I wept

like a baby,

internally.

I dragged myself

together like an adult,

externally.

 

(C)2017. Phila Dyasi. NuBlaccSoUl™. All rights reserved

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‘Pursuit of Happyness’ by Azola Dayile | a review #InMyHumbleOpinion

Pursuit of Happyness
I have spent countless hours
At church,
Pubs
And strip clubs.
With pastors,
Prostitutes
And drunkards.
In pursuit of happynes,
The truth
And fleshy desires.
Sang happy songs with Hedonists
Travelled with Nomads,
Got high with Rastas
And broke bread with Pariahs.
Camped on bended knees around
hell-like fires
To listen attentively to grown men
liars.

Slaughtered sheep,
Goats
And cows
For this little bit of sanity
And crowded peace of mind,
But my hands are smeared with
blood
And the dark cloud still looms
closely behind
Where the hell is this love?
I only know hearts for pumping
blood.
Not as an asylum for
Said feeling you people cannot
even describe.

And do you remember
When god said “let there be light!”?
I was unfortunate
And cast out
To write this poem
With my tongue in this grim dark
I am convinced collecting empty
beer bottles
and picking bread crumbs is my
birth right.
I am still in hot pursuit
And the journey now leads me
To a mad house.

Review:

We journey with the speaker through multiple contexts, tracing for a seemingly fleeting and insatiable feeling of contentment through discovery, trial-and-error and experimentation. In the many cultural and social spaces, we are introduced to: “Church / Pubs/…strip clubs” for which are institutions to cater to human needs in varying ways. A sense of seeking a ‘home’, the longing of a person wanting to belong in a set society could be interpreted as the message of this poem. A place of refuge, whether physical or otherwise, is sought and is never found. The unattainable asylum has been searched for within the confines of organized religion and in areas of ‘profanity’, and neither house the happiness the speaker wants. It appears that the search is for inner peace is pursued outwardly, and it is because of this that it is never attained. Furthermore, want can understand the subject not to be an individual but the personification of a place, that is ‘home’ to churches, pubs and strip clubs, but still has citizens who are not happy, a place where poverty exists even in the presence of church, pubs and strip clubs, institutions were money is found in abundance.
In wanting to make sense of the world, find comfort, balance and peace, and meeting the demands of life, all the while having faith and hope that a connection to the world will be made somehow. Church offers to fill the spiritual void of humans, pubs hope to pump gallons of socialisation down the throats of its regulars, a ‘holed-liver’ of fun, while strip clubs seek to fulfil the “fleshly desires” of our Hedonist core as humans, all contributing to the wholesome human experience. With pubs being a platform for the social activity of drinking alcohol, we see this as an escape from the negative feelings, the chemical-imbalance causing beverage tends to remove the anxiety and stress. Also, in South Africa, drinking is a social norm, if fact one of the leading nations in consuming alcohol, furthermore if we examine the black community, particularly, this is customary. It is a behavioural expectation to as the speaker attempts to be one ‘fit in’ with his contemporaries, and not be relegated to the margins as nomads are, as gypsies are, as Rastafarians are, all minorities made ‘pariahs’ of society.
We get an idea that the state of mind of the speaker is deeply troubled and unsettled, perpetually anxious and stressed from his unending quest for ‘the truth’, that alludes him, and he cannot even receive it from the elders as they are deceptive – “grown men liars” in the first stanza. “For this little bit of sanity /And crowded peace of mind” of stanza 2 continues this image of mental instability. An “asylum” is mentioned in this stanza as well, an institution that provides care and protection to needy individuals, such as the infirm and destitute. It is a sanctuary, away from profanation and violation. Both physically and psychologically. It is a homely setting. Here one enjoys liberty from what is required by society and law for and from most people. It would appear that not even the feeling of love, “what the hell is this love”, can save the speaker from feeling like an outsider. He dismisses ‘love’ as “said feelings people cannot even describe”, an abstract concept that people do not comprehend therefore cannot practise. Stanza 3 sees the speaker reaching his destination, “And the journey now leads me/ To a mad house”. He has resigned his fate to insanity. Here he can find serenity. Ironically, he can feel a sense of connection to the world once removed from it. His spiritual transcendence, like prayer or meditation is his soloism. Isolation from the madness of life, and its many demands.
The intertextuality is rife herein, borrowing a number of images from the ‘Holy Bible’ to fit his spiritually rich poem and references. The first stanza’s chaos and the sliding scale from extreme holiness to extreme profanity, the polar opposites that are presented in closeness show how samey we are in our differences. We are united in our separateness. “Let there be light” from the Book of Genesis, Chapter 1, verse 3, represents the void, the darkness ceasing, the birth of something from nothing. The light here is not literal. The light of the world is man, as in ‘human being’. Human being who has dominion on all that happens on earth. The abject poverty presented in “picking up bread crumbs”, is a human construct, the great ill of neo-liberal capitalism, a zero-sum game that sees individuals with billions while some go without bread each day. As some would collect “empty beer bottles” to sell as to make money, to buy basics like bread, for example. This could also be a critique of the movie, “The Pursuit of Happyness”, the title of this poem, where the protagonist seeks for fulfilment in the material world. We can deduce that the speaker establishes his pursuit of happiness in the world outside of worldly things is of higher moral ground, or, that the for any community, more than money, we need to find spiritual fulfilment, or risk something of the most high value, our peace of mind – sanity.

– nublaccsoul #InMyHumbleOpinion

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_

NU

‘Social Commentary’ the single off the forthcoming mixtape of the same name, download link:
http://audioinbox.com/s/0Rlgxa

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

Lyrics:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1682172/social-commentary/

ALSO…
‘Then & Now’ download:
http://audioinbox.com/s/OBco0j

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

‘Then & Now’ Lyrics:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1682147/then-now/

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