poems
MY FATHER’S KILLERS
They take to the road at midnight, and turn
Toward land that by right we plough and turn.
Their dark convoy passes white-washed houses.
A brake light: the bakkies slow down, and turn.
They park at right angles to the street,
Light the yard up, it’s daddy’s day and turn.
They have come on a crisp September night
To blight us, make our season change and turn.
The moon shimmers its flashlight on a blade
While, from a height, the planets spin and turn.
BLOOD RIVER TRAIN
When time works against us
and weighs at the heart
somewhere in a foreign land,
night turns to day, and
the fashion in shop windows
I pass on my way from work
into djellabas, the smell
of restaurants into kuskus
on market day,
hands all out, stretched
to acknowledge this gift
of walking in the shadow
of African people,
with their fear of anchored boats
on coastal fronts. History
is in the present. On
a young night that is day
I go inland where spear battles musket,
and I join in the fight on the river
that filled with blood, our phagocyte
impi sieging their laager in anger.
On the metro of the morning,
Le Monde in my hands and
work on my mind, there’s always
a part of Africa that yearns
for me, for my presence, my flesh,
beyond the clatter of the train
needling underneath the capital
into the reconciliation of our lifetime,
before the evening of my days.
HANGIN’ OUT
On a plot of empty land like this,
there on the other side of the road,
in front of our yard filled with lilies
and cosmos, and a spiral aloe,
lies the drab carcass of a motor-car.
I like to sit in it and swivel
its wheel round our town,
bend up my arm to send the car one way
or stick it through the missing window
to say what way we’re going instead,
hoot frustration at the world
heading for love’s accurate place,
then brake hard. Make a sudden stand
on an un-tarred Maseru lane,
the sound of sirens coming
home from another street.
Through a crack in the upholstery
a spring nicks the small
of my back as I move, as
I strain eyes at the horizon,
the world’s lunula looking at me
always from the same heart’s distance
with bored, half-intended eye
as if to tell me adieu, knowing
I will drive no car from which
the backdrop doesn’t change. So
I step out into mohlomo grass
almost tall enough for thatching
and sniff the tank, and sniff again
the empty tank whose vapour
gently wakens the car, so that now
its iron engine trembles and
trembles again like a thrill.
THE STONES OF MOHOKARE
We picked flint for its flatness
and curled thumb and forefinger round it,
then bent at the waist to almost touch
the yellow carpet of shoeshoe blossom
covering most of the moist turf with colouring,
and flicked from the wrist. The trick was
to send the stone flying on the water’s surface
at some angle from nought to forty-five,
like the prow of a proud ship,
and unbend only after releasing the stone,
seeing it hover like a craft on a bumpy sea, only
to stop and anchor at port on the OFS side of the river
that separates our two countries, and fattens
the land that is boundary, as south-west it flows,
to Bethulie and the ocean, where all life goes.
Sometimes we swam across it, late in summer,
when the white farmer’s trees were so heavy
with peach and appelkoos that their fronds
dusted the ground like farm hands,
the deep brick of the fruit telling us
which tree was ripe; or, pulled by a fragrance
that sometimes hit as we walked behind
from where a breeze was coming, we knew.
We broke whole branches off and used them
as rafts on the way back, starting to eat
still on the run, in the mid-river sun.
The beet-faced farmer always burst from his huis
in anger, and trained a rifle on us, as we made off
into the river with the loot. But no shot ever came.
Maybe he had no faith in apartheid. Perhaps
the theft and hover-crafts linked our worlds,
our peoples, living the destiny of the river.
The poems are very interesting as a new comer in this World I think I am learning a lot,I am also interested in writing I am busy making research I liked your style
Thanks Refiloe. Welcome to Sotho.
Khotso…
The poems are interesting and I learn a lot from them
Two Refiloes! Thank you for stopping by.
Hello Rethabile!
I’ve read some of your fine work before, being a reader of ‘Made for Weather’, but thanks to your comment on my blog I felt emboldened to visit.
These poems are the breath of another world — wonderful. I especially like the way “Blood River Train” seems to hurtle on like, well, blood, rivers and trains! How did you do that? Enjambment alone? I will be studying this one. And “The Stones of Mohokare” is gorgeous as a poem and effective as a short story. I must ask — what’s a bakkie — a tobacco farmer?
ps I also like The Canopic Jar — another Thing of Beauty!
Dear Katherine,
Thanks, I will make contact soon when holidays aare over and my connection is decent
R
GREW UP TOO SOON
Hey I once had a good life
Mama and Papa fed me well
Mama and Papa loved me
I played and laughed
Childen in my village envied me
Hey I once had a good life
But you showed up unannounced
Criped in slowly like a leach
I saw Mama and Papa slowly fade away
Their bodies could no longer hold on
Taking one breath seemed like a journey
Eating had become a struggle for Mama and Papa
Their bodies were filled with sores
Sores that never healed
All Mama and Papa could do was endure the pain
I saw Mama and Papa take their last breaths
I am only thirteen years old
Life is no longer the same
No longer have tears of joy only sadness
In the mist of the night I hear
“Abuti what are we going to eat”
I say ” I do not know”
What a shame
No longer play or laugh
No longer a popular kid
Leaving on hand outs has become a norm
My siblings depend on me to bring food for them to eat
I am only thirteen years old
My future, My joy, My dreams
All linger in my head but what is the use
Responsibility, Responsibility, Responsibility
It has become part of my life
My siblings depend on me
Do I have a choice
HOW LONG
It is sunrise
Villagers are awoken by mothers cry
It was not a cry of joy
Four died the night before
She is overshadowed with sadness
Pain is overbearing
Drums start beating
Message has been sent
The beat of the drums in no longer steady
A mother asks why
Too many died
Yesterday Today and Tomorrow
Your hear cries from deep in the valleys
Songs of sorrow are a norm
Too many died
Burials in the morning
Burials yesterday
Rhythem no longer exist
Too many died
Sorrow and shame overshodows our souls
We can no longer sing a hymn
Our tongues are num
The day is filled with sadness
Nightmare continues
Families are broken up
Grandmothers have to endure the pain
Children are left to fend for themselves
HOW LONG
Great poems felleng more especially the one titled ‘grew up too soon’. These are the realities that many kids face on a daily basis.
Thank you Ntate Thakhuli for your response. I have a compilation of poems dedicated to children of Lesotho and hope to get them published.
Felleng,
That’s noble intention. You should start by sending out your poems to magazines, and by owning a blog to show them on. That way you get a feel for how your poems fare among the sea of other poems publishers look at and choose from. Let me know if this isn’t clear and I’ll email you.
Khotso
Thank you Mr. Masilo for your suggestion. I will definately give you an update of my intension.
Good evening,
I’m sending you a poem about Miriam Makeba’s death. This remarkable woman had lost her only child 23 years ago. But many of us loved her. She wasn’t born sotho and neither I was I. However I think she would love this cross-cultural tribute. This text pays homage to Mama Africa. I’m waiting for your comments.
TSA MIRIAM MAKEBA
‘Me u ea kae ?
Bana ba a botsa
‘Me u hopotse kae ?
Lesea lea a lla lebese
Lebese la letsoele
Letsoele la ‘me
‘Me u tla boea neneng ?
Bana ba a lapa
Lesea lea a sareloa
Ba ba tšaba tlala
Ke mahlomola a maholo ho lahlehelwa ke ‘me
Bokhulu ha bo bokhutšoane, Afrika e se e le khutsana
Ho thoe kheleke e khelekhethehile
Ho thoe mosali e motle o tutubetse
Ho thoe moeti o etile ka khoeling ea leeta
Ho thoe motšoareli o tšoeroe ka lefu
Ho thoe moitokolli o llilela selokolophuhla tokoloho
Ke utloela rona bohloko , empa lebitla ha le na tlholo
Hase mofu, ke lengeloi
Lentswe sa le a utlwahala
Molaetsa se o amohetsoe
Batho ba Italia, tebelaka mafia fatše la bo-ntata lona !
Batho ba Afrika, felisa lintoa li sa feleng lapeng !
Bana babo rona, ithutana !
Balefatše, hasanyaka toka lefatšeng !
Zenzi bile mosali oa ‘nete
Zenzi a bitsitsoe ke balimo
Zenzi o tla sesa leoatleng
‘Mabatho ha a tlo lebaloe
Mofumahali, tsamaea hantle
TSA MIRIAM MAKEBA / AU SUJET DE MIRIAM MAKEBA
‘Me u ea kae ? (Maman où vas-tu ?)
Bana ba a botsa (tes enfants s’interrogent)
‘Me u hopotse kae ? (Maman où as-tu l’intention de te rendre ?)
Lesea lea a lla lebese (ton bébé pleure le lait)
Lebese la letsoele (le lait de ton sein)
Letsoele la ‘me (le sein de sa mère)
‘Me u tla boea neneng ? (Maman quand vas-tu revenir ?)
Bana ba a lapa (tes enfants sont affamés)
Lesea lea a sareloa (ton bébé est très affaibli par la faim)
Ba ba tšaba tlala (ils sont remplis d’effroi (à l’idée de mourir de) la faim)
Ke mahlomola a maholo ho lahlehelwa ke ‘me (la mort d’une mère est une très grande perte)
Bokhulu ha bo bokhutšoane, Afrika e se e le khutsana (La perte d’un être cher n’est pas une petite chose/ le fait de devenir orphelin, l’Afrique est désormais orpheline)
Ho thoe kheleke e khelekhethehile (on dit que cette excellente chanteuse s’en est allé au loin)
Ho thoe mosali e motle o tutubetse (on dit que cette belle femme a fermé les yeux)
Ho thoe moeti o etile ka khoeling ea leeta (On dit que la voyageuse est partie en voyage par un soir de lune claire)
Ho thoe motšoareli o tšoeroe ka lefu (On dit que celle qui pardonne a été emportée par la mort)
Ho thoe moitokolli o llilela selokolophuhla tokoloho (On dit que cette femme libre a chanté de douloureuses complaintes pour la liberté)
Ke utloela rona bohloko , empa lebitla ha le na tlholo (J’ai de la peine pour nous, mais la tombe n’est pas victorieuse)
Hase mofu, ke lengeloi (Ce n’est pas une morte, c’est un ange)
Lentswe sa le a utlwahala (On peut toujours entendre sa voix)
Molaetsa se o amohetsoe (Son message a déjà été reçu)
Batho ba Italia, tebelaka mafia fatše la bo-ntata lona ! (Italiens, chassez la mafia du pays de vos ancêtres !)
Batho ba Afrika, felisa lintoa li sa feleng lapeng ! (Africains, mettons fin aux guerres perpétuelles chez nous !)
Bana babo rona, ithutana ! (Mes frères et sœurs, apprenons à nous connaître les uns les autres !)
Balefatše, hasanyaka toka lefatšeng ! (Habitants de la terre, répandez la justice partout sur la terre !)
Zenzi bile mosali oa ‘nete (Zenzi était une femme de valeur)
Zenzi a bitsitsoe ke balimo (Zenzi a été appelée par les esprits des ancêtres)
Zenzi o tla sesa leoatleng (Zenzi ira voguer dans la mer)
‘Mabatho ha a tlo lebaloe (la personne aimable/ la mère des gens ne sera pas oubliée)
Mofumahali, tsamaea hantle (Grande dame, fais bonne route)
Run of applaud Wendy!
I really like the contextual element of this poem as well as the way it has been presented with reference to figure of speech. The messege conveyed has painted the picture clear, its totally signficant to livehood of Mama Afrika. Guess i should admit with the fact that I feel inspired, although I’m a rapper (I rhyme in pure sotho)!
Now its time for me to grab a pen, paper and mic to celebrate Mariam’s life! Got to go its studio time, be right back……
A Sotho rapper? Those are rare, aren’t they? Unless we go back and consider the original Sotho poet a rapper, which we maybe should.
Thanks bo-Ntate!!!
I’m not sotho by blood, but I’m sotho by heart, can you believe it? I’m happy to see that my poem is appreciated, I hope my sesotho was not to bad. You can make some corrections. I hope everybody can understand what I wrote. Miriam Makeba was not only a south african lady, not only Mama Afrika, she was “‘Mabatho”, a mother for everybody and a very generous human being.
Thanks,
Wendy
they are very rare ntate Rethalibile, ke ikutloa ke le lehloohonolo hoba e mong oa bona.
Wendy what’s ur indigenous language?
enjoy reading very much
specialy loved this line – History is in the present.
beautiful, simple and yet in the context just hammering down.
waiting to read more
Hey guys jus came across this blog.great poems but im more of a love poet.elina
Teboho tse kholo ho bohle ba nkileng karolo thotokisong tse fumanehang mona.
Ke ile ka boha liholimo bosiu ba maobane,ka bona se fahleho se setle ho feta tseo ke ileng ka di bona lefatsheng-se entse ka mmala o motle ha holo. Ha ke dula ke nahana ka seo ke se boneng,ho tla kelellong yaka hore ke wena. Ho hlakile hore ke wena ya nehileng di naledi khanya le botle ba tsona. Ke ao RATA Zinzi Baleni.
Zinzi is a happy person, I bet. Especially with these words.
Her beauty is so deep lyk da indian ocean
her skin so silk nd smooth
soft as coca-cola
has a body of an hourglass
shz a cavity
the sweetest thang popin
sweetst 2 da maximum
her sweetness is unlimited
priceless beauty
undiffined beauty! O botle bo sa hlaloseheng! I love you Thato Majoe
Interesting poetry. I like the imagery it evokes. Thanks for visiting my blog.
BEING TOGETHER
This time after hours
you lean in complete tranquility
grasping at each other’s spots
by the look in his eyes
you can tell
he reads minds
you don’t have to ask
he’ll unzip it like a birthday gift
snuffing your skin
like a lion up your chin
now you lip and lock
rap around
turn up the heat
once you move a hip
you crave the pleaseure of being
bowled like you were never sealed
STOP LOVING ME
Stop loving me
It’s not enough , it shouldn’t be
stop loving me hate me
hate me for being me
hate me for being so mean
hate me for not loving you
for not loving you the way you do
hate me then forget me
Love me again better after death