Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The value and state of poetry -eye opener
WHY DO WE WRITE?
As a creative writing student (extra-mural studies) at the University of Johannesburg, I have learnt that writing (poetry) without sincerity and honesty is useless and not worth listening to. Without sounding too political, I would like to quote one of the most prolific writers of all times Langston Hughes-" the pre-requisite for writing is having something to say”. With this being said, one would wonder what's the point I am trying to make here.Ok, whenever a poet (writer) holds his pen to inject the paper with his thoughts, feelings or emotions with respect to any issue, what matters most to me, is honesty behind the writing. Being a poet myself, I have talked to numerous art-practitioners in Maseru and Jozi, in pursuit of knowing what makes them distinct from the "mass of poets in the box”. The most common answer- ability to be oneself in one's writing. Does that ring a bell? You may be wondering what I mean by "the mass of poets in the box". WELL. Have you ever heard some poets sounding the same or muffling up their voices tying to be someone else?
From my point of view majority of people calling themselves poets are puppets of entertainment, just merely role playing and good-show-makers. One of the Mountain Kingdom lyrical giants and rap activists- CORE-WRECKAH once wrote on those Maseru hip-hop needs the gatekeepers- I also believe that. Innocuously speaking, poetry is the most open art form but sadly gets tracked in a mud. The state of poetry in Maseru is slowly growing in terms of support, however I still wonder if our own poetry will one day be read and taught at school! Frankly, I too like my fellow brother and poet Lyrical Bacteria don't see the use of having 600 poets who recite, write and sound the same. If we continue being replicas of others, in no time our beautiful art (poetry) will reach the verge of collapse. Da Principal (one of the most established poets in Lesotho) of POETS ALIVE CREW defines poetry as blending of emotion with thought. Bearing this in mind, then how does a poet become him/herself while replicating the other? Like verbal st said "our artists have their minds inculcated in the survival of the fittest ideology"- hence the copycat behavioural attributes. This has been inspired by da principal's ten instalments of poetry through the lenses of a microscope...just think ABOUT IT. TO BE CONTINUED!!!
© Mpoba monyeke
Posted by POETS ALIVE CREW at 3:44 AM 0 comments
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
childmolestation is wrong all the time everyday...zero tolerance
8 .Emotionally Cold At Thirteen
The lick of his torture tongue aggravates pain
Like she has her lungs immersed in blood,
She coughs hurts, exhales agony through her eyes.
Winter tries so hard to erect barriers of defense
But only with liquid self-confidence,
Then step-grandfather has already jumped the boarders
And invaded the territory of this virgin heart,
His verbal barbed wire strips flesh
From her self-esteem and breaks her back-bone
Leaving blood oozing from the wounds within
Every night hell breaks loose with 'the supreme
Demon' caressing her thighs and breasts,
Reading through 'her book' that she once promised
Herself to keep it closed until she reaches twenty one.
Her interior landscapes polluted by fear toxins
She inhales from the monster figure's atmosphere,
She keeps her mouth absolutely shut.
She has no one to cry to because to
Father’s family she is a rejected seed,
And her father died when she was conceived
While her mother passed on during her child birth.
"I guess life is mean, she said".
Every day she is dressed in tears with
Nile eroding her facial make up,
Hiding her hurts and fears with a
Fake fragile smile, but analyzing the
Situation through her eyes, even a blind man
Could see that deep down she is a lost soul
Abhorrence woven into every fabric of her thoughts,
She is disgusted by every glimpse of him,
She hates his hands invading her private faculties!
The lick of his torture tongue aggravates pain
Like she has her lungs immersed in blood,
She exudes hurts, and exhales agony through her eyes
Being tongue-tied and introvert, silence murders
Winter’s self-worth, crushes it into fine fragments,
She is emotionally cold, and is so the name.
She writes sad episodes of her life, trying to find a healing
For the misery the future is about to un-hold,
As in destiny the heavens are about to unfold.
Survival is tougher than that of the seeds
That fell on concrete streets.
She decides to be bold, and takes the matter to the police,
Guess what she gets from the police officer!
A sense of relief like one would think, not exactly that
But the heart-rending situation is exacerbated,
Like step-grand dad, he too forces himself
On her as to 'harden the evidence'
Indeed she was born from the sorry side
She thinks of choosing the grave over life
By committing suicide as the hand that once
Protected and nurtured her is the hand that finally
Molested her
On second thoughts, she makes a phone
Call to the toll free number 0800 05 5555
Lays and presses charges of abuse and rape,
Being the person she is talking to
I totally decide to find her psychiatric treatment,
Lock the monsters up, offer them prison cells
As their life time homes 'cause that's where they belong.
It's upon ordinary people like you and I to eradicate
These monsters, pedophiles and child molesters from
Our social scene….
AUTHOR: KNOWLEDGE
© Mpoba Monyeke
2009/2010
male poets project 2010 the courtesy of weeklymail newspaper in LESOTHO...
Friday, June 17, 2011
today i present to you the work of my fellow poet..the man from the BIBLE.
Virtuous Woman…
She smiles when there is no reason to, just to convince me that she is happy even when she is not. She always tells me about the Lord, tells me that I have to quit my odd lifestyle. She never makes vain promises, hates seeing me in pain. She takes the blame for all my faults. Without her my life is a blur. I love how her fair hair matches my fur coat. She is a complex specie, her complexion is yellowish like fresh almonds, her face glitters like crafted Sierra Leone diamonds every time she sees me. Every time we debate I let my points abate before I abdicate as my will is to make her elate all the time.
In South Africa’s population she is one in 49 million, I would kill an army of a million Shaka Zulu warriors for her. After the war I would open up all the contents of my heart to her and tell her where my strength lies because she is far different from Delilah. She separated me from boys like a quality sieve, far different from Eve so with her the serpent is bound to fail. I hail her name with pride, I can’t wait to make her my bride and abide to her simple pleads. Before I turn my back on her I kiss her on the forehead. I can’t wait to introduce her to my forefather’s. No sex before marriage I let her remain a virgin until our honeymoon. That’s when I will passionately make love to her under a full moon. And taste the bloom of her pink lips. Clips of a happy couple will be shared via Spiritual Bluetooth by the angels of the heaven as a testimony to the Father that two soul mates have indeed tied the knot.
Her presence in my life is invaluable and she is more reliable than the terms and conditions of my furniture shop. She is an innocuous specie, she is more precious than pearls. She is far more expensive than rubies. Every woman is jealous of her and that makes me zealous of her. As she watches the stars at night I am presented with an opportunity to watch her blossom in our bosom moments. Virtuous Woman your truly are a blessing to me. I love you.
© Danny Mahaba
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
"they say life is a struggle..i know what i know there is no need to convince you"
13. Messed Up Broken Home
This kingdom is a messed up broken home
Where indigenous people travel and live
As foreign slaves in their own native land,
And my people's dreams are like castles built on sand
To be eroded and washed by rains of corporate greed
People of this place struggle to meet their basic needs.
Four decades of independence are meaningless
To people who can't have their views openly expressed.
This kingdom is a place where my people are sold to Asian states
Lesotho is a rut that releases stenches of putrid democracy
Progenies of this home flinch from the truth because
They are scared of being whipped with iron “kopere”.
Lesotho is a messed up broken home
Where dictatorship and aristocracy are synonyms for democracy,
And this place is a global joke and a comic relief
As it fails to feed only 1.8 million people!
You can’t comprehend this poem if you are not
Compelled by major forces of life like HIV
To be a head of a family at the age of twelve
You can't relate to this unless you’re a child who lost one parent
During the 2005 textile industry workers massacre,
Or a parent who went through a loss of child
In the 2009 brutal shooting of NUL students,
Or breadwinners that sell sweets alongside
Maseru streets and get chased by MCC guards.
This kingdom in the sky is a loose broken home
Where freedom of speech is locked up in slavery archives
Freedom fighters are frightened with fire and brimstone,
So don't tell me to vote, if I do, what will it be for?
To vote for people who will only masticate the cake’s cream
Right before my eyes while I’m licking my desiccated lips,
With my stomach humming a sorrow-filled chorus of hunger
I can't vote for an indirect concealed colonialism!
© Knowledge Mpoba Monyeke
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
ECHOES OF THE STREETS
Echoes of the streets wake me from my sleep
Groans of kids sleeping next to garbage bins and under bridges
With cardboard boxes folded to form mattresses
Survival of these souls is nobody’s business
None is interested in their well-being.
Echoes of the streets wake me from my sleep
Pictorial view of this young boy sniffing glue
Feels rejected hence is subjected to drug abuse at this tender age
Death of his parents saw his life change course
He dreamt of being a doctor maybe an engineer
Unfortunately the streets became his destination
Now his fate remains unclear.
Echoes of the streets wake me from my sleep
Visuals of this young boy in tattered clothes
I poignantly gaze at his toe-out shoes
As he cautiously strides through the morning dew
Looking set to take his place at the corner of this store
Where he can commence his daily chore
‘Ke kopa 50 cent ea lijo’
The sorrow-filled song he’ll sing for the rest of the day.
Echoes of the streets wake me from my sleep
Reflected images of shabby looking kids
Distinct mindsets who share a similar story
The sad story of how they ended up in the streets
The story of being abandoned and neglected by their families
Yet now they are tagged with names, lihobo mekopa-kopa
Forgotten citizens of this country.
© Letuka Verbal Saint Qabalatsane
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