WINGS

There it was;
that look that says 'i sell sex to mankind';
it was there in all its degradingful femininistic loyalty-
with or without the R,
written it was in her eyes almost with a dash of dare;
Instantly i was filled with such a swell of respectful ardor;
for she lived a life in the esoterical extremes of the resolute.
The white serpent shook his head 'no'-
my heart whispered 'burn!' as it scooped rioting hot oil onto his face to have him just right;
Mary.
Mary.
Mary you are forgiven;
Mary you can go home now,
You are forgiven.

Another fucking poetry slam

Another fucking poetry slam

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

I met her in a restaurant reading,
A plain act but one that corrupted my thoughts with interest.

‘Hey, what are you reading?’
‘The heart is a lonely hunter’
‘Good read that is, John singer amused me. Nkandu is my name’
‘Lerato, nice to meet you’

She extends her hand,
I look at the finely taken care of fingers,
Perfect for turning pages, I think.

I return the hand shake
And during the period that my hand, in hers, moves up and down-my eyes wander at the contours of her lips
I think- I should say more

I said more,
Spoke mainly about what I perceived were her interests.
She mentioned him,
I paid no attention.
A meeting later,
Then a date,
After which she became my mate.

She then said ‘Nkandu, we can’t do this no more’
‘Is it Katlego’
‘Yes’
‘But why?’
‘I do not know, this just feels evil’

And so my heart began to hunt on its own.

I Guess Lions Tore Us Apart

Is it reasoned I drew the wrath of Eros

That we had to part?

I, this way, and ye, that?

Permit me to reminisce;

Standing in your presence was when i I joked-

That only could I keep a commitment-

with my love for pens bleeding black 'stead the red that livens your heart.

Looking into your eyes, those big brown eyes;

There you sat.

The ones that rose me up happy or sad. Gently.

Those same eyes;

That told me that if ever I wished, I would even fly;

Today I looked into them and they cared less;

Of all the jokes we ever did tell-

They cared less;

Of times we made love and your emotions did swell.

Those brown eyes so distant,

So cold, so cross,

I dared not push on,

I dared not to fight for what couldn't be won;

Ne'er to be complete as I dare not anger Anteros.

A Rush of Blood to The Head-Nkandu

All my efforts rest in a paper bin, in a crample fold.
Ideas sparkle; blue as lightening.
Yet all my tales have been told.
A grudge held, fueled by poets of old.

I wait on inspiration,
I wait in vain.
I make a girl of unfashionable beauty mine,
hoping she holds infant joy, to lift me out of this gloom.
Then I meet her pain of virgin experience.
I tell her I love her-I lie.
I lie in a bid to covince myslef I mean every lie.
our relationship spirals to friendship, I sigh, relieved?
Yet my tales are still of boyish experience.

I end by rushing blood to my head; I drag, take a swig and sniff.
The belfry signals both joy and sorrow; consumation of death.
Don't funeral bells sound alike? I return to the church for relief.
I give poetry one last glance while prose lays a wreath.

Demons Clib Trees the selected work

This is an excerpt from Kush Kerma( Kasup Ka Mano's) poetry.

be
be every color you choose
your femininity flows from your womb effusions through dimensions uncharted as storms,as natural upheavals
or dark stallions with rippling muscles raging possessedly through the wild foaming at the mouth
untameable
as if the very existence of warmth is birthed right from out of your pores
tightly
i hold on to you
as if my salvation will spring up out and envelope me in your garden's beautiful scent
fortified by two mountains that inspire warlords to each stake claims at the cost of spillages of clots of gooing blood
inspiring the unuseful cowardly poets to paint you in words and images and calculated strokes of colorful inks
you are the sound of the early morning sun's warmth
your naval leads like a path to an oasis of life
mothering all other things alive
one with nature
only the symphonies of harps
only the symphonies of flutes
though virgin instruments only their sound is pure enough to express you
perfect synchronicity
only you can define you
let it all go
have mercy
for i have relegated you to an uneducated vocabulary and unreaching combination's of words
how dare i
let it all go
mercy,mercy
be every color you choose my love
be every word that remains unsaid
[14-05-10]

Give Me Hope Soweto

Many Zambians view Soweto as the hub of black empowerment in Southern Africa. We see Sowetans in the eyes of directors of movies and documentaries. They are portrayed as strong willed, afro centric and proud men and women who do not settle for less than they deserve.



















I have never been to Soweto but I have been fortunate enough to have interacted with people who hail from there. On one of my encounters; a discussion organised by cool politics. I had to force myself to get out of bed (on a cold Saturday morning), for what I thought would be a predictable discussion on Development Aid. To my welcome surprise the setting was not traditional. The 'educated fools' were not the only ones taking centre stage but a number of painters, musicians and poets.

It was not arguments of PHD and Masters Degree holders that sounded practical or had an ounce of wit, but the arguments by a group, Deep Soweto that deserved the blowing of the Vuvuzela.



















The songs sung by the people of Soweto asked the listener to get up, get out and get something. They scream out to Africa to not wait on crumbs from governments and foreign donors.I the people of Soweto keep up with what they are doing, the rest of the continent will follow suit. Then Africa will not wait on good will to solve its problems. We shall get a piece of the pie and create development that is uniquely African