This I Knead

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Dear one time friend, Your brother is a rape apologist It's not in his blood, it's in his head; for, being a 'friend', he can't resist fighting battles of he said, he said. Invite me for dinner but don't feel the need to explain away your shame, or that he lacks the eyes to see and ears to hear our plea Just wait until his smile finally cracks. When I look at that boy - whose lips can't be unkissed - with shoulders hanging heavy with dread hearing lies about himself with every turn and twist I think, 'Could it have been me instead?' So, among your family garden, he is the weed with which you all choose to coexist but know this well and clear indeed, your brother is a rape apologist; you'd do well to keep him away from me.  Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Sometimes the thing you need comes knocking at the door in rhythms that your nightmares use and you walk  over, timorous, your doubt-locked knees heavy and creaking. You stand there listening knowing that staying safe is better than running into the darkness breathing in 'I told you so' and thinking you should have said 'Go to the window and knock again.' Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Set her on fire and cast lots for how loud her  voice should ring. Set her on fire and ask the kink  in her hair why it holds on so tight. Set her on fire and compare the contempt  in her eyes with your shattering humour. Set her on fire and watch as her spit comes alight and her tongue fans the flames.  Set her on fire and hear her laugh harmonise with each flickering tail.  Set her on fire and don't expect  her to rise - she is  not a phoenix.  Set her on fire and watch her call  her children and grandchildren over to learn how to burn. Set her on fire and ask the fire  why it wraps... up her thighs and cups her breasts.  Set her on fire and keep showering her with your words and  battering her with your fists.  Set her on fire! Set her on fire! Set her on fire! Set her on fire! Remember to never look away, or you'...

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

As the bars closed the windows rolled down I heard the cries of a happy man. He sang with joy as though it was his first  and last day in one. He sang and all the hope in the world  flooded my soul. He sang and soon the sound  was in all of me. As the bars closed and the windows came in I heard the cries of a happy man. His voice was laden with sparks which flickered and glistened  like fireflies in the darkness. His voice was sweet and it rang and stirred  my soul to dancing. His voice was the light and the darkness meeting at once  only to part. The windows drew in and the world was shut. The windows drew in and the world was shut. The windows drew in and the world was shut. No borders but barriers No barriers but walls No walls but chains No chains but whips No whips but words No words but stares STOP! * * * * * * * * * no borders but barriers no barriers but walls no walls but chains no cha...

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

Image Credit: kelseytaylor210.wordpress.com Should your freedom depend on diminishing someone else's dignity you are no better off than those who oppress you. Your words come harmless wielding flags and slogans but your bullet cap teeth crunch and hurtle pain and you close your eyes to pray. Your truth has been compromised by your hunger yet compassion peels your eyes open and you turn from ' God ' towards Love. Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

I confronted my fears and became the serpent you said you knew me to be. I dislocated my mouth to hold your words, and still they wouldn't call it home. My mother's tongue is foreign - now. My father's brow is lighter - now. My bedtime song is more sombre - now. Your eyes, I guess, are less distracted - now. What I wouldn't have done for myself I did for you. What I wouldn't have given for love I gave for you. What I would have had for life I surrendered to you. What I would have been, Where I could have been, How I could have been, Still leaves no blame with you - no fault - even now. I have no words for I have no face for I have no voice for I gave it all to you.  Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

They took his tongue the day my father died. Declared it an act; a rite. Soon they called me daughter, my child, nnana-girl. But their hands, still, were not his. They didn't have scarred wrists from being pulled behind horse mounted militia. They had fingerprints; unlike his fingers rubbed smooth by tailor made hollows of sanctuary. They didn't know the bitterness of the hot, angry earth under a rubber sole stamped face. Theirs didn't have the shiny oblong mark from forbidden sticky hot caramel made one midnight to chase sorrow at a secret feast. Theirs didn't smell of camphor. Their didn't know where to rub out my sadness. Theirs didn't know the rhymes of the summer winds. I never got to hear my father's voice; just his words which felt blunted against their corn yellow smiles. They took my father's tongue and turned it into a letter opener. Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.

(Written and Recited by Katlego K Kol-Kes) I was younger last night and I dreamed of candy Before I knew that sweet things Are often better left untouched. I was younger last night and I dreamed of forever Before I knew that eternity Is worse lived than the fairytales teach. I was younger last night and I dreamed of “I’m sorry” Before I knew that words can’t heal A broken smile or a shattered heart once surrendered. I was younger last night and I dreamed of holding hands  Before I knew that being too close for comfort Sometimes leads to burning tyre necklaces and forced intercourse. I was younger last night and I dreamed of home Before I knew that brick walls Are no safer than battle fields. I was younger last night and I dreamed of memories Before I knew that forgetting Would be the antidote to keeping my loved ones so. I was younger last night and I dreamed of death Before I knew that even an unwelcome acqua...

There’s a Lesbian at my table. She sits adjacent to me and eats the food I make. She chews well enough –   with her mouth closed. She doesn’t swallow too loudly, Or slurp her drink. This Lesbian at my table bides her time by calling me “Mme” , and seduces me with offerings: “ Nka lo siela tee?” and “Ke tswa go reka kuku e e sukitshana.” I suppose she has learned well – she can slip herself past thirsty eyes and unchaste ears. I found the Lesbian at my table where I had left my beloved child. She seems to have consumed her like a hungered bird – waited too long through a rainy night and awakened to find no morsels creeping along the moistened earth. When I sat down for our evening meal I thought I saw the tassels of booties I had knitted while swollen like a mango at summer’s end. They were yellow like the sun whose over affectionate kisses had me too ripe to touch and unforgivingly tender.  They slid between h...

Last year, in a spurt of patriotism and feeling too removed form my language - Setswana, I went into Botswana Book Centre at the main Mall and bought myself some books. This collection on poems by R.D. Molefe titled  Mešomo was one of them.  It is terrifically thrilling to gnaw on the jewels of this language and study under the deft hands of a seemingly relaxed, yet equally precise, writer. Here is an offering. I will be putting up a few more of his work before I serve my loaf of Setswana poetry.  *I happened to buy a Coke from the lady by my house and it turned out that it had my name on it! The universe shared a Coke with me and now I am sharing poetry with you.  ______________ Mešomo Maloba, fatshe sa ntse le iketile, Re ne re disa kwa gare ga dithota, Tsatsi le phirima re lere dinotshe, Re tle re tshotse le mae a dikgaka, Mešomo ya banna ba maabane. Ba kajeno bona go šongwa dikuku, Go ratholwe dibotlolo go lelalwe. ...

 I'm allergic to nuts. What does that have to do with the picture or the title, or even bread as a whole? I don't know; well, I didn't know when I chose to use that simple sentence to lead in to this blog post but I hope I'll make some sense very soon. It's been a ridiculous span of time since I posted anything, and that's not because I haven't been writing (on the contrary, I just finished producing a short play festival that I am really quite proud of.) I've been away because I lost focus of the reason I started this blog. I need this as a space to create and hash out literary conquests and dilemmas. My dilemma, that I am faced with now, is being a parcel. I'm allergic to nuts. Gone from being a cog in the machine a part, now I sit apart fallen like a nickel through an aperture  a cast iron grid a fake smile a passing hello.  Gone from being a cog in a machine operating in/outside of my own will feeling yet filling a space...

 I don't know about you but I sure do know about me;  I've caught a case of fearful hope. It's not like I'd planned it. It simply occurred to me -  that is to say, it came rather surprisingly. With tinges of colour. With flurries of shade. I'd caught a case of fearful hope. Yet, searching for salvation or attempting to run free did nothing but bring it all closer to me. I don't know about you but I know about me; I've caught a case of fearful hope. So, now that you know, now; now, I'd beg you to help, now;  save for deafening you as I frantically yelp! NOW! I've said it all don't think me a dope. I've caught a case of fearful hope. Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead. Share With Me.