing.

“Shhh,” I say lowering my voice, “We’re making too much noise.” I laugh at her and then help her upright. Then I reach into the bag and pull out two slices of bread and a bottle of water. We sit there, eating in silence as the moon takes over the shift from the sun.

“Boetie,” she says after a few bites, “Do you think Mom and Dad would have been here if I didn’t cry?”

I sigh. She always asks this and I always give her the same answer.

“Mom and Dad died protecting us. They wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

“I still remember her smell, you know?”

“I know. Me too,” I breathe in the night air and she mimics me, “It’s getting late. You better sleep. We’re going over the mountain tomorrow.”

She takes the last bit of bread into her mouth and lies her head down on the bag as she chews the last bits.

“Happy birthday, Anne.”

That night as the moon kept rising and the air became colder my eyes shot open at the sound of a familiar crackling.

Ode To The Gale

The nightingale asked

“How Strong is this branch?

If I added some weight would it buckle?”

The tree answered back

“How strong is your faith?

If I added some weight would it crumble?”

Subtle? Yes, but no-one knows this tree is waiting to dance

brandish these feathered scales with these gales in its branch.

Stands alone on its hilltop in an obsidian trance,

subtly it jests ready to let this mantis eat from its plans,

run through this again,

I don’t get where it’s gone, how do I give her a chance?

Fans these pages in the moonlight, soon they tangoed

in a fit of romance,

the tree with the nightingale and his faith in her hands.

Face in the feathers of fire, finally singed,

while the tree drifts away leaving the night to sing.

Ringing on her perch above this spinning globe and longing to be allowed in,

bring with a star in the eye of a child or offer us hope then.

The branch is getting weary, these nightingales already asleep,

amongst all the foliage while the tree is comatose we can hear them argue between…

The nightingale who asked

“How Strong is this branch?

If I added some weight would it buckle?”

And the tree who answered back

“How strong is your faith?

If I added some weight would it crumble?”

Tweet, tweet, sings the gale, pale with a million mouths to feed.

Heed this summer comes to show there’s only one apple between all of these leaves.

Pleads to the hive, how to disguise the withering fruit in its cheeks.

Why oh why wonder to squander your wealth?

Is it really safe to ponder upon the roots of your health?

Tell the sun the moons dying, the sky replies that this morning is made out of ice.

Winter in a wonderland in a land only in this nightingales eyes.

Burning from cold, growing old in this bland state of reprise.

If ashes were to ashes as dust to dust,

you might realise,

the tree and the gale are both us.

Looking in the mirror everyday but never seeing within,

every-time that reflection stares us down we must remember to sing!

I asked myself

“How strong are my branches?

If I added some weight would they buckle?”

My reflection answered back

“How strong is your faith?

If I added some weight would it crumble?”

2014 Commonwealth Short Story Prize

The 2014 Commonwealth Short Story Prize is awarded for the best piece of unpublished short fiction (2000-5000 words). Regional winners will receive £2,500 and the Overall Winner will receive £5,000. Translators will receive additional prize money.

The 2014 Short Story Prize will open for entry on 1 October 2013 and close on 30 November 2013. Entry is via the online application form at www.commonwealthwriters.org. The judges, who reflect the five regions of the Commonwealth, will be announced on 1 October.

Just Love

I’ve felt love, never left it to trust myself,

hence the session I cussed and lust just set my wealth.

It’s a pretty penny, paper, faker than the Us they sell.

Hand in hand I planned it to crack our shells,

but I’ll be dammed if I’ll stake “my” to “self”

my design and the way we felt,

its my demise rife in the way she helped

and I hate the “I” in the pride we held.

Decide the safest way to break the ice we melt,

played the joker, folks holdem in the times we dealt.

Shout for the blizzard, I’m bringing winter in troves

losing my mind alone throwing hope at these ghosts.

Boasts, she couldn’t find her soul roped in these poems,

tucked gently, hence the reason I chose,

the season I’m promised through the beauty she holds.

The duty I conceded to boast in the movement that duly unfolds,

a pearl of wisdom spinning the world that she knows,

and surely I’ll wake with my heart frozen and cold?

dreams cracked by the mistakes and the stones that I’ve hurled

times change, but I’m changing the “I” in me first

lie to me breathing the fire that pries at my worst

and tries every second to recollect the sighs that I’ve cursed

by my only wish and I’m dying to change

by reinvention, not intent to die in this place

but who am I? I rely on the habits you break

and the sadness in my soul resigned to the depths of this lake

revived to allow the whole world to witness my life as it breaks

yet when she smiles its like my thirst quenched by her name

through my driest summers I promise her words are the rain

and the darkest winter nights, skies brighten with the sight of her face

the sweetest dew in tulip fields colours couldn’t match her shades

all my love in a heart shaped locket hanging from the threads of my faith

and I dread the hour headed this way,

with every breath I’m blessed with I’ll live for the day

to hold you and tell you I care

to show the truth that I’m blessed to just know you were there

to whisper sweet nothings that encompass my prayers

when my casket gets lowered and I’m alone in my thoughts

I want the depths of your eyes to be the last image I caught.

A Statistic

How quickly they forget me, yesterday’s news, when they heard of how terribly I was raped,
Beaten and left for dead, in an alley, while walking home.
How quickly they came to offer my parents their symphathies and me their pitiful looks.
The policemen, the doctors, the religious man and even the Mayor.
All offering advice and help.
How eagerly they spoke to the news lady in her dress suite and high heels,
promising to help find the monster who did this to me.
But, just as quickly they forgot.
Too consumed with their own lives.
Nowhere in sight when I needed a lift to the hospital for more tests and pep talks from doctors and social workers.
Nowhere in sight when the doctor said “ YOU’RE PREGNANT! Do you want to keep It or get rid of it?” Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
So quick to judge my family struggling to cope, falling apart at the seams.
No therapy for their pain or my empty soul.
How quickly they forget me, as they see my growing belly and swollen feet,
trying to do the right thing for the one who too didn’t ask for this to happen.
For now, I’m like the ones who came before me,
those that will come after me
And those just like me.
A Statistic.

He walks Free

He walks free,
His trial date one behind thousands awaiting to be heard.
Two weeks in jail.
Not enough evidence, before he goes missing, presumably gone for good
while I am in prison.
I am the one locked behind closed doors,
burglar bars,
barbed wire
and an electric fence.
Who sleeps with the light on, carries pepper spray and a whistle.
Afraid to be left alone, yet more afraid to be alone with me.
Who changed her hair colour,
the clothes she wears,
got new friends and even a new church.
Who cries at night when everyone is asleep
and prays for the courage to stop living to make the pain stop,
While he walks free.

Gold

Gold is a marvel
To behold, but ’tis cold to
The touch: love it not!

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