Heaven’s Door

Photo by FAICAL Zaramod from Pexels

I bade farewell to my heart.

It leapt from its perch upon my scarlet dampened sleeve, loosened cuff-links baring skin from tattered garment.

I bade farewell to my mind.

Jagged thorns of electric pulses lifting from crown, as crowned relics of ones thoughts flitted beyond ephemeral conscious and subconscious veil.

If there were else about me, I knew not of it for my plodding feet swept dust and dirt carried from birth to life to death. If there were else about me, I knew not for they had long dusted their feet, of me.

And there within the hollow heartless mindless vessel ambling onward and forward, dust specks sparking to burn bridges built and defile sanctities christened, there remained within a single vestibule of light.

It scratched and clawed at the hardened shell within, trapped beyond the empty ribbed cage where the last of smoke lined lungs pulsed breath afoul. It beat against the stoned quarry of thoughtlessness, echoing soundlessly through the labyrinth of mind darkened and the roaming beast within.

And at last I bade farewell to my soul.

It clawed its way through congealed self, shedding cocoon as trembling feet halted mid-step, the weight of self, alleviated of heart and mind and soul bringing me to my knees. Weightless arms lifted mid chest, fingers clasping together in supplication; my face lifted to the heavens.

Lonely scorching sun shone its face upon my own. Gilded rays caressed lidless eyes. Rivulets trailed parched skin, salting parted cracked lips, soaking dry numbed tongue.

I felt as much as I saw my soul unfurl in endless murky wisps and tendrils, shedding off the blackness of sin and death.

Utterings and mutterings escaped my lips, beseeching my soul’s return. Yet only great rejection awaited in windswept trumpet sounds,

“Get away from me, I never knew you.”

Oh death, here is thy victory.

Oh death, here is thy sting.

And remain I did upon that scorched earth where I knelt, amongst the denizens of unuttered petitions and self-denied supplications.

 Of heavens barred doors.

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Regressions of Man

Image by FunkyFocus

“Regression is slow. Gradual. Unhurried in it’s bid to drive one to madness. Creeping tendrils digging further and further into the mind like forgotten seeds, sprouting forests of disquiet and skepticism as to ones’s true self; the conundrum of self-agnosticism.”

It was a thought that passed through his mind as quickly and as slowly as it took to say it out loud. The sprawling forest echoed back his stilted voice, rising with the muffled squawk of bird somewhere above and beyond the slits of light breaking through twisting vines.  A golden hue that saturated the world in blurred sepia.

He’d been walking for a while now, though it was hard to tell. The smell of pine was rich in his nostrils, overbearing and powerful against his senses. Muffled voices rose and fell about him, sifting through tree barks, carpets of grass and thickened tree roots about him.

Drifting between them were familiar songs  he’d heard in his youth, at church and at home with his mother’s soothing voice. He could almost see her silhouette against the golden aura of light seeping through the kitchen window. Could almost reach out and touch her…

 

The world fell into silence.

 

A crackling sound echoed above his head like thunder.

His body contorted into itself against the sound, frigid coils shooting through every nerve ending. Images of his mother slid away into the blurred vision of forest before him.

The sound shot through his mind again.

He took off through the forest, suddenly aware of the rising crescendo of wails that followed from above. Screeching his name through the cracking shots resounding all about him. Yet no matter how far he ran, the sounds blared through his mind and ears.

The slits of light were quickly fading, throwing him into a cold nothingness. The air around him grew thicker, making breathing almost impossible. A weight fell over his body, bringing with it a crashing realization; he hadn’t been running at all.

The stillness of his body kicked his fear into overdrive, bolts of it rocketing through his petrified limbs like lightning.

With what felt like superhuman strength, he fought through the syrupy air trying to keep him locked in the darkness. His arms shot forward, only to bounce against a barrier and flop back against his abdomen. His constricted body bounced again in the darkness, arms floundering against the barrier in futility.

He found his voice again and began to yell against the consuming darkness – despair his only hope against the nebulous confines.

~

A sea of shocked faces in an ocean of black cloth, gazed at the coffin as it began to thrum. Inhumane lamentations surging through the wood.

“Bury him quicker.” A woman said, stepping forward quickly from the crowd, bible clutched tight against hitching bosom.

“My real son is dead.”

 

Hope #Poetry

She appeared over the rise of green hills and yellow meadows. Against the sunlit backdrop of cloudless sky stretching to the heavens. The blonde locks of her hair become a halo, billowing against the soft breeze. An angel set upon the Earth. Even as the glint of iron armour bulks around her form, dulled sword thrust into the ground as though seeking to claim the hill, there is a softness to her. A beauty unlike any I had seen, and she stood strong as a great warrior.

In the distance, beyond the wave of hair framing her face, an army stands still. Silent. Fearless. These are her demons, each one her weaknesses manifest. Fear. Hatred. Anger. Loneliness. Sadness. Her past and present interwoven around her, threaded by the dripping scarlet-strands joined to her heart, unraveling the slowly beating organ. Leaving a void within and a protective cocoon with-out.

Before her I stand, hand outstretched to feel sword that gleams as her eyes. Armor-less and sword-less I become the strength of the blade firmly planted at her feet. With willing smile I impart myself to it, its sheen suddenly ready to crush the earth. Soft words of adoration become a single swing against these demons that threaten to overwhelm. Ears that listen to her words shoot gleams of bright light, washing over the protective shell she weaves.

Each swing against the enemy now strengthens her. Each cut dwindles the number of demons, threads of what once was winding back to reform her heart. I become her hope. Hope that banishes fear and hatred and anger and loneliness and sadness. Hope that reshapes her present and strengthens her future. Hope in the fiery passion that flows between us like the rivers of life, filling the void of her heart as we unite as one.

I as the only army she requires.

I as her hope.

#FlashFiction: Fees and Bodies Must Fall

“Fees and Bodies Must Fall” was my entry for Microcosms Fic for this past Friday. The prompt was:

(Gonzo) Journalist / House Party / Crime

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You would think the blood spatter, taste of copper, and underlying stench of faecal matter would ward me and the others off 17 Mahogany Drive that hot July afternoon. It wouldn’t. Journalists are the curious type and like the proverbial cat, death is part of the gig. Confetti is still strewn about the leather couch, right next to a Ms. Davidson, 22, student at the University of Johannesburg. We look over the shoulders of a police squadron on site led by a Constable Gumede who is all frowns and glares.

“This isn’t a puppet show,” he growls. But we know it is. And not because we can see the threads of bed sheets hanging off the balcony, angling Ms Davidson across the couch like a modern-day Death of Marat. It’s because we know the M.O. That this is the third victim in the repertoire of a man we journos have affectionately labelled The Neoclassic Killer. Just the previous month, a house party in the pseudo-glitzy Parktown area revealed students from Wits University arranged as The Death of Socrates. Bed sheets and all.

It’s difficult to remain objective when faced with the surrealism that our city has a serial killer. The fear radiating through our bones. Poisoning our hearts. Lining our street poles with headlines screaming murder at each corner. Yet we must remain objective so we may assess the situation without emotion. To notice that the killer targets these students not based on any merit of their own but the continuous protests sweeping our streets; Fees Must Fall – which Ms Davidson led as an advocate of.

I am not a prophet, it’s not in my job title, but as more pledges rise, I wouldn’t be surprised if the next classic we see, is The Oath of The Horatii. And death.

Poetry Update: Word ‘n Sound

We Are Poets?

As you all know, Tuesdays are poetry days. As a surprise I was going to upload a video of Ole from Ole’s Truth performing his poem Hold My Nigga Moment at the Market Theatre this past Saturday. Alas I did not have time to work on the video and fix a sound issue. Instead of doing that, I’ve decided to share with you the experience.

Poetry has always been one of those weird writing styles that I have a love/hate for. I used to do quite a lot of poetry back in the day, performing at Constitutional Hill and Johannesurg Art Gallery. We had a poetry club, printed an anthology, and had meetings. I was part of the “founding” partners of the poetry club. At that point in my life I thought I was a poet, standing up with confidence and a slight ego. I’ve learned now that young Nthato wasn’t a poet – he was a good rhymer with a big head.

School poetry evening back in 2005

I stepped back from the scene after that, focusing on writing fiction. I dabbled a bit in poetry but it was only until recently, when fellow writer and good friend Olerato told me he wanted to get involved in poetry, that I dived back in. It was also part of a side writing project I’m working on, and with that in mind I decided to help him. Hence the return of Tuesday poetry as well as all the guest posts.

Part of getting involved included going to poetry sessions and performing poetry in public spaces. So this past Saturday, 3 February 2018, Ole and I went into the heart of Johannesburg. We experienced the crowds. The taxis. The stench. The dichotomy of beautiful skyscrapers and decrepit buildings. The gorgeous Mandela Bridge overlooking the old-but-functioning train track, congested-filthy taxi ranks and the revamped buildings beside the highway.

Our first stop was registering Ole for a Poetry Slam at the Market Theatre. An elegant, revamped building that smelled and shouted “art” and the potential for our city. After that we met other poets who were going to an audition at the Joburg Theatre. Thus began our track through the bustling Joburg streets.

A view from Joburg Theatre

The audition was part of a poetry programme that would run for the year. Selected poets will attend workshops run by prolific South African poets, will perform poems, and other really amazing opportunities to better their poetry.

This wasn’t something Ole and I were going to do but I convinced him that if I auditioned then he has to, too. Motivation right? So without any preparation, I went into the audition room. It was dark, walls and seats painted black. Spotlights shining onto the stage as an invitation. Three judges sat on a table clothed in black. Two women, one man. Intimidating. I climbed onto the platform and answered the usual drabble “Who are you? Where you from? What do you do?” spiel. Then I performed my poem “Hypocritical”. I think they liked it but they didn’t necessarily like me – something about being too nonchalant. At the same time they seemed persuaded in giving me a chance as I had potential. I’ll only find out at the end of February.

Ole then went in to perform his poetry. They loved him and his performance, though they were a bit apprehensive of his poems (which I think are amazing). He may also be considered for the programme.

Word ‘n Sound

Following our track back, we stepped into the Market Theatre auditorium for Ole’s actual performance. I’d listened to him recite it to me but this was it. The main event. The big stage. Word ‘n Sound is an organisation that hosts poetry sessions, and runs the Poetry League. The event runs on the first Saturday of every month and this year will be its eighth season. There were returning poets and champions, newcomers of every age and location. Pretoria poets even came down.

Not to be biased but I loved Ole’s performance. So dramatic. And the crowd did too. Every time they saw him they would say “That’s a nigga moment.” as reference to his poem. A really enjoyable experience. Of course there were other really amazing poets there to, and some not so great. It was the first show of the year after all, setting the scene for what was to come.

Ole performing at the Word ‘n Sound poetry league

We even had a surprise guest performance by singer Samthing Soweto who has an incredible voice: https://www.facebook.com/SamthingSoweto/

Where To From Here

On Sunday we went to The Orbit, a jazz lounge. It was open mic session where we were expecting poetry but instead were serenaded by amazing voices and great music. Nonetheless, it was one of those things we will be doing more often. Every first Saturday of the month we’ll be at Word ‘n Sound. We’ll be looking for poetry spots and being intentional about performing our poetry. It’s going to be amazing.

Reminiscence by Nicolette Stephens #Poetry

Gorgeous poetry by Supreme Editoress and dear friend Nicolette Stephens, owner of Chasing Dreams Publishing. Jozi Flash 2017 will be getting published soon – tomorrow actually! Whoa. Exciting! Ahem… on to the poetry

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It’s not the lack of human company that saddens me,
Nor the bone-deep weary ache of loneliness.
It’s the hollow laughter and the shallow words
That should have meant so much;

Pressed between the pages of a book,
Like the dried flowers of a sweet-remembered romance,
That when the book is opened,
The petals in their fragile, temporal state,
Crumble
Like the cherished memories of those days and nights
We spent together.

I touched you
Felt you hold your breath,
The way that I held mine.
Only yours was a lie,
Caught up in the moment with no thought of a future,
And mine,
Mine was just an illusion
Crafted by honest hope.

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Featuring these beautiful poems and talented poets keeps me writing. If you want to share your poetry just hit me up:

email: admin(at)nthatomorakabi.com

Twitter: @NthatoMorakabi

Et tu, Brute

He pulled the trigger with words, heart set aflutter like birds. Thoughts scattered like herds. Emotions stirred.

Heavy-lead-en, piercing through with each syllable. I ignored that sign so visible. A heartbreak symbol. Resounding like the crash of cymbal and I shut my ears and eyes but not this heart so simple.

Wore it on my sleeve, so it could be plucked with ease. Anticipating that moment I began to grieve. Crying “If you cut me, do I not bleed?! A pound of beating flesh – does this not appease?!”

“No.”

And thus began that blood flow. Stages of grief on display “The Heartbreak Show” starring you and me and you and me and me and me and with each plea I see you fading in that afterglow sea.

Where Hope and Pain reside.

Side by side.

And with blood-curling scream I hide

As at last I again hear what Hope cried,

“Et tu Brute. Et tu.”

Let’s Pretend: Guest Poem – Ole’s Truth #Poetry

Another heart-wrenching poem by Olerato of Ole’s Truth.

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Okay so let’s play a game of pretend.

Let’s pretend for a second that I was in love with you.

While we’re at it, let’s pretend for a second you were in love with me too. What would our love affair look like? how would the story of our meeting go and would my face have the rosy, angelic glow of someone in love when they recount watching the rose in the concrete that is their love take seed and grow.

Let’s pretend. Let’s pretend I could look in the mirror and see myself measure up to your standards.

Would I be the image of something you call beautiful or would I be all that’s left for a cornered animal feeling the walls of time closing in on them?

Would I be your best or simply the rest in place of the dream of what you once had for yourself?

Let’s just pretend Let’s pretend I never lose you to another man and build a pretend world where we count the passing days by the mornings we spent in bed and the night we spent doing anything but sleeping for fear that we might miss each other too much. Let our game of pretend be held in this pretend world where we pretend count the passing of time by the passing of rose tinted seasons and such. Let time not touch us in this world. Let’s make love. Let’s make pretend love in the fullness there of, feeling each other into the eternal vows we’d make to each other to take. Take care of each other. Give as much as we take from each other.

Let’s pretend we stood in each other’s waltz-like embrace as time got hard and we realise that raising kids is a lot harder than anyone told us it would be. Let’s pretend our teenage son has started to rebel and out teenage daughter thinks we’re the devil. They both hate us.

But let’s pretend through it all that we’d hold each other close even as we see them off to college and eventually down the isle.

Let’s pretend we’re alone again and our empty nest is filled with a strong but nostalgic kinda love. That we’ve been through hell and back kinda love. That I gave you the space to grieve our drunk driving statistic of a son and our suicide story of a daughter. They still kinda hated us. But that’s okay because we held strong, showering them with all the love and adoration our star-crossed hearts could muster.

Let’s pretend the constant worrying over your mental state and bottled up grief over our kids turns me pale and has me lose my mind’s creative luster.

Let’s pretend that I fall ill and despite this gown made of hospital tubes, my bones that ache and my skin that burns, I still just wanna be held by you.

Even though I’d never wanna leave you I see the reaper at your shoulder staring with sad and hollow eyes. As the old man takes my hand, I close my eyes and pretend his hand is yours. Let’s pretend our life was tragic but happy despite our best intentions.

Let’s pretend in the end we couldn’t keep out misery and one of us will eventually leave. Would you still wanna pretend with me?

Would you stay here and play pretend with me?

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Do you have poetry you would like to share on my blog? Any sort, any length and any topic. Let me know 🙂

Trance #Poetry

The wind moved with the uncertain gait of a certain brown-haired beauty causing storms with a mere smile.Though new to the flock none noticed the slight gleam and juvenile twinkle accompanying hidden guile. Caught. Fraught. I sought not to entertain the thought but the heart moves on strings it aught not. No surprise then when I was left essentially immobile. Heart and mind volatile.

We moved through breathless spaces lingering just beyond palpitating collisions. The span of stars stretching above us yet still suffocating within the clutches of inadmissable decisions. Ire. Desire. Star-crossed bonfire set to burn the world like uncontrollable bush fire with heart-shaped precisions.

At first sight with rose-tainted glasses the air shimmered with each furtive glance. Engaged in the age-old dance we waltzed across thin blade holding nothing but chance. Inclined. Maligned. We resigned to remain confined in asphyxiating dark spaces keeping us blind. Lest we are forcefully pulled from that willful circumstance. Reality wrenching us from rue-filled blissful trance.

Hold My Nigga Moment by Ole #Poetry

Ole is truth. Ole is fire. Ole is life. Olestruth.com

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What is a nigga moment? Is it a couple a niggas getting hella mad over dumb ish? New shoes ish? Get your weapons out and spill blood ish? “Eish, baas it was not me” ish? Some cave ish? Retarded people, yes I said retarded for centuries in class; by class; for class, no class ish? I don’t know. What I know is that it dogs me around; stuck to my shoes, behind my back yet never making a sound. I feel it most when near people. On their faces it’s found, like puppet master shadows leading a dance from the background.

I feel it every time someone tries to make me a nigga like: when I’m my white friends’ one black friend; when Indian people say nigga like homie Gandhi was my friend; or black friends kinda treat me like I’m one of they white friends. Hai!

 

A nigger moment’s between niggers, so I figure I should try and be the man bigger; take the road high; walk the road narrow, straight arrow. Block out the stupid penny for your thoughts, chasing a sparrow on Twitter.

I’m not too fond of reading a face. Bookworm habits are more fitting a pace for a boy raised in a place where assimilation was key to fly into space and dance with the gods who came across the sea and disgraced his whole race.

See I’m not your average nigger. I’m one with a vision, born with a mission to bring about a Saipan fission.

I was cut from my roots so I could mimic people from every skin-colour or hue: talk white; dance black; and save like a Jew.

So I like Tupac and anime, but sometimes listen to Oprah. I’m a lover of both science and Deepak Chopra.

 

Curse then the gods of your logic. I may concede being a Negro but I am nobody’s nigger. I break out of the boxes that chain and keep me feeling lethargic, nostalgic antiquities of my so called “melanin magic”.

Forget the stereotypes. I come to poison your thinking, cut my wrists open and bleed black without blinking.

Dip a pen in my wounds and let my life blood sink into blank pages waiting to tell the tales of a youth seeking identity in people that he never knew.

So hold your parents who would die if you brought home a black guy. Hold your speech on black consciousness and the ego that feeds it. And hold my “nigga moment” too, this Negro no longer needs it.