African Roots
My DNA dates back to the trees that planted
My identity.
Soils creep up to distress how the hairs on my head were made.
My ancestor...
the ghosts that breathe through me
exclaiming their identity.
The roots that planted my existence flow through me
My
African roots.
The earth carries on its back the blood of those who fought for our liberty
Liberty... Our hips, our thighs
Free to paint itself into a frame of its own choice
And it chooses the hourglass
Dating back into time where
African women spoke through their stride
Head bowed down
An unspoken noun
That he the man and his muscles may protect his crown
Wabonga izulu
Esho izithakazelo zikaShaka Zulu
Thina ma-Afrika
Thina esinsundu
Esabeletha isintu
Ngoba kwathiwa umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu
Thina esinezimpande ezingasoze zahlubuka
Indoda yabukwa
Yabukwa indoda
Kwaqubuka ukuziqhenya
Laqhamuka iqhawe
Kwaqhaqhazela umhlabathi
Kwazalwa izwe eliqhakazile
Thina ma-Afrika
Thina esinsundu
Our DNA dates back to the trees that planted
Our identity.
(A poem by Yolanda Mbatha and Mbali SImelani)
poem by Yolanda Mbatha
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Identity Of I
Identity is not what I promise others
Identity is what I do when I am alone
Identity is what I think of others
Knowing all the hatred they've shown
Identity is what every wound reminds me
Identity is what I learn and what I pass by
Identity is what I see in the mirror
After giving my best try
Identity is what I make out of my given chance
Identity is what I accept and what I deny
No one else has control over me
Life is about me, and what I identify
poem by Abhiraj Rajadhyaksha
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The Lonely Spider
The lonely spider reaches out
For what, you might ask?
If not to spin his web then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
The lonely spider calls out
For what, you might ask?
If not for his mate then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
The lonely spider waits
For what, you might ask?
If not for his food then for what?
For his identity
The identity of him
His identity...
'A spider doesn't have feelings! '
How should you know?
'A spider isn't that smart! '
That could be true.
'A spider can never have a real identity! '
And neither could you, or any of us
But we try to find one even if we're not looking
And thats our life... after which we die
What have we done with our life up until then?
Either we've thrown it away, gave it up, wrecked it, lived it up to the fullest, took it for granted, or got far in it.
We still had one.
It's up to us what we shall do with it
Just like the lonely spider
Who will probably just end up on the bottom of your shoe anyways
poem by Andreanna Atkins
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Die to Live
My identity is questioned
My existence is questioned
Questioned to erase me
From this globe forever
By my own creators
My heart beat increased
I am really frightened
Felt lump in throat
I hadn't noticed tears
I looked for a hug
A hug for support
To back my identity
To back my existence
But I have no one
To support with hug
So I'm backing myself
In my well of loneliness
For my own existence
And my perishing image
In hands of a tyrant
I may lose my image
And existence forever
Whatever may happen
I will fight the tyrant
And will die with honor
So at least my name remains
poem by Kranthi Pothineni
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An uncreative medicine
no hope
no friend
no family
no home
no nativity
no nationality
no fame
no name
no future
no points
no market
no identity
no possessions still a tree without roots
no relationship still a tree without roots
no anarchism still a tree without roots
no hiearchy still a tree without roots
no country still a tree without roots
no colours still a tree without roots
no degrees still a tree without roots
no certificates
no imaginations
no dream
no poetry
no fiction
no story
no news
no media
no happiness still a tree without roots
no genre still a tree without roots
no labels still a tree without roots
no names still a tree without roots
THE FOURTH EYE
of
A post-conceptual poet.
Her Old Argument
we meet as old trees with roots deep on the ground.
twigs are trunks and leaves if they fall do not come back to hang back.
do not look for meanings, they are all there already
when we meet as old trees
when we agree that we meet as old trees so there will be no
compromise that you change that i change
that we become like each other in color and perceptions
what you see is what you get, that is your oldest premise
and i jump into conclusions: i am free, you are freedom.
somewhere, i also cannot bend as you keep that bent posture
when we meet as trees old enough to understand the spread of
our respective roots.
'you cannot change me, you can only love me' your ending statement.
' i give up the search for the idea, i stay put' my conclusion.
The pavement is so dry. There is no rain. I hear nothing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Many voices sing a song (in answer to HA Fagan)
Many voices sing a song
that asks the blessing of God
over the whole territory,
the continent of Africa
and there are millions standing there
everyone settled in one continent
Zulu, Xhosa and every Shangane
as if planted by Your own hand,
but where is the place of the Afrikaner,
where the Afrikaner can also flower?
Of the white woman and man
that comes from this earth?
We are down trodden, everyone expelled,
Boers, that You Yourself cause to sprout here.
[Reference: ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ i-Afrika by HA Fagan.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Seeds Of War
When the seeds of war are sown,
hardly is it ever known
who has planted it
and what for?
Was it about
blood and gore?
When the seeds of war take root
it's hidden reasons make us mute.
Why was it planted
and by whom?
Was its purpose
doom and gloom?
When the seeds of war are grown
never is it ever shown
how it is planted
in men's mind?
How it's made them
all so blind.
When the seeds of war do thrive
many will not be alive.
They'll be planted
in false graves.
These seeds propel
how the world behaves.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The kid identity
The kid identity
Look at me,
It is not my true identity,
But when they see the true true me,
I am nothing but a messed up key,
When they see my true identity,
They want to go back to what they thought was me,
But they must not go and see,
Who my true identity could really be,
Just remember I’m my real identity.
By: Colby Selter
poem by Colby Selter
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Mama Africa's Identity
Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Fulanis and the Fulbes;
But the Savannah and the Sahara are here to stay in Africa.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Dogons and the Shilluks;
And of the cowries usedas money in those days,
But the identities of the African are in many faces.
It is like a durbar in Africa and,
At the market plac to meet others;
But a visit to the tomatoes market in Ghana will tell you much.
Mama African's identity,
And like 'the Golden Stool' of the Ashanti Kingsdom!
But wait for the dried-fish on the coasts of Africa.
Visit St. Louis in the delta of Senegal and learn about the ways of the African,
For my home i in El Molo;
And like Mama Africa's identity praising my muse.
Mama African's identity,
And of the pygmies in Central Africa!
But i have my mind on the Rift Valley,
And like the mirror of the rivers, lakes and the seas of Africa! !
The Massai and the Dinka do play their roles,
And like the Nubaians in South Sudan;
But with the temperature above 40 degrees in most parts of Africa.
Mama Africa's identity,
And like a message to my lover in Lalibala;
For early in the morning came the leopards to drink some water,
But a visit to Mount Meru will entice you.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Zulus and the Rendilles;
But the Afars are here to blend with the dry land.
Mama Africa's identity,
With the rhythms and rituals of the Africans!
And like the tribes of Ovambo, Herero, Xhosa, Shona and Matabele.
And like the Bemba, the Tonga and the Ovaimbundu!
But the red land of Africa care for you all.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of River Limpopo in the mist of love;
But try to visit the Victoria Falls to satisfy your curiosity.
Mama Africa's identity,
And of the Himbas with their traditional dance;
But the Kikuyu, the Hutu, the Tutsi and the Hambukushu are also there,
For Africa is a very big continent for all of us.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Uprooting...
she stands outside the house
leaning on the post of the gate which is painted white
it is raining
she is looking at the roots of the palm tree which she had just
caused to be uprooted
because she is weak and cannot even cut one of those
which was planted here
many years back
she demands that all the roots be taken away
not one root must be left
so she can sleep well tonight
i think i know what she wants to drive at the state of things now
she is filled with hate and longs for the time that love again shall fill her up
she is no longer the same
her eyes are red but they are no longer crying.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Is Man A Winner Or A Loser?
Woman has a poof that the child is hers;
Man has no such proof to claim on the child.
She is cool with the child as identity.
He is desperate for his identity.
Identity crisis has disturbed him.
He invented marriage and chained woman.
He imposed chastity to mark his kids
And introduced patriarchal system.
Identity crisis has troubled him.
He assumed control over women.
He retained the progeny in his name
And made concubines to silence woman.
Identity crisis has worried him.
He bottled woman's skill and built up his.
He grew to be a Scholar. Sculptor and Poet
And assigned to woman the entertaining.
Identity crisis has bothered him.
He treated woman as her property.
He acquired family unfailingly
And labourd for its upkeep and status.
Identity crisis has bored him.
Water as she is, man could not cut her.
Tired of heat outside, man needed a shade
And sheltered himself in woman's coolness.
Woman treated man with due sympathy
With no fight with him for identity.
Her child is enough for her identity.
She helped him to anchor himself in her.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Somewhere in Angola
Somewhere in Angola
you were planted
back into African soil
from where you sprouted
to make it young again
with blood
marked with a small cross
that’s blown away by the dry wind
and there you
child of God
also found a Golgotha
and I wonder how many boys:
still have to fall in Africa
before the last shots ring?
poem by Gert Strydom
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The African Women (For T-Y Bello)
Each time I think
of the African woman,
I search for your pix
In the chip of my memory.
The African woman,
Her eyes radiant like
a young lover
so blazing a pupil
planted among white surrounds
The African women
is blessed with a soft smile
her dentations are like the
vertical bars of a police sergeant - major
The African woman,
her touch break barriers
the smell of her hair is like
the aroma of frankincense.
The African woman
has the warmest of embrace
stay black my little
Pumpkin.
poem by Matthias Pantaleon
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I Planted A Hand
I planted a hand
And there came up a palm,
I planted a heart
And there came up balm.
Then I planted a wish,
But there sprang a thorn,
While heaven frowned with thunder
And earth sighed forlorn.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Life and The Trees
when you sit upon a
rattan rocking chair by your window
and you see the trees that you have planted years back
it comes into your mind that
they all need the required
pruning and trimming,
after-which you reflect upon your life
and too they are some kind of trees that needs precisely what you think
is right, though it requires
pain.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Room For Everything
Oooooh...
You were looking away from me
Western skies calling you
Colors spilling, running, dazzling you
I was looking the other way
Voices call from the east
I saw my roots of the trees there, planted at my feet
It could be Im searching
For a place so small
With room for everything
Where worlds on worlds revolve
But how can we wait?
I wouldnt hold you
No, I wouldnt hold you
I wouldnt hold you back
Suppose I was the clever one
And words came easy to me
I could say I was writing a song
About you, you and me
Maybe that verse is yet to be found
But waits inside of me
A secret room, a tangled web
To unweave
It could be Im searching
For a place so small
With room for everything
Where worlds on worlds revolve
But how can we wait
Knowing our way
How can we hold on
Still, you know its not too late
I wouldnt hold you
No, I wouldnt hold you
I wouldnt hold you back
I wouldnt hold you
No, I wouldnt hold you
I wouldnt hold you back
I wouldnt hold you
No, I wouldnt hold you
I wouldnt hold you back
I wouldnt hold you
No, I wouldnt hold you
I wouldnt hold you back
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Journey Back To Ourselves
as i stare at the
rain
i remember
trees
transparent and
cold
trees without
leaves
i imagine
twigs
or roots or
trunks
they are never
there
no matter how
trees are tears
without leaves
without roots
with so much
salt in each
and then you
touch the waves
of the imaginary
sea and then
your journey back
to you begins
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Official Existence
'Join each other and group yourselves,
But for Heaven's sake do not name yourselves;
Do anything and everything: cultural political and social,
But be sure to remain strictly unofficial'.
How can one be without a name or identity?
Can he unofficially exist in a well-known city?
Identity denied, existence denied;
Leaders can no longer upon be relied.
So let us join together and defend our identity,
Because our very existence depends on it.
poem by Shushan Artinian
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angola the African dream
Angola, the African Dream.
A box of photos, black & white and amber, under the old woman’s
bed, tell of young faces and success. Cars drive up and down
an avenue called Liberty. Angola, even the most humble state
functionary had a black servant. And the white people were deaf
to the dark voices of independence.
The Portuguese settlers had been promised a land of plenty, and
the local people would be their willing serfs. Foreign legion soldiers
helped them flee the wrath of the exploited. Back in Portugal again,
dipping their hands in manual work, the African dream was over.
Photos never tell a story it’s a blank canvas made up of shadows
and the unspoken. Memories will be sweet and often untrue.
People who had to return back to poverty, will insist they brought
civilization to Angola, especially now that the avenue of Liberty,
in Luanda, is potholed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Don't be a tree!
Not a planted tree to stay at a place,
Spreading the roots in underground space,
Looking for the sun to beg for the light,
Photosynthesis, reproduce and rot.
When the wind blows, to shake our heads,
We are not the trees that have no leads,
During the storm, to get uprooted and fall,
We are the trees that are too rigid, not flexible.
For the fallen leaves, the trees never cry,
For the fallen human, we have to voice and try,
We are the human, the rulers of the earth,
Not the trees of the soil that has no mirth.
Let us not lick the feet of anyone for our survival,
Let us not get tickled with someone's failure,
Let us not be the fools to get hoodwinked and cheated,
Let us be the survivors conquering the thoughts.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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