Below is the poem entitled A Letter To The Petrol Bomb Experts which was written by poet
Ngomane. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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Teach me how to speak your history. Do not judge my sense of hearing or abilities of my vision. I was born after you took a rest from your freedom fight poetry protest actions and the rest. Please teach me how to speak your poetry. I have no threats behind my pen. My inspiration rose from the love of words. Mounted from poets that turned words into swords cutting through dark images carrying oppression. Soldiers, who puked words inspired by anger, hope, desperate needs and i am a part of that breed. Is it a fault if i enjoy the victory of your fight without the knowledge of your history? Amandla spirits has turned into commercial songs please teach me how to speak your volume.
I am that kid chasing composers of protest songs instead of cleaning my skin with the meaning of those songs. My writing exposes self-taught language that speaks in mute sentences when the kings of spoken word throw punches of disbelieves from their highness expectations. My history is only relevant to the now as the then history has been buried with the ideology of writing poetry for money and fame. Discussions run within beer sessions in favor of competing with poets instead of sharing poetic languages with disciples.
I am living in times were promises are faded by images of enemies practicing my tradition. Times were heartbroken souls return favors in death beds with no remorse. Fingers pointed at leaders who promise flipping pages that give hope to empty tummies in that African book. Draining pockets with tax i know it sounds perplex. Please teach me how to speak your time your rhymes. My writing has only been a celebration of my abilities as tears emerge only in sessions in honor of appreciations screams falling from prophets who know nothing about your history. Dad, my dad had no clue in your time so his views make no sense a talk about ancestors becomes mystery. Please teach me how to spell your history. Teach and speak your culture.
My face is covered in spoken words but nobody sees them. My heart drives through Photoshop pictures we can never find our real leaders. As i write this letter, my hopes and wishes are directed straight to your pen and paper, petrol bomb expert. I turn to question your existence as I am glued in this venomous pen yet still no reply to my status. I have never walked your struggles yet expectations rumble in bulk sounds anticipating my story in your history spelling victory please teach me how to understand these mystery.