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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
I've Scribbled This Song For You...
I'm wasting my days,
my empty nights too,
I should have held on,
but I simply lost you,
now I stagger along,
wearing broken smiles,
in between hell and you,
there's a million miles,
yes, I should have kept,
you close to my skin,
soaking your warmth,
but you were laughing,
at my foolish grin...
now I'm all broken,
and torn apart,
but what the hell,
I was always late,
for the tolling of the bell,
and now...
now I stagger along,
wearing broken smiles,
in between hell and you,
there's a million miles,
so kiss me now like you once did,
I'm tired of being so carefully hid,
la laa laa la laa laa laa...
(repeat to fade)
:-)
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
1 Billion Rising.
For Men Everywhere.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
Stop!
Stop the abuse!
Of grand-daughters,
colleagues,
daughters,
girlfriends,
partners,
mothers,
sisters,
nieces,
wives,
all women.
Listen!
Listen to the voices!
Of grand-daughters,
colleagues,
daughters,
girlfriends,
partners,
mothers,
sisters,
nieces,
wives,
all women.
Think!
Think of how you treat,
grand-daughters,
colleagues,
daughters,
girlfriends,
partners,
mothers,
sisters,
nieces,
wives,
all women.
Act!
Act now to change yourself!
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
stops when you stop,
the violence,
the abuse,
the rape.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
is perpetrated by,
grand-fathers,
colleagues,
boyfriends,
husbands,
nephews,
brothers,
partners,
fathers,
uncles,
men,
all men.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
stops when us men stop,
The violence,
the abuse,
the rape,
today, now.
Stop! Listen! Think! Act!
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
Wrestling Verses
Spilling ink onto paper,
reading tea-leaves,
fragments of mirth,
shards of anguish,
remain,
trapped in rolled-up sleeves.
Turning up my collar,
as blue as these days that slip by,
scattered verses plunge into,
the fathoms of unknown waters.
My ink runs, slips, treading lightly,
penning odes to love on bare skin,
your skin,
your bare back my canvas,
my fingers tracing, caressing, scribbling,
homages to our laughter, our tears.
Wrestling verses,
lie spent, exhausted,
famished and parched from saying too much,
still,
my fingers tickle your soft skin,
my ink would run dry,
were it not for your gentle touch
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
The False Dichotomy of My
Descent...
Falling,
beyond the precipice,
into this gaping chasm.
Numbness ensues,
whirling emptiness,
swirling around and around,
in the recesses of my mind,
as it plummets,
in silent freefall.
My choices are stark,
hit rock bottom,
eyes open,
splitting into fragments,
left strewn across the canvas of
loss.
Or,
shutting my eyes,
descending into oblivion,
exhaling as the valley of sorrow
reaches up,
claiming me as its own.
But,
I choose to glide,
floating on thermals of hope,
settling deep in the bowels,
of this desolate grave,
to begin anew,
free from the fiction of truth,
to live, to love, once more,
no longer an accomplice,
and never again, a slave.
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
Then:
Desire enveloped us,
stoking fierce passions,
beneath a milky moon,
your abandoned kisses,
left me breathless,
under a starlit sky,
love silenced our nights,
a serene peace settling,
filling empty desolation,
at rest at long last,
your presence my final abode,
each caress rich with hope.
Now:
your absence is felt,
each day, every night,
throttling my dreams,
crawling inside a void,
my crumbling heart weary,
knowing you may never return,
all promises lay strewn,
like quiet wilting flowers,
brushing against my thoughts,
defeated by your love,
my tortured breathing,
is shallow, agonising, slow,
each memory a jagged ache,
knowing you left,
a thousand moons ago.
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:
Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.
He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.
After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.
In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.
Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.
He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.
Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.
On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.
Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.
His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.
In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.
On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:
‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.
Tell my people that I love them.
They must continue the fight.’
Mahlangu died for a cause!
Salute!
The Struggle Continues…
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
freedom day
(april the 27th 1994)
far too many brave compatriots died
and
flooding rivers of tears were cried
far too many families ripped apart
with
daggers cutting into their heart
the pain is felt still deep today
on this glorious sun-splashed South African Freedom Day
as we pause and remember those who do not remain with us anymore
as we appreciate the fruits that their sacrifice and struggle bore
far too many to count and to name
but we honour them all while we keep burning that eternal flame
...Oliver Reginald Tambo
...Chris Hani
...Solomon Mahlangu
...Prakash Napier
...Yusuf Akhalwaya
...Matthew Goniwe
...Neil Aggett
,,,Ahmed Timol
...Vuyisile Mini
...Hector Peterson
...Babla Saloojee
...Bram Fischer
...Dulcie September
...Sparrow Mkonto
just a few, but so many still nameless
who were brutally cut down
by a racist system that was merciless, and cruelly shameless
we honour you, today
but we remember you each and every day
when we breathe in the air of the freedom that you craved
as we walk the roads of a wounded but healing country that you saved
from itself, for the hate and racism and hushed prejudice of race and gender and religion and sexual persuasion and caste and creed
that you so valiantly fought against, is still with us, as it on fear and ignorance does feed
the odour of racism and hate
of white and black and jew and muslim and hindu and catholic and yellow and brown
is a living parasite that lives and thrives all across this beautiful world, from cities and villages and hamlets, to the smallest rural town
it may become a mark of shame upon us all
so we have to, today, struggle against and boldly fight
for the sacrifices of the many can never be cheapened, by the polite dinner-table murmurs of hate, try as hard as they might
for if we as a nation,
a country
a world
a people
one people
are to truly step out of the lashing cold painful rain
we have to continue your struggle
so that your supreme sacrifices may not have been in vain...
and so we say
'hamba kahle, comrades'
to you who laid your young lives down and slipped away
so that we who remain may in the sunlight and out of the rain live and breathe and stay
in a country, and in a world
where religion and gender and sexual-persuasion and all colourful hues
may mingle and love and laugh and cry together on the sun-filled avenues
so thank you, comrades, for showing us a better path that we must embark on as we shuffle onwards into a brighter tomorrow
away from the hurt of the past, and away from the tears and away from all the sorrow
for the true freedom that we seek now, is the freedom from our own racism, our own prejudices, our own sexism, our own petty hates and bottled-up anger
for therein, lies the fight ahead
for therein, lies the real and growing danger.
Aluta Continua!
Amandla Ngawethu!
The Struggle Continues...
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
1.
On the 27th day of April in
Nineteen Ninety-Four,
Freedom was won, at long last.
The battles were many, the foe
brutal,
Apartheid tore our southern tip
of the continent of Africa apart,
it’s notions of racial-superiority,
its religious fundamentalism,
its fascist tendencies,
its beastly nature,
ripped the flesh off the skin of
our collective selves,
but resistance to tyranny has
always been a basic human
aspiration,
and so resistance flourished.
2.
Ordinary folk,
school-teachers and machinists,
nurses and poets,
labourers and engineers,
lawyers and students,
resisted!
We remember you today,
as a copper African sun shines
bright this Saturday morning in
April of Two-Thousand and
Thirteen,
we honour you, who fought,
Comrades all -
Walter Sisulu,
Nelson Mandela,
Joe Slovo,
Ahmed Kathrada,
Bram Fischer,
Steve Biko,
Solomon Mahlangu,
Vuyisile Mini,
Denis Goldberg,
and many many more,
those we know and love,
and those whose bones have
now settled in our rich African
soil,
those who died,
those who were executed,
those who were shot,
those who were tortured,
those who were killed,
and the countless who are still
tortured today by the swords of
memory,
the emotional and psychological
torture,
that still rains down on the
valiant ones and their families.
Families!
Families fractured, broken and
scattered throughout the world,
fragments of a sister’s laugh, a
daughter’s smile,
bite as harshly into the soul as
did Apartheid’s cruel lashes of
violence.
So many died, too many died,
and I remember them,
Steve Biko – Tortured and
Murdered in South Africa
Solomon Mahlangu – Hanged by
the Apartheid State
Ahmed Timol – Tortured and
Murdered
Bram Fischer – Died in Prison
and many many more,
their blood flowing into the soil
of our ancestors,
our country, our South Africa,
for all South Africans,
Black and white and brown and
all the shades of humanity’s
mosaic.
3.
Now we reflect,
now we must dissect,
the fruits of freedom,
thus far,
much has been achieved,
yet,
the struggles continue,
for employment,
health-care for all,
shelter and housing for all,
and my compatriots have
earned it,
they have stewed in the mines,
deep beneath the soil,
for shiny metals and glittering
glass.
The revolution is a work-in-
progress,
true liberation shall be economic
liberation,
where each and every South
African,
can walk the land of our
ancestors,
truly free
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
Vula Amehlo (open your eyes)
"Vula Amehlo"is Zulu for "open your eyes"
Vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
though eyes aren’t needed to behold
the flowing tears of those of us, left out in the cold
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
the time to turn your back is long gone
no time now to pander and no time now to fawn
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
we the people are hungry, angry, and our skin is torn
though we say it loudly, unbowed we are, and not forlorn
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
we may be invisible and tucked away far from you
but we are here, still, waiting for the promise of freedom to come true
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
you see us sometimes, though you avert your gaze
come on now, compatriots, awaken from your complacent daze
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
we are the open wound that festers on your ostentatious display
band-aids won’t do anymore, we are here, and we are here to stay
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
as you roll down your windows and toss us some coins, look in our eyes
we are your slumbering consciences, we are the famished proof of your lies
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
forget us not as you tuck your pretty children in, and turn off the lights
we too are the children whose mothers, fathers fought for all our peoples’ rights
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
don’t think that we are bitter and livid for no reason or cause
we have been waiting and waiting, for days and a decade, without any pause
vula amehlo
sisters and brothers
vula amehlo
mothers and fathers
vula amehlo
brown and white and all shades of this rainbow so bright
we repeat what we said, we are not going to melt away into the night
vula amehlo
one and all
our patience is being tested from day to day, year to year
we have listened to your promises and we now demand that you hear
vula amehlo
open your eyes
and see us, and hear us clearly, and hear us today
band-aids won’t do anymore, we are here, and we are here to stay
vula amehlo
open your eyes
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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Scribbler Of Verses Poem
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
hope...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
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