kagablog

For almost a year I have not slept at great lengths or depths
I hear myself giving instructions, warnings or threats
From the moment I am rudely awoken
I soothe, negotiate, debate, plead and coerce
Silence and solitude have become scarce

I rush my meals, eat with one hand
Simultaneously feed someone else on demand
I wear clothes that are durable and practical
Providing quick access to my breasts
I clean and prepare
I plan and arrange
I drop off and pick up
I shop and wash up
I pack and tidy
I slump into the couch and zone out on TV
I hand over half the load, temporarily

But the flipside is

I am performing a sacred task
I have collaborated with God in creation
I am needed and loved unconditionally
I am a teacher rewarded daily
By the awakening and wonder
That my experience
My offerings of information bring
I am learning and re-learning
Remembering the exquisite beauty of simplicity
The delight in little apparently ordinary things
I am laughing, I am listening, I am playing
I am dancing the ancient dance of motherhood
To a demanding and intoxicating melody
Women all over the world
All through the history of our existence have understood
The true business of being here, of being human
The territory that is me has expanded
Literally and spiritually
Encompassing an ever-growing capacity
For love

Big hands helped little hands
Fill a red plastic bucket
With all the possibilities of sea sand

Big hands rested
Little hands built
All hands clapped as a dream
Raised itself on the shore
Low windows and high balconies
To look out from
Gardens and passages to explore
But a sudden wave sifted through the grains
And the dream could be seen no more

Big hands lay limp
Little hands formed little fists
Big feet began walking away
Reluctantly little feet followed
The end of a sad sunny day

Red bucket empty
Abandoned on the sand
Ignored by beach strollers
Pecked at by gulls
Eventually blown out to sea

Red dot bobbing towards horizon blue
Tired little dreamer
Now tucked safely in bed
When finally eyes close
Castles rebuild themselves
Inside that little head

Light was here
before the darkness of doubt
the ash and storms of our destruction
before all of this
all of us
before flesh and bone
walls and windows
soil, mountain, sky or sea.

Light does not recognise such boundaries
penetrates your armour
beams from between your ribs
behind your eyes
shows up on the horizon unfailingly
even when you cannot
or choose not to see.

No amount of tears or rage
can dissipate it into its alter self
light mutates into incarnations
we plaster with other names
yet it remains true to itself
an indestructible essence
with immeasurable capabilities.

Light is a labyrinth
of exquisite complexity
yet maintains a simple undeniable beauty.
is within and beyond definition
or captivity.

Light lives here
dancing in unexpected corners
of my home and heart
spilling from my son’s mouth
my beloved’s eyes
my mother’s gut-deep laughter
here I shower my soul.

In the centre of the shadow
is the secret of the light
under the veil of night
light reveals itself to me
an eternity of dreaming
of whispered meanings
stories of immortality
and I wake into forgetfulness
my swimming with the stars
immersed in endless galaxies
interrupted by gravity
till I remember
that light also lives here.

Right here
hidden at the core
of everything
of all that I call you or me
the magic of universal unity
from gigantic to atomic
a cosmic vibration
exploding the myth of separation.

Light lives
here
Light lives.

MALIKA NDLOVU AND PETER VAN HEERDEN 16 April 18H30 SABC 1

DIRECTED BY LLEWELYN RODERICK

Malika Ndlovu, feminist spoken word poet and musician, is rarely ever stumped for words. This is until she first views controversial performance artist Peter van Heerden’s hard-hitting piece about abuse against women and children. Peter on the other hand, is a man of few words. His message is articulated in ways that make you squirm but keep you rooted, and paying attention. With both artists sceptical about the others’ genre – it is amazing to witness a collaboration come together with political and creative depth as they poignantly take on the issue of burying South Africa’s colonial past.

I have tried hiding
Amidst the intensity of daily living
Sinking into the anonymity
Of earthbound business
Denying my thirst
My hunger
For You
Watching my willows weep at this river running dry
Knowing
Without needing to see
That without honouring and remembrance
Of You
All that matters withers
And time is merciless in its march

Surely a million conscious breaths
Conscious steps
I have lost to this sleepwalking
Pretending to be alive

For Cecelia Anastacia Dunn

My mother
is a radio station somewhere between twenty-four-seven fast talk
hip-jiving-modern pop and arm-swaying-love-crooning golden oldies.
She’s a storyteller and memory caretaker that will make you travel in time,
dream in lead, ink and chalk, make you brave in the dark ,
make you laugh till you cry, cry till you laugh.

My mother
is a St. Stephen and Mother Theresa to all animals
with a particular passion for the canine kind.
She’s got a song, a game, a history and psychology for each one
spontaneously sprouting in the fecund soil of her mind,
so that even when their mongrel bodies leave, their stories stay behind.

My mother
is a self-confessed sucker for tear-jerking movies, romance and sentimentality
whether she’s shamelessly hooked on soapies or revelling in classical love stories,
drawn to kitsch ornaments or bright floral linen with frilly edges as a final touch.
Still, she’s no fool when it comes to the real thing; she has loved with abandon,
had her fair share of betrayal , been broken in battle, sacrificed and lost so much.

My mother
is a stubborn warrior, a proud Leo, a rebel turning her back on the pack
she’s bold dreamer, a healer, a teacher beyond paper, desks and walls.
A daughter who raised her brothers and sisters, when her mother died in childbirth,
loving them through the trauma, the poverty, the difficulty of all their youth;
she knows compassion, the value of family, of her history , every detail she recalls.

My mother
is in the tone of my skin, the curve of my back, the shadow in my gesture, my face
she’s the dance of a woman’s defiance, rising in my relationships, blazing in my eyes
a lover of words, of company, the treasurer of memories and small priceless things.
She’s a campaigner for individuality, seeker of variety,
the risk-taker and dream-scaper I have now become.
Being her first and only daughter I feel her resonance in my bones
I recognise the kind of mother she’s been, guiding the way I raise my sons.

My mother
is her own woman, a character, a soul separate from mine
but my life is inscribed with her passion, her being.
Even she says: when I grow, when I heal, when I fly, so does she -
my mother lives inextricably and eternally in me.

Saturday 15th December 2007
(Day after her father’s 80th birthday, 4 days before she flew from Jo’burg to spend the Christmas holiday with me.)

July 2005

We flock to the shoreline, the hills, the cliffs
Just for a glimpse of you
Emerging or sinking
Out of or into magnificent Mother Blue
Our eyes magnetised
Scanning the shimmering surface
For your signal spray, a fluke, a fin
As the sunset tide slowly rolls and folds in
Waves persistently extending themselves toward the land
Knowing their dying lies in reaching the sand
Knowing they will reincarnate from the centre
In similar yet not identical form
Reborn
Dancing to the music of Divine Law

for
each
life
a
single
storyline
between
each
vertebra
coded
secrets
revealed
only
through
questioning
listening
through
time
locked
in
the
braided
bone
chamber
of
my
spine
an
archive
I
now
return
to
recalling
experiences
dissolved
into
memory
fragmented
yet
not
lost
beyond
all
the
bending
twisting
shifting
extending
I
have
done
since
those
intersections
in
my
life
chapters
buried
in
cells
wrapped
in
tissue
attached
to
bone
my
body
is
my
witness
every
second
every
choice
every
wound
and
subsequent
scar
every
promise
every
regret
every
dream
or
desire
I
cannot
forget

for
each
life
a
single
storyline
a
yearning
for
home
certainly
mine

Ominously
Unsuspectingly
Our naked flesh was pierced
By a decade-buried barbed boundary
Separating
Territory you
From territory me

Now in the shocked silence
We bleed
Blood in the bubble bath we’d prepared romantically
Warm oils and water for intimacy

No soap will wash this stain clean
No words can cover the distance
Rapidly spreading between us
As we pull the plug
Draining the love-pool we dreamt of swimming in

24 hours later
You are tiptoeing around me
Half - surprised at the bitterness
Still spilling from my tongue
From the all-night battering
Of your moral judgements
My half-desperate defenses
The slowly rising heat of the dialogue
Defining truth from lie
Forever a chasm of difference between you and I
That I replayed
Replanted like thorns in my head
While you slept soundly
Alone in our bed

Next up in the Baxter Theatre Centre’s South African season of the Play>Ground Performed Reading series is performance poet and author Malika Ndlovu’s new play, Sister Breyani, this Sunday, October 21, at 5pm in the Baxter Sanlam Studio.

Well-known for her award-winning A Coloured Place, Ndlovu’s new play is about five sisters who reunite for the first time in almost three years. They meet at the new home of the youngest sibling over a weekend in July in what is a celebration cum family reunion. While there is much water under the bridge, family tensions bubble to the surface as the sisters realise blood ties may not be enough to sustain their complex relationships, stemming from muted family communication in the past. Time is not on their side as the dream reunion soon begins to unravel.

Durban-born Ndlovu last performed as the Baxter Theatre Centre last year in Womantide with Tina Schouw and Ernestine Deane showcasing their original poetry, songs and music. Although her work as a poet has been extensively published in South Africa and abroad, it is her sixth play as solo writer.

Director Lara Bye has assembled a formidable cast of power-house women made up of Denise Newman (Erfsondes, Sorrows and Rejoicings), Mary Daniels (Suip!, Kanna Hy Kô Hystoe), Lee-Ann van Rooi (Fishy Fêshuns, Shirley, Goodness and Mercy), Euodia Sampson (Vatmaar, Kanna Hy Kô Hystoe) and Riana Alfreds (Onnest’Bo, Send for Dolly).

An excited Ndlovu says, “I am exhilarated to have the serendipity of a dream cast and director to take over my third draft of the play into a new script that will be leaping off the page and onto the stage – the journey is usually much longer. Having Sister Breyani in professional hands is manifesting my vision for the play far sooner than I would have envisaged. I am looking forward to the delight of the interpretation of my script by Lara and the cast.”

Bye has been closely involved with Play>Ground since its inception. She has performed in and directed several of the performed readings including For Coloured Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is not Enuf and Jesus Hopped the “A” Train, both which were selected for mainstream staging to great success.

Shirley Goodness and Mercy, which received great audience and media acclaim at the Baxter Theatre Centre and The Market Theatre earlier this year, was also selected as a result of the resounding response at the performed reading.

Play>Ground is a series of rehearsed play readings which provides a space for actors, directors and audiences to experience the very best of contemporary local and international scripts. Discussions about all the works after the performances are welcomed, stimulating cultural debate and encouraging audiences to develop their critical theatre awareness.

The final two offerings in this season are Original Skin, written and performed by Phillippa Yaa de Villiers, with direction and script development by Robert Colman on November 4 and The Black Psychiatrist written by Lewis Nkosi and directed by Paul Savage on November 11, both at 5pm.

With one performance only, seating is limited. Tickets are R30 and booking is through Computicket on 083 915 8000 or the Baxter Theatre Centre on 021 680 3989.

For interview or pic requests or any further media enquiries please contact Fahiem Stellenboom, Marketing Manager, Baxter Theatre Centre on 021 680 3971, email fahiem.stellenboom@uct.ac.za or on cell 072 2656 023.

Remember living underground
Flourishing in secret
Elsewhere on the continent
Or in some sympathetic foreign land
Remember that feeling
That absence
That sound

Remember gathering in masses
Yet having no voice
Being kept invisible in public places
Your existence overlooked or erased
Remember having no access
No choice

Remember using every meager resource
For organization
For mobilization
Remember questioning
Whether the enemy was human

Remember the pen as panga
The paintbrush as sword
Remember the censorship
The complete banning of the word
Remember our dances of rebellion
Our songs of sorrow
Of resistance
Of rage
Of comfort in the desert of those times

Remember seeking asylum in some quarter
Of your own motherland
Remember being policed
Having to hide in your home

Remember being sustained
Kept sane
By the muthi of our art
Remember authentic community
Under the banner of the cause
Not mine or yours but ours
Remember the spirit
The dignity of our defiance
Remember the irrepressible passion
Behind our communication
How we orchestrated and created
With conscience
With conviction
Expanding our inner landscapes
Honing our crafts

Remember the taste of freedom
Bleeding onto canvas
Onto paper
Into dance
Our shadows sculpted into wood and stone
Our stories of longing
Of grief
Of beauty
Woven into unforgettable song

Remember who built those bridges
From there to here
Who offered shelter
Alternative ways of surviving the war
Of thriving
Even transcending the oppression of the law

Remember the relief
The healing
The inspiration
Found in those brave and rare havens of transformation
A safe and often sacred space
To release and replenish
To share our collective dreaming
Of this future Into being
Remember where this legacy
The vision of this democracy was born

Remember those who kept the flame
Honour their work
Speak their names
Listen for their lessons
Recognise the wisdom of their ways
This is your inheritance
Guard it well
This flame is yours

Before the bombs were dropped
Before the war broke out
Before the invaders came
To claim and impose
We were safe in our homes
Secure in the cycle of our ways

Before they came
I understood the pattern
The rhythm of my life
I was an anchor for my children
Had the dignity of that role
They stole that from me
Uprooted us all
Yet they were on our side
Acting in our interests
So they said

Now we are moved
Not as a family but in hoards
Shunted from hostel to hall
Shelter to tent
Totally dependent
On the charity of strangers
Of people we may never meet

My sky is not where it should be
My feet do not feel the ground

We were told peace would come in a matter of weeks
Now they tell us we can never return
We must apply for new identities
Permission to work
Except there are boundaries to what we can do
Limitations on how much we can earn

We wait for signatures and stamps
Hang on decisions and delays
We’ve become beggars in an alien society
Where our manners are offensive or amusing
And our mother tongue no longer makes sense

I drown in tides of uncertainty
I scream but do not hear a sound

Until the paperwork makes us visible
Turns us into people
We live in suspension
Thinking of what to say
To our children

My sky is not where it should be
My feet do not feel the ground
I drown in tides of uncertainty
I scream but do not hear a sound

I lose count of the days
I lose myself in so many ways
I tell my children
I tell myself
It makes no difference
Who we were before
We cannot go back anymore

My feet do not feel the ground

I scream but do not hear a sound

* Commissioned for the Occupational Therapists Congress’
International Workshop on Occupational Deprivation - Cape Town, May 2004

“God, sometimes you just don’t come through.
Do you need somebody to look after you? ”
-Tori Amos -

These addictive mental passages – a sea of negative associations -thoughts colliding into each other and pictures all melting under the pressure - the heat of the flames raging within me – fire sky-high inside of me - burning its way out and all I can do is cry – trickles –sudden gushing then nothing – nothingness tears and the aching loneliness of being the only one who understands this language, this intimate map of pain – no words – no accurate signs to articulate- state my true state of being – a moving swirling changing thing anyway – a grey mass of mixed magic and clouded grey shit that’s all mine – mine through creation – mine through repetition of this pattern- through walking this road by choice –listening to that other me voice –that won’t speak to anyone but me-to remind me of my one-ness –my isolation in this familiar sticky place that wrenches up the past – turning it in the light behind my eyes and shutting my mind up every time it tries to point to the now – or say how much I’ve moved – how much I’ve changed- re-arranged my patterns – my habits –just when you thought you were all over this – lovely – just what I need to comfort my bleeding head –my swollen eyes – my frantic mechanical mind processing a furious range of options-how to cope-what to do-where to go who to call-what to poison my body with –what to hurt my skin with – to make what I feel glaringly completely real – not this self-indulgent intangible overpowering mess that leads form one pool of pity to another with not a lot of constructive-ness in-between

These faces of mine I have seen – these places in me I have been- in this cycle of four years – some period of returning to it that I have once again reached and must rub my nose in – to truly taste its lessons – this face smashed against the mirror – with no-one else in the room-no-one else within reach – beached like my fellow whale – sacred silent suicide – witnesses talk and theorise over why and how I got there – looking for someone to blame –shaking their heads whispering shame –while brutal big little boys climb over the mountainous carcass hacking at the detail only God could have created-lifting the mutilated dismembered parts of myself to the gawking crowd who think – what can we use that for – can we get money for that piece- how much do you think- nevermind the stink on the beach in the heat – on the hands of husbands who will explore their wives’ limits late at night without her fucking consent – does rebirthing-reclaiming have to cost so much blood- what will be left after this letting is done- this battering breaking of skin-flowing liquid that does not fill the hole-like that gaping one in the sand on the everlasting shore-the birds that watched me seemed to see how simple was to let go – let me be free – too bad – no feathers no wings for me now –no miraculous flight back or forward to pass over this chained phase – this howling and silence song rising and falling in my chest –that will not answer to my request for relief

Inquest-question : what is it that you need – can I take you somewhere- cos where you are – I’ve never really been and if I thought that that’s where I was heading- I would pull the lever-swop the track-cut off the current and get back to the clickety-clack of things I can control – destinations I can see –can measure potential damage way in advance – before it got the chance to contaminate this clean worked out state I’ve decided to create- all packed and labelled and booked to fit on shelves or in cupboards that I don’t need to explain to anyone- don’t even have to try and see or understand how they apply – because the light is all I care to know- what good is the dark – if you stare at it long enough it will probably dissolve itself- absorb into the walls so that if ever I came back to check-take a look- there’d be nothing left-nothing marked with my name-no forced resolution to things that may have haunted – may have tortured angered battered me inside for so long – dead – conquered- because I won’t be giving them any light – wasting my precious energy that on what could put me in the very same plight I see you’ve put yourself in- I would help- as I said – if I understood the choices you’ve made in your head – and although I don’t think what you’ve chosen is wrong – I clearly don’t belong in this miserable picture of self-annihilation and tear overflow that ceases only to give space to deadening eyes – a voice that tells lies to herself – keeps those wounds waiting – festering on the shelf to take out on days like these – when just to touch them again – gives you some unfathomable taste of pleasure

Dec 25th 1997

i am painting this picture frame which has nothing in it the more i try to decorate it you know impress my friends the more it disintegrates in frustration i grasp fragments now floating as is if i were in outer space a massive whalebone heads for me like a slow missile i duck and hear its ancient song above dear aunt agatha i think i’m losing my mind she comforts me with christmas pudding smooth warm custard just like granny’s it’s your natural rythym being tugged on like the tide it’s alright nothing to have sleepless nights over i glance down at her feet clad in green velvet slippers feeling more certain that i am in the wrong place next there’s a tv chat show clanging in the background with a strobe lighting effect making things around me appear and disappear my eyes can’t keep up with the pace now i’m stuck with this expensive pair of raybans wondering why i ever bought them who the hell i could sell them to sitting at a bus stop on beach road its hot energy sapping sunshine i was born in winter i was overdue i like shady in fact dark snuggly spaces not these basking places where people parade their belongings in tantalising beachwear shit i sound like my grandmother or that anal neighbour who wrote to the community newspaper editor in disgust its as if all these voices are spilling out of my mouth not all mine i rise defensively but in this deeply lunar state perhaps they all are
i needn’t be ashamed that there’s a bit of all of you in me

Moonlight through the kitchen window
Moonlight and me in the kitchen

Raising my thoughts
Sussing my heart
Calling my spirit
To prayer
And praise
Alone in the moonlight
I kiss a full day goodnight

7 August 2001

they have spent millenia
trying to define it
make it a possession
i should say define Him
with a capital H
should
definitely a religious word

like being forced to bear the responsibility of a woman
who supposedly listened to a snake
bit an apple
cursing her species for evermore
and this now means we are all born impure
for all our lives remain stained
in debt
burdened with regret ?

like a child following the flock to Easter rituals
bombarded with images of brutality zoned in on one man
like a child’s mind assaulted with
the spitting
the thorns
the lashing
the scars
the piercing
the bruising
the nailing
the tearing of palms
and now we eat from His body
drink of His blood
in holy communion ?

the little girl within
relives her rebellion
she could spend ages there
not weeping
but reminding herself
of her earliest liberation
could
definitely not a religious word

she speaks of it now struck by the farce
of unquestioned rituals
tagged with ludicrous moral weights
she is in her archive
wall to wall experience
each book bound
each message has its place
plus she can lock up
whenever she feels its time
no longer is she a prisoner
of this mammoth father - figure
handing him Sunday packages of love
wrapped in guilt

Somewhere after sunset
I crawled into myself
Laying low
Not wanting my clouded eyes
To show the dark patterns
I am repeating to myself
A mantra of fear
A mountain too familiar
I am so tired
Of ending up here

I wonder if all my gurus
Did this dance of denial
I wonder if their first instinct
Was to resist the weight
Of greatness
Did they ever escape the inner night
Rejecting their destined crowns of light
What did the gurus see
What was their answer
What did they say
Did any succeed in walking away

This time I tried to run
Slither into sleep
Escape consciousness
Of this sinking sand state
This days failings
Are all I seem to recall
Not the bold green feeling in my chest
When I left the house this morning
Not the progress with my paperwork
Or the smooth solitude
Of the train ride to the centre
Of Cape Town
All this I call forgotten
Trading my everyday blessings
For my place in the mud
The thick of my torment
Queen I am
Proud of my pit
This is my piece
Of sinking land

Inspired by the movie Black Hawk Down, set in Mogadishu, Somalia
and based on actual events that took place in October 1993.

Seething Somali masses creep off the TV screen
Into my dreams
Dark skeletal figures
First clamouring over each other in desperation
For the foreign food supply
Now spilling from trucks targeting
Yet another refugee camp

But even before mothers can make a meal for their children, their men
Bullets bar them form the grain sacks
Blood spatters across the crowd of flailing arms
Bony limbs, deep ebony skin
Faces fighting starvation
Bullets shot by brothers, sons, fathers
Of those now falling to the ground
Scattering in terror

My eyes close
Blink again and again to black out the scenes
Bring temporary relief
The fury stops at sunset
Guns are laid down
For a few minutes of prayer
Both sides bow to the same God
All fall to their knees
Utter the same refrain
Allah hu akbar!
A peace recital
Five times a day
Amidst a brother on brother war
And more blood will flow
Now that the so-called peacekeepers
Have descended on Mogadishu city
Strangers to the land, the language
The litany of reasons to the roots of this war
Black on black violence
They’ve seen it all before
Plot out their strategies
Send in their troops and their tanks
Choosing a side to defend
Noble intentions for bringing this bloodshed to an end
In the final days many more limbs are severed
Children shot
Soldiers in and out of uniform
Fatally wounded
Making final wishes
That they will find their way
Out of this dark pool of blood
Back to their bases
Back to their homes
Back to their people
Back to their own less visible wars

The credits roll down the TV screen
I am puzzled by the words
Which tally the final death toll

About 1000 Somalis died and 10 American soldiers lost their lives

Dark skeletal figures are reincarnating
Resurrected in my dreams

Resurrected

In my dreams

(Amsterdam, 2000)

Brother
sprawled at the bus stop
at the feet of the fleeting crowd
fallen
fractured
frozen
eyes fixed on the sky
numb to the cold
amazed by the touch of
one who stopped
got off the bus and ran back
to where you first caught her eye
struck her inside

When the policemen arrived
with surgical gloves
posing polite questions
she stepped back
No, I don’t know this man
I only tried to
I only picked up his
I only held his hand
till you arrived
I only wanted to know
that he hadn’t been hit
or collapsed in a fit
It was neither of these
He did not bleed
in ways that all could see
but that brother was aching
deteriorating underneath
the look of another lost one
clear in his glazed delayed stare
his thickly coated teeth
untouched
week after week
untouched

Brother
fallen in the crowd
frozen
fractured
silent on the ground

l

a teacher, a bottle and a batch of fairytales

a sodden storyteller
rambles rich repeats
to overgrown children
I am in a sudden playback
of crayon-aroma classrooms
shiny school shoes
and unprotected eyes

ll
flat 202 london house

somebody’s grandfather knocked on my door
at 10 am Wednesday
what the hell for
check suit and bow tie
greased back and groomed
with the sharp scent of liquor perfumed

lll
entry

I just died once more
in the arms of one I love
a part of me is stalking
a New York street
in pink stilletto heels
and I cry for those painted eyes

lV
perspective

mountains are plains
outs are inns
when fervoured by belief
a bottle
an altered vision
a pencil
lead potential
flesh and bone
a container of mastery

Will I ever peel this black and white
veil from my eyes
blinding polar view
Dutch sites and scenes
nauseatingly familiar
boer faces, names and places
a blurring recurring image
die klein vasberade volk
fixated with the fatherland
violaters of one after another
motherland

Against this dense cityscape
colours and shapes blend
below a shadow-grey sky
often I must step back
resist being sucked in
remember to look up
knowing that in this very instant
another reality lies
beneath the same awesome sky
a magic blue free of shadows
way across the equator
in a city not built on water
but where two oceans meet
where the history of my world
begins and ends
wind woven
polarised
vine vallied
intoxicating
blasted and blessed
Cape Town

25 to 42 degrees there
some days maybe 10 degrees
but most days below zero here
same day
one hours difference
yet opposite poles
on the flip-side of the equator
two halves of the whole

There are no seasons for grapes
oranges, mangoes, strawberries
or bananas here
they import everything
from almost anywhere
for consumption
gratification all year round
shipping them in
carting them out
like the Savannah giraffes
or the three Asian elephants
in the Amsterdam zoo
cargo cut out of their cycle
uprooted from home
now part of a splendid display
day after day after day

I try
to balance the scale
question veil upon veil
though the silence hangs thick
in contact our eyes make it clear
no matter how much we travel
no matter how much we touch
too much is missing

I speak
they do not hear
I am making African noises
not to them
but at them I think
they think

I do
they do not see
I am making African gestures
not toward them
but for them I think
they think

I tell myself
its no longer true
there must be more
we couldn’t possibly be back
at this invisibilty black
the abc boxing of humanity
our weakest
saddest
lowest point
even monkeys are more evolved

sitting in front of my colour tv screen
for the first time exposed
to images the outside world
ten years ago has seen
intimate, brutal aspects of my existence
bitter ghosts
now resurrected in my chest
such small cutting words
exile, ban, unrest

sitting in a state library chair
stare at a paragraph
thick with the tone of fact
another white male historian
another authority on the nature of my family
whose noble venture into the unknown
has come to this
the only document they say exists
from which i must divine
precious remnants of my regal bloodline

in this hall of muffled coughs, i sigh

i have raged about the silence
i have cried about the violence
i know i’ve shed this all before
endless cycles of release
resentment that i tell myself
i’ve long since risen above
me, in my meditation pose
projecting myself over this chakra rainbow
towards this conquering all-embracing
concept of love

come elusive architect
who metered dosage for this mind
dictated what i should see
when i should be blind
fed a packaged history
i have stomached the last
blank page
blank tape
blank face
i want the aching
absent
bleeding truth
in full colour detail

Translating birds chattering
in their glassboxes above
French
Italian
Portugese
German
English
Spanish
Japanese
and we below
from all over the planet
have flocked together
to present and dissect
childrens rights
global peace matters
while the birds above
first memorise then begin
their simultaneous chatter
so no-one is left out
so every word is heard

Hooked to our high-tech headphones
we tune in to the tweeting echoes
in alien or home tones
cameras flash, pan or zoom
capturing the worlds faces
contained in this room
our eyes on the speaker
their eyes on us
our eyes on each other
all eyes on screen
what are we missing
what exactly are we seeing
lense
big screen
microphone
are we together
or are we alone

In this suspended reality
of foreign five-star hotels
name and religion ID tags
our hosts traditional cuisine
this out-of-contex togetherness
where sworn national enemies
do the noble press-pic handshake
and inconspicuously
you do a double-take
we try so hard to communicate
sitting through sessions
of speeches and debate
stuffed with statistics
jargon, brochures, reports
and the usual workshop-talk
We stick to our schedule
switch to the next venue
and as the days pass
some exchange addresses
others form a latenite circle
to share jokes, anecdotes
sing well-known songs
and I blend in
wondering
what we will take home
what will we invest
when we return to our nests
having flown so far
said and seen so much
more than memories
we hope
more that hot-talk
we say
some half–smile at the pile
of good intentions
and on the closing day
we re-commit to link ups
strategies to follow through
a collective draft is printed
a declaration is signed
and in a few hours
we wave, shake,hug
turn our backs
and take flight
in opposite directions
with more luggage
than we landed with
a week-or-so ago
with much more
or way less
than some bargained for

First Forum of the Global Network of Religions for Children GNRC - May 2000, Osaka, Japan