Kafkaesque (mort)

this waiting room is painted of pain,

featuring faces with mouths down-turned, 
impatience taking up these empty seats, 
of family members already lost, 
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate’s
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients 
to be visited during the night shifts, 
by nurses and doctors, 
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil 
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan – barely hanging – 
is closing in full circle, 
a whole life lived. 
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling, 
alongside the walls stripes
designed with print of doctors’ usual words, 
“i’m so sorry for your loss.”  

if life truly begins at forty, 
then her’s ended at the starting line. 
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor 
if it weren’t for olympics silently running in the background on the t.v. 
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound. 

It was ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation 
a possibly cancerous lump. 
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages, 
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn over the pages better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box, 
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing. 
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time. 
it was just a little, smallish lump
these news are hard to swallow. 
my eyes are peeling onions. 
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out. 
grandma’s sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting “pressure”.
neutral colours dirty the scrubs floors, 
hypothermia lurking in the corridors, 
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm. 

It was a game of musical chairs, 
But when the seven trumpets sounded, 
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation 
an angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now. 
With a plot twist, it’s less players each round. 
Who dies first wins, I’ve tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are dirty. 
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin. 
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away – the whitened clay still one
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh. 
it’s also winter our hearts. 
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral. 
and his life was a summary, 
too brief a breath, as the contraction is. 
no sympathy to bother saying
“i am”. 
public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

twenty twelve was a scar, 
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs from the bottomless pits, 
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely, 
so very early. 
some of the things we will take to our graves, 
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves. 
And hurt still drops in drips, 
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood washed tiles, 
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only ever think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares 
are too real to be dreams
uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS

(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 31 August 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.

Azania – Land Of The Melanated

Black Consciousness Today

There often exists an undeclared state of war among people involv­ed in the struggle for liberation as between those who support and those who are against the use of the name Azania as an alternative name for a liberated South Africa. This is because the debate concerns much more than a name: It involves everything that we are fighting for; it concerns the very nature of the society we seek to build.

Those who oppose the use of the name Azania often argue that it means “the land of the slaves”. This is a contradiction in terms, for slaves are by definition people who are owned, they can hardly own a thing, let alone land. In any event, this tenuous logic would oppose the use of the word “proletariat” because it derives from the parasite of Ancient Greece who lived at the expense of slave society It would also oppose…

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If The Sun Were You 

Then some days the morning wouldn’t rise – It would plead,  ‘two more hours please’ as it snoozes the east-waking-alarm again, muttering some unintelligible excuse too.Thankfully it’s winter, so the dawn can stay in bed until just before lucky hour seven. Today it would smile brightly, almost painfully like you always do when your face sheds light.

With just enough warmth in the room to induce a hazy, drowsy state to my always sober self, Blinds closed, but some fierce rays still pierce through, like moonlit thoughts of you illuminating onto my darkness.

Even after you said I was too much, an overwhelming experience that was a lot to ‘take in’.
No Nivea to shield me against the harsh elements of your words.
I was humbled like the soil.
The sails of my pride torn by the tearing winds of your tone.
And it did not help that the seas weren’t calm,
My Peter-feet cold to walk on.
But the never changing grandma-soup warmth in your voice sings melodies of Sotho blankets enveloping me.
The fulfilling feeling of being empty, knowing I poured the last of my soul into your spirit, for our love’s sake.
We believed in a love that almost lost all hope.
I still gaze upon your pictures, the point of focus usually the place where your lips meet, 
A heart-like shape forms between them at the middle and I still blow kisses to this gap.
If the sun were you, every born son would turn towards every girl child’s shimmering glamour 
With much honour, 
Always to be met eye-level, in the light of an all-round equal and remaining so to its glistening end, such is life.

~by New-Black-SoUl #NBS.

(C)2016. Phila Dyasi. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name and date if sharing to external sites.

by New-Black-SoUl
If The Sun Were You
Artwork by Avumile, Poetry by NuBlaccSoUl
As featured in Ja. edition 10 https://issuu.com/jamagsa/docs/doubledigitsyo_


‘Social Commentary’ the single off the forthcoming mixtape of the same name, download link:

'Social Commentary' artwork by NOZIPHO SINEGUGU GUMEDE for thINK-media


‘Then & Now’ download:

'Then & Now' artwork created by NuBlaccSoUl #NBS for thINK-media

‘Then & Now’ Lyrics:

Credits: Both songs written and arranged by NuBlaccSoUl.
Songs recorded, mixed and mastered by L.B.Nefilibata at B.G. Records Studios.
‘Social Commentary’ produced by MXBeatsGlobal and ‘Then & Now’ produced by IWishIKnewWho.

Her Hands

UKhulu, My beloved grandma, still she works.

She rises with the sun, to clean our home; sweep the yard; make heaps from the grass cuts and pile up trimmings from the windbreaker tree.
The wobbly wheelbarrow, from years of slaving, is filled to the top.
And off to the pit-hole I will push, to the fire-spitting-flames that she has already tendered to.

Tirelessly she labours, with not a bit spared to a break,
Her backbone bent and straightened every semi-second,
For as long as I’ve lived and much longer before.

Midday struck with its ultra-solar
But her sunlit face always to the ground never showing strain or beat.
We escape the scorching elements and seek shade in the veranda.

Well I do. Her hands hands-on, curtains off the wall.
No time spent sitting around.
Sheets to be ironed,
Garden to be done,
Toilet to be cleaned,
And outside windows to be mirror screens.
The spirit of a slave. The soul of a light in a cave. The grand grandma.

Those early hours, barely slept, to heat the waters as warm as your love.
Breakfast by the bed-side,
A sprinkle of care & kindness in every bowl I tasted with my being.

My Childhood Home  was
and remains you. 
The source of strength.
I thank you for my life. 
I thank the Lord for yours. 
May you live forever!

There is always something someone must do, 
and the work is never done…

(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. All rights reserved. Intellectual and ARTistic property of author. Don’t bite! | Writings and the other things…mostly experimental writing. UMamBhele madoda. Intombi yokugqibela ka MaMasango, uMaSobuwa ongasekoyo emhlabeni.

#love   #work   #temple   #grandmother  #nublaccsoul   #socialcommentary  #gaaahdbody   #umndeni   #izandla  #usapho  

before i met You

before i met You,
i was happy, content and whole.
that very day i was on my way,
to the launch of the anthology with three of my poems in it. 
and your sister’s works too. 
now i got three books worth 
of poetry about You Flower Child.

before i met You,
my life was pre-determined, 
on an everlasting date 
with my destiny. 
the stars were aligned, 
my moon and sun shared 
the same vault, 
the sky at the very same time. fate formed, finally confirmed what my faith had long since envisioned. 

before i met You, 
sleep was not a mere rumour. 
a tall story, thirty stories up 
hanging in the air like castles 
in children’s fantasies, fables.
peace was still sole my soul.
nowadays, restlessness wrestles 
with my slumber every damn night.
Rumble in the single-sized-bed jungle. 
No, no snuggle.
Not one for the solo cuddle.

before i met You,
the girl i was with seemed like the ‘one’. 
a soulmate and marriage worthy. her imperfections sealed with 
a flawless kiss into acceptance.

before i met You,
i had never felt this feeling of having found a familiar form 
in a strange, yet inviting face.
always one for reciprocated love, never give when i don’t get
but(t) your ass got me trippin’ anyway. i want You. all of You.

before i met You, 
forget that nostalgia.
we are in the here and now.

when i met You,
I should have asked for a dance, 
if not that then for a picture
at the very cowardly least 
— to make the evening
last a day longer 
than midnight’s dream-ending, cinderella-fairygodmother-drama.

-i hope he treats You good. ||

(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. All rights reserved. Intellectual and ARTistic property of author. NuBlaccSoUl – trademark. Don’t bite jou gat! | Writings and the other things…still with the experimental.

Mr Misappropriation of Trust

Sounds of honesty, unsung by the flute.
I cannot break the spotless window
that people choose to see me through.
Unspoken truths, trapped in the tongues of the mute. 

I am a liar, a ufckboy, morals-deficient, and a dirty cheat.
My lady does not deserve any of this.
For our love and beautiful things, I ought to gift my one with bliss.
Instead, I am my Father’s son, uncommitted, a damn deadbeat.

We not all religious; but we are a people that is spiritual.
Our beliefs have us performing borrowed rituals.
I gave my soul to the Higher self, the Lord, God, who I am He.
It was a once-off deal like a residual, but with renewals.

When the only real solution
Is the inevitable dissolution
Never one to be under an illusion
I see the faux & forced inclusion.

Trying to align these intentions with the contradicting actions
LOVE You today & forever
Let’s share our eternity together.

It all begins as,
a celebration of love.
a great portion of life.
a potential partner you like.

(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. All rights reserved. Intellectual and ARTistic property of author.