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Dear Sister

I have been told you fear to look in the mirror,
scared of what you might find.
Like dandelion dust the walls of your heart have fallen;
into pieces the domains of your heart have been broken.

I need for you to feel the strength in your knees,
feel the assurance of tomorrow in your thighs
I know the stride is not with ease
and with the harshness of pain, time flies

I need you to collect yourself again
measure your worth as if the Earth was at your submission
slavery has not bound your spirit to eternal suffering,
neither has rape robbed you of your body

And with each tear, grow a little stronger;
Hold your smile a little longer
Princesses like you will one day inherit a kingdom
Remember, pain is just a part of wisdom

Next time you come across a mirror,
acclaim yourself a precious rock
dance to the beat of the beauty within;
After all you are a daughter to a King

Table Mountain

The mild Cape Town winter weather
triggers blooming of the Heather.
The Erica shines their lanterns
among the Foxtail Ferns.
The white clouds overhead feather.

The Silver Trees create a foil
against which the flora toil.
The King Proteas are gearing up
to supply a feast for birds to sup.
The Cape Cobras in slumber coil.

The Aloes have many a use
and can withstand much abuse.
The fiery red Cape Honeysuckle
led the cultivated hedges to buckle.
Mountain fires lit by the obtuse.

Our proud heritage was in full bloom –
a rambling pathway the only room.
Scorched earth, naked and black;
sustenance of the soil now sadly lack.
The canon on Signal Hill boom.

Official New 7 Wonders Inauguration of Table Mountain in Cape Town: 2 December 2012

Why makes me so Special?

What makes me so Special?
She wonders, after Oupa Dan leaves her room,
Another night spent feeling his rough beard kiss her hands,
and hard hands touch her Cookie.
It hurt a lot but Oupa’s strong hands held her still.
Her older sister was in the other room and she was much more prettier
but they didn’t touch her
“Your special” he said and she would have smiled if it didn’t hurt so much.
But Oupa must be right, because Daddy would also come to visit her tomorrow,
like he has been doing for a long time now,
Making her touch his Johnny that was thick and yucky.
She told Mommy what they did,
but Mommy said “Shhh, stop telling lies” and gently washed her eina in warm water,
“You’re just special”, she said
She wanted to run away, hide or lock her door, till mommy came from night-shift,
But her wheelchair was no match for Daddy’s big strong running legs,
and Oupa’sstern words,
So she wondered, tears rolling down her cheeks, no longer sobs or cries,
What make me so special if I feel dirty and sad?

By Jacqueline Friedman

Appointment

Give me the eye now and I can have it back to you by 1900, 2200 tops

The choices limited
Fragments of brainiac material have already started to become leakage
Drip, drip and dripping away
Don’t slip on your head juice, Mr
Some baby’s just waiting to laugh at your misfortune

Yes, you must fix my eye

He, the mister quite bitter slithers hither
His belly is chafed beyond any semblance of belief
This is a general gripe amongst the populace
Gooey matter designed to alleviate the problem is simply not good enough
They broadcast their neatly wrapped thought packages to the information centres every day to relay the failure of the gooey matter
Some genius has to come up with something better or they will never stop complaining
Never stop thinking
Give them new matter, better to protect a gut with

This preoccupies his thought package
In the darkness of eyeless transit
The gaping hole in his face decorated by a flimsy sheath

Got to get home to the warm glow

The landscape inhales electrical shockwaves
Smorgasbord
Dotted by damp squids and prattling overlords
Here is where you have to buy nausea
Lay down cold hard currency for simulated emotions
This crud caked celestial body needs the energy
The symphonies of thought packages
Bursting forth and enabling the mass to dangle from thin threads attached to the roof above
The roof of everything, so high up that it has no ending
Swinging along gently then at once with much violent urgency
This home cannot be relied upon for predictable serenity

If only my belly would stop hurting
Oh and my eye
Need it back to start exerting
The essence of my thoughts
So that my home may continue to live

The aching journey nears its end
He comes home

Deep cavern inside the mass
Downward spiralling ever deeper with ruthless precision
He reaches
The gooey matter must be washed away with acrylic
So as not to leave more plump scars on an undercarriage already used to haemorrhage
He is home within home

1900, 2200 tops
Then the eye can be reinserted
The brain juice saved from being squirted
Off in every direction
Slipped upon
So that no baby can laugh at his misfortune

I need the eye or that’s it
Please warm glow
Glow on me

The light obliged
Toasting his insides
Scorching the scales
Blackening his self-awareness
Soot and heat in a cacophony of slow-burn ecstasy

The skin shed itself like every night before for 34 clicks
It unwrapped itself
Dried blood and dried guts moved aside
And from there where he always hides
He emerged

The man from within the creature’s body

His nude frame was bristling with shivers of pain
As the light dimmed to nothingness
He stood upright in the lair
Savouring every second of not having to slither like the beast he must be
Walking tall like man
The forgotten species

Somehow, the mass doesn’t know what I am
The mass must approve of my deception somehow
As long as the thought packages reach their destination
The mass will never hurt me

The man must think for himself
It’s all he really has left
To remind him of what he truly is

Yes, need to fetch the eye at 1900, 2200 tops

Note to self

Dedication – Part 1

All the children
So much to experience
Millions of steps left to take
Insides bound to break
Clueless
No idea of what is to come

Every time you grow up
You feel it nagging at your hollow stomach
Nothing else matters
As long as you get to eat

Eat dead animals
Eat faded coins
Eat rusted nails
Eat bread
Eat flesh
Eat dirt

You grew up nicely
Thank you very much
Here’s the gold star
Stick it to your forehead with spit and sweat
You achieved something

And to think
You were once one of the children

So what do you want now?

Dedicated to 1

Lost Soul

Once upon a time, I saw a shooting star…

When last was I so lucky, last time I went to Kentucky
The man with the wink in the eye, gave me a wish upon the sky

I grabbed a shining star, that exploded on the tar
Hell has closed it’s doors, as I’ve found a brand new shore

Deep in the ocean I find, the treasure I left behind
Diamonds and gold, are never to be sol – or so i’m told

Three wise men came from the East, and showed me to the beast
Greedy for my loot, the scale tipped on my foot

The crib was in my site, the called him “Jesus Christ”
How could I be such a fool, to think the Devil’s eyes were blue?

The beholder of our future, whereupon you find a broken picture
I see a dark moon rising, as the shattered glass surrounds me

I’m just another tiny star, shining down on you so far
To protect you from the evil, from the darkness of the devil

You hold the key to my destiny, I shall wait for thee – eternity
For the path that I have taken, was a martini stirred, not shaken

A can of worms left unopened, when the Titanic hit the ocean
How can you mend a broken heart, just follow a brand new path

You will find the land of milk and honey, where there’s lots and lots of money
For the wisdom of the owl, cannot re-direct my soul

Oh Lord, don’t let him win, for my soul’s not worth the sin
The train has finally stopped, as the devil made his gruesome shot.

Lerato

When I drown my eyes in bloody tears,
And infants spit in my mouth, elderly curse my name
Then worms eat my flesh,
And God denies my name, Dear:
A day missing you… is worse than that.

When whips lash my back,
And dogs rip my skin, vultures gobble my eyes,
Then my family mourns my death,
And my brother shoots my face, Dear:
A smile missing you… is worse than that.

When they slit my throat and sell me cheap,
And demons kick my head to smash that skull,
Dear: a laugh missing you… is worse than that,
For a life without you… is worse than death.

You don’t understand

Listen to me,
Don’t you ever,
Don’t never tell me
You understand!
Because you don’t!

You don’t understand
Now I aint saying I’m the only one to ever feel a thing
But I was the only one there, feeling that thing.
So please don’t ever tell me “you understand”

Now pain its relative, and non-comparative
I take nothing from yours
But please unless you were there
And to my knowledge you weren’t
Don’t tell me you understand!

No no you did not feel my blows
Hear my bellows
And if you had would you have done something?
Where was your understanding then?

And if you understood so well
Tell me why then are you professing such
To cover a wound you have just reopened?
No you don’t understand

That there are millions of me,
Generations, civilisations, and whole populations
Of haunted hurt women
And yet you want to say you understand!

You, know, nothing.
Of what it is to bled naturally,
Of life and love unwillingly
To spout kindness
And strength of brazen necessity
For you understanding

Now I’m not saying I am the only one
But you do not understand.

The singing Bells

The bells that sing,

She stamps her feet to the tabla player’s drum
The bells on her feet singing with him the sad love song devoted to lord Krishna
Na dhin dhin dha
Dha dhin dhin na

They twirl around her legs all 100 of them
Weighing down heavily onto her slim ankles and tiny feet
Cutting into her delicate skin
But leaving no pain

They are all she has in her scary world of brothels and dirty men,
Of Madamji who gave her a home when her own mother died of sickness
But gave it with a price tag, using her beauty and skill against her.
She loves her bells because they are the only thing holy she has.
Blessed by Pandit Swarmi,
With them she can release all her tears, tell all her fears
And just for a little while,
Become the desired and wanted One

Written by
Jacqueline GF Friedman

Living in Bridgebottomville

Under the old bridge next to the honoured Mandela Bridge, on the way out of town, where cars, buses, taxis and motorbikes all drive fast and furious, always in a hurry to somewhere, live the people of Bridgebottomville. To proud to stay in Shanty’s, the make-shift zinc homes, they chose the underside of the old bridge to make their home. “It’s close to town”, they say, and close to food too with so many people around, their pockets always ripe for the picking, their hearts to soft for a beggar child and its mother.

With only one street, Jacob Zuma Street, named after their beloved President, the 25 community members live in 4 abandoned, run-down used to be factory shops, sharing 1 Tap and 2 toilets. Everything for them is in walking distance.

The Zunga’s live in the green one room used to be Bunny-chow shop. They are father George, a factory worker, mothers Thandie and Suzan, their four small children all under the age of 6 and Sizwe, 12 years old whose mother died years back, who’s going to be a doctor and cure all the people with AIDS. With only two beds and 2 mattresses, and affordable plastic bowls and cups, everything is shared. Mr Zunga refuses to be a beggar and dreams of one day owing a house in Sandton with a big garden.

The blue used to be Game shop houses Gogo Nono and her 3 daughters, all pregnant with 6 children between them already. A widow for 15 years now, her husband having died of TB, Gogo prays daily for her children, while selling fruit at the taxi rank to feed the little ones. Her girls get child support but she knows they all have AIDS and that one day soon she’ll have to be a new mother all over again. Nevertheless she still believes that God will save her out of this hell hole she now calls home.

The Cleva Mzwai’s are the gang members who live in the orange house and wreak fear in the hearts of all. They steak and fight, causing trouble everywhere, but with Lucas as their leader, they always stay out of jail. Their two room home houses five of them but on weekend’s women from all over can be seen and heard coming from their place.

Nice Time Shabeen is the red 3 room old butcher shop that serves as money laundering house, slash disco. Sis Lindiwe and her “husband” Chiefs Morabie, own it. During the weekends many people come and the small abode overflows with people and money exchanges many hands for many “favours”. They make most of their money with Bridgebottomville’s girls and the surrounding areas. “Poverty makes you do funny things” she says but she has no regrets at all.

Life is hard at Bridgebottomville but they survive. With Wits giving out bread every morning to the homeless and the religious centres providing lunch and supper: with the odd jobs around plus cheap schooling around for the children, they all dream of winning the Lotto and finding Prince Charming with his 1 Series. There is many more South African like them, many more people worldwide living in their own “Bridgebottomville”, and many times we fail to notice them because we’re so wrapped up in ourselves and our issues. They don’t need our pity or our stuff. They only need hope and know that someone cares and believes in them. To understand that their not lazy and that this life they didn’t plan. Things just happen. So the next time you drive over the “bridge” take a look outside for the people of Bridgebottomville.

Written by Jacqueline Friedman

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