Mama, they tell me you were a dancer they tell me you had long beautiful legs to carry your graceful body they tell me you were a dancer
Mama, they tell me you sang beautiful solos they tell me you closed your eyes always when the feeling of the song was right, and lifted your face up to the sky they tell me you were an enchanting dancer
Mama, they tell me you were always so gentle they talk of a willow tree swaying lovingly over clear running water in early Spring when they talk of you they tell me you were a slow dancer
Mama, they tell me you were a wedding dancer they tell me you smiled and closed your eyes your arms curving outward just a little and your feet shuffling in the sand; tshi tshi tshitshitshitha, tshitshi tshishitshitha O hee! How I wish I was there to see you they tell me you were a pleasure to watch
Mama, they tell me I am a dancer too but I don’t know… I don’t know for sure what a wedding dancer is there are no more weddings but many, many funerals where we sing and dance running fast with the coffin of a would-be bride or a would-be groom strange smiles have replaced our tears our eyes are full of vengeance, Mama
Dear, dear Mama, they tell me I am a funeral dancer
We present this work in honor of the South African holiday, Day of Good Will.
Phillippa Yaa de Villiers South African b. 1966
One day the Hillbrow Tower started to cry. Real tears poured down its sides collected in the gutters, and ran down Banket Street, and when the other buildings saw the tower’s sadness they started to weep in sympathy. Soon the whole city was sobbing, the tears joined other tears and filled the depressions and valleys. They covered the koppies, and collected in City Deep, cascading over Gold Reef City flooding Fordsburg and soaking Soweto. They flowed until they became a river that carried us into the night, where our dreams grew taller than buildings taller than buildings
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 175th birthday.
Isabella Valancy Crawford Canadian 1846 – 1887
My masters twain made me a bed Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar; Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder Of dreams of rest; and me they spread With furry skins, and laughing said, ‘Now she shall lay her polish’d sides, As queens do rest, or dainty brides, Our slender lady of the tides!’
My masters twain their camp-soul lit, Streamed incense from the hissing cones, Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl’d Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl’d Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones, Half way about each grim bole knit, Like a shy child that would bedeck With its soft clasp a Brave’s red neck; Yet sees the rough shield on his breast, The awful plumes shake on his crest, And fearful drops his timid face, Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.
Into the hollow hearts of brakes, Yet warm from sides of does and stags, Pass’d to the crisp dark river flags; Sinuous, red as copper snakes, Sharp-headed serpents, made of light, Glided and hid themselves in night.
My masters twain, the slaughtered deer Hung on fork’d boughs—with thongs of leather. Bound were his stiff, slim feet together— His eyes like dead stars cold and drear; The wand’ring firelight drew near And laid its wide palm, red and anxious, On the sharp splendor of his branches; On the white foam grown hard and sere On flank and shoulder. Death—hard as breast of granite boulder, And under his lashes Peer’d thro’ his eyes at his life’s grey ashes.
My masters twain sang songs that wove (As they burnish’d hunting blade and rifle) A golden thread with a cobweb trifle— Loud of the chase, and low of love.
‘O Love, art thou a silver fish? Shy of the line and shy of gaffing, Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing, Casting at thee the light-wing’d wish, And at the last shall we bring thee up From the crystal darkness under the cup Of lily folden, On broad leaves golden?
‘O Love! art thou a silver deer, Swift thy starr’d feet as wing of swallow, While we with rushing arrows follow; And at the last shall we draw near, And over thy velvet neck cast thongs— Woven of roses, of stars, of songs? New chains all moulden Of rare gems olden!’
They hung the slaughter’d fish like swords On saplings slender—like scimitars Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars, Blaz’d in the light—the scaly hordes.
They piled up boughs beneath the trees, Of cedar-web and green fir tassel; Low did the pointed pine tops rustle, The camp fire blush’d to the tender breeze.
The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground, With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty— Dream’d of the dead stag stout and lusty; A bat by the red flames wove its round.
The darkness built its wigwam walls Close round the camp, and at its curtain Press’d shapes, thin woven and uncertain, As white locks of tall waterfalls.
How I wish I could pigeon-hole myself and neatly fix a label on! But self-knowledge comes too late And by the time I’ve known myself I am no longer what I was.
I knew a woman once who had a delinquent child. She never had a moment’s peace of mind waiting in constant fear, listening for the dreaded knock and the cold tones of policeman: “Madam, you’re wanted at the station” I don’t know if the knock ever came but she feared on right till we moved away from the street. She used to say “It’s the uncertainty that worries me – if only I knew for certain…”
If I only knew for certain What my delinquent self would do… But I never know until the deed is done And I live on fearing, wondering which part of me will be supreme – the old and tested one, the present or the future unknown. Sometimes all three have equal power and then how I long for a pigeon-hole.
We present this work in honor of the South African holiday, Day of Reconciliation.
Napo Masheane South African 21st century
God grafted the lines of the universe Making the sunshine At the birth of every being. The fire that lights, Through which new rays of life breaks, A moment of time, Where our new voices collectively Must heal the diseased land-souls, Liking the aged and the unborn. Turning our childless grave yards Into laughing homes, Where our people are empowered and developed
The chains of our past Should not trouble us forever, But seal the lips of slavery caves. Our people should stop To live under the tyranny of silence, Turn deserted lands into farm fields. We must sow the seeds of UBUNTU Building and shaping our future on firm grounds, So that our royal languages can echo proverbs, At a place where our ancestors walked. Let us help the poor and the lame To open the closed doors So that they can dress our hearts differently. Let us move earth and assemble our villages So that our tears can become raindrops For the sea of education For the rivers of prosperity For the lakes of democracy
Our voices should write new poetic bibles And prose of golden beauty, Casting away HIV/AIDS- unemployment and felony Let us use our voices to fashion the old Build strong bridges of awareness Bridges that will take us far beyond The skyline of time. Bridges that will transform our core from Dance floors of misconception As we re-create who we really are.
Let us dress our behaviours like monks Allowing our offspring to pick fruits From the highest trees of spirituality So that they can destroy the walls of orphan villages Giving each home a name
We are pillars of a proud vote Bound by a period in which Every being must speak colour sounds Of togetherness. Let our voices find ways In which the webs of life are woven
A place where mothers cannot escape The messages of their own bodies. Let’s allow our fathers’ spirits To stretch and match science, history and politics Let our unique voices teach us How to dig, plant, water our seeds So that we can buy our children’s smiles. Let our words call peace As ancient drums still our voices Sending us to a place Where the love of UNITY lives To draw our people as a unit, Let our SUNRISE voices shout For we know where it all begun We know where we are We know where we are heading
The sparks of the sun Opened the sealed envelop of my words They, tied in endless riddles Are perused out to the world by my faith For God grafted the lines of the universe Making the sun shine At the birth of my soul. The fire that lights, Through which new rays of life break, A moment of time, When our voice together Must weave the diseased land-souls Liking the age and the unborn. Turning our childless grave yards into laughing homes Where our people can speak the same Let our SUNRISE voices shout
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 105th birthday.
Elena Garro Mexican 1916 – 1968
There where we find the lost There where what was had goes There where the dead are dead and there are days when they revive and repeat the actions prior to their death There where cried tears are cried again without a cry and where intangible lips seek each other and are found already without a body There where we are suddenly children and we have a house and where cities are photographs and their monuments reside in the air and there are pieces of gardens attached to some eyes There where the trees are in the void where there are lovers and relatives mixed with familiar objects There where celebrations come after mourning births after deaths rainy days after sunny days There, lonely, without time, without childhood, comet without origin, a foreigner to the landscape strolling among strangers There you reside, where memory resides.
Translation by Adele Lonas, Olatz Pascariu, Silvia Soler Gallego, and Francisco Leal
Very much the bride with a belly of five months she made her devotions to insomnia. Three knocks on wood cracked her open. The thieves shrieked around the splinters. Very much the bride she cold-creamed her face, abandoned in the middle of her honeymoon. “Let battle commence!” the little boys said.
II.
Let the stone-ground light exist. We were not inhibited and trod on each others’ feet as when dancing a bolero. I bumped into his groin, splitting it on purpose. Villain that I was trod on it I poured cold water on his message. I told him I was tender, that I anchored my self at street corners. Let the yellow light of oregano exist.
Oh, I who so wanted to own some earth, Am consumed by the earth instead: Blood into river Bone into land The grave restores what finds its bed. Oh, I who did drink of Spring’s fragrant clay, Give back its wine for other men: Breath into air Heart into grass My heart bereft — I might rest then.
Poets Corner 