It is blasphemous to enquire the origins of your maker, you will hardly find yourself anyway. For It is said that she is an oblivious kid chosen by the universe, nonmalleable to time’s haste for death, casting immortal spells as if skipping stones on a lake.
The true enquiry therefore becomes “from what was I made?”
Part I: The Pilgrim
Burdened by this ghostly cargo,
The carnal leakage too far gone.
Lucid dreams swindle my rest,
A timely vent for a smothered soul on a prodigal quest.
I self-mutilate like a vandal,
A nagging summoning to let myself go.
Delay my demise another day,
To feign control over mortality.
Sibongile Fisher has been holding down the fort in the Tuesday Shorts lane and I can proudly say it has been nothing short of amazing. Sibongile has written four Tuesday Shorts during her residency and this is the Sibongile Fisher collection.
I met Nkateko through my Facebook timeline. She was being tagged in pictures, mentioned in statuses and being called my best by poet, Busisiwe Mahlangu. We finally made it to the coveted stage, being Facebook friends. And I witnessed the poet’s magic on my own time line, not through some passive magic transmitter or whatever.
Its the 31st of December 2016, I’m alone and I’m planning to be alone for some days. I want to get into the new year sober. My plans are to get into the new year alone, to gather my thoughts and to spend time with God, to present my year plan to Him and to not be blinded by anything. Closer to 00h00 I start to write the plans I have for the new year and one of the plans is to NOT BUY BOOKS. When you walk into my bedroom its books everywhere, some I’ve read, some I have not read, just books everywhere and as much as I’m a bit of a readaholic whose dream job is to be paid for reading, the sight makes my eyes a bit sore.
The Dino and the Doll – Kim Peter Kovac
in the courtyard of lost toys,
a blue stuffed dinosaur
stands on a birdcage nailed
to a wall, just over a shelf,
the resting place for a doll
with red hair, raggedy clothes
and a broken neck, staring
sightlessly to her right.
Explain death to little children, lest it kills them when they are older and they mourn without intent, never really letting the dead ones go, wishing them birthdays long after they have passed, keeping even the minutest of memories alive. Explication means when they look at deceased people’s pictures, they will not cringe, but be strong enough to reminisce about them without falling apart. We are born, and we die, and the space in between is mercy, this we should teaching little children to cherish it, and not to fear it.