Poems by Keorapetse "Willie" Kgotsitsile
FOR HUGH MASEKELA
Manboy of the ages
mirror of my stupidity
and wisdom. Yours too
if you know there is no such
thing as even a perfect god
We are all dispensable
like words or songs
like obsolete tools
like a mother’s afterbirth
Rending. Yes. We travel
we move closer. Or apart
Don’t we know that even
the sun can be brutal!
This then is the rhythm
and the blues of it
Home is where the music is.
From This way I salute you, selected poems, pub. Kwela /snailpress, 2004
ANGUISH LONGER THAN SORROW
If destroying all the maps known
would erase all the boundaries
from the face of this earth
I would say let us make a bonfire to reclaim and sing
the human person
Refugee is an ominous load
even for a child to carry
for some children
words like home
could not carry any possible meaning
but
displaced
border
refugee must carry dimensions of brutality and terror
past the most hideous nightmare
anyone could experience or imagine
Empty their young eyes
deprived of a vision of any future
they should have been entitled to
since they did not choose to be born
where and when they were
Empty their young bellies
extended and rounded by malnutrition
and growling like the well-fed dogs of some
with pretensions to concerns about human rights
violations
Can you see them now
stumble from nowhere
to no
where
between
nothing
and
nothing
Consider the premature daily death of their young dreams
what staggering memories frighten and abort
the hope that should have been
an indelible inscription in their young eyes
Perhaps I should just borrow the rememberer's voice again
while I can and say:
to have a home is not a favour
NO SERENITY HERE
An omelette cannot be unscrambled. Not even the one prepared in the crucible of 19th century sordid European design.
When Europe cut up this continent into little pockets of its imperialist want and greed it was not for aesthetic reasons, nor was it in the service of any African interest, intent or purpose.
When, then, did the brutality of imperialist appetite and aggression evolve into something of such ominous value to us that we torture, mutilate, butcher in ways hideous beyond the imagination, rape women, men, even children and infants for having woken up on what we now claim, with perverse possessiveness and territorial chauvinism, to be our side of the boundary that until only yesterday arrogantly defined where a piece of one European property ended and another began? In my language there is no word for citizen, which is an ingredient of that 19th century omelette. That word came to us as part of the package that contained the bible and the rifle. But moagi, resident, is there and it has nothing to do with any border or boundary you may or may not have crossed before waking up on the piece of earth where you currently live.
Poem, I know you are reluctant to sing
when there is no joy in your heart,
but I have wondered all these years
why you did not or could not give
answer when Langston Hughes, who
wondered as he wandered, asked:
what happens to a dream deferred?
I wonder now
why we are somewhere we did not aim
to be. Like my sister
who could report from any
place where people live,
I fear the end of peace
and I wonder if
that is perhaps why
our memories of struggle
refuse to be erased,
our memories of struggle
refuse to die
we are not strangers
to the end of peace,
we have known women widowed
without any corpses of husbands
because the road to the mines,
like the road to any war,
is long and littered with casualties – even
those who still walk and talk
when Nathalie, whose young eyes know things, says:
there is nothing left after wars, only other wars
wake up whether you are witness or executioner –
the victim, whose humanity you can never erase,
knows with clarity more solid than granite
that no matter which side you are on,
any day or night, an injury to one
remains an injury to all
somewhere on this continent
the voice of the ancients warns
that those who shit on the road
will meet flies on their way back,
so perhaps you should shudder under the weight
of nightmares when you consider what
thoughts might enter the hearts of our neighbours,
what frightened or frightening memories might jump up
when they hear a South African accent
even the sun embarrassed, withdraws her warmth
from this atrocious defiance and unbridled denial
of the ties that should bind us here and always
and the night will not own any of this stench
of betrayal which has desecrated our national anthem,
so do not tell me of NEPAD or AU,
do not tell me of SADC
and please do not try to say shit about
ubuntu or any other neurosis of history
again I say, while I still have voice,
remember, always
remember that you are what you do,
past any saying of it
our memories of struggle
refuse to be erased
our memories of struggle
refuse to die.
My mothers, fathers of my father and me,
how shall I sing to celebrate life
when every space in my heart is surrounded by corpses?
Whose thousand thundering voices shall I borrow to shout
once more: Daar is kak in die land? *
“No Serenity Here” was published by flipped eye publishing,
under the Defeye series in 2009.
*There is shit in the land.

Keorapetse Kgositsile

Hugh Masekala