Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

walk angels (with broken wings) alone

Enlarge poem

walk angels (with broken wings) alone
open-ness of wounds
The scar-parade

exhibition of inhibitions
Showing exterior of the interior
that manifests in the majority of the inferior
who show-face of internals
during relationship intervals
For it took hurting someone I love
to…understand the permanent gesture of a one-night-stand…
when hair at the back of your neck do hand-stands in ovation
of cowards who brave the cold in telling truth about lies…
Behind every hand-clap to poems I’ve written lay the comfort of not feeling bad about the fact: me ruining my life
words retreat to mouth
cant come-out “China’s number”
empty cups, of mean-mugs from street-thugs, asking for a “loose fag”
yet, them cursing the gay with a straight face
Prophets if doom, with whom lies the Gospel title “Gods messengers”
their moving-soft voices, yet still-hard to preach/exorcise the devils out-in their mirror

It’s not always the saints pointing out the sinners
lesson learnt from “pretend-prefects” at my high’s cool
if they drink a cup of my thoughts
…my brain swirled then around their half-drunk teacups…
mentally-french-kissing all that have watched me
as they’re “sipping what I’m spitting… ”
I get on the plate
when the brain has a dinner-date
with the head
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
often realising that the “free-gifts” are uniquely expensive
When I go off, on topics that people refute, found refuge in what you refuse
denounce/reverb the spoken mistakes…
i write with the unsharpened pencil, these blunt words
of how i may not need a girlfriend, if i have someone to believe in
I listen to her cry so much, i was all tears
and if I could use my plastic power for good, I wood
and how they killed our belief in feeling that plants, and the earth’s greens are not alive
the condemnation of the meat-eater, conversions to being vegetarian
i have to catch-up as the dead-cloned-tomato that now drapes your potatoes, something’s fishy
I took all the sky-stars and aimed them at celebrities
Shooting-stars with shooting stars

Ntsika Tyatya

Featured Poem:

White Flag

Enlarge poem

A white flag, evidently rose from the ashes
With our hands, phoenix-like, reaching for the heavens
Our fists defying gravity.
Knees in the earth – proof of our submission
Our arms laid down, in all their humility – grounded.
Fear…war-painted on our faces
Loyalty, a half-tied noose around our necks…
The death of an ego…
Confidence forced off the bench.
We give in…
To the voice inside
We live to try another day…
The battle scars
When the war ends,
And the blood of the brave, is now watering flower-beds
Needs us to yield, surrender…
We have to quieten down the noise of the drones and tanks
Choose life and breath
Allow the soldiers to rebuild broken homes and bridges burnt
Raise our flags, give peace a try,
Relinquish the rage
concede to our humanity
We cannot all be charging bulls
When we see red.
As behind the flag is man with a sharp object.
The fight is not lost, just paused.
…for the cause.

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (1)
  • Pride (0)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (1)
  • Reflection (1)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (1)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (1)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (1)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Comments

Your email address will not be published.

Biography

Ntsika Tyatya is a writer, poet, spoken word performer who is from Nelson Mandela Bay, he has been active in the poetry scene for the past 12 years. After co-producing weekly poetry sessions in Port Elizabeth in 2006, he created SLAM ( Student’s Literature and Arts Movement) in 2008, which was the first slam poetry society at Cape Peninsula University of Technology. He was the headliner and finalist in the Cape Town poets search competition, Poetry Delight, as well as a headliner at the East London weekly poetry sessions; Brute Force. 2012 he was one of the headlining poets at the National Book Week. He has graced the stages with Luka Lesson (AUS), Lesego Rampolokeng, Lebo Mashile, Ntsiki Mazwai, Bongeziwe Mabandla, Don Mattera, Afurakhan, The Brother Moves on, Zubz, Mxo, Tumi to name few. In 2014 he partnered with Word and Sound, as the Eastern Cape facilitator in their Slam Your Life national competition that was held in Grahamstown.

He currently pursues a BA in Corporate Communication and has assisted with conceptualising both Maxhosa exhibitions in 2013 and 2014. He was part of the company that assisted in bringing Ian Kamau (Canada), Tutu Puoane (Holland) Vatiswa Ndara (SA), to Nelson Mandela Bay. He freelances in communication for various artists and businesses.

Ntsika Tyatya

Biography

Ntsika Tyatya is a writer, poet, spoken word performer who is from Nelson Mandela Bay, he has been active in the poetry scene for the past 12 years. After co-producing weekly poetry sessions in Port Elizabeth in 2006, he created SLAM ( Student’s Literature and Arts Movement) in 2008, which was the first slam poetry society at Cape Peninsula University of Technology. He was the headliner and finalist in the Cape Town poets search competition, Poetry Delight, as well as a headliner at the East London weekly poetry sessions; Brute Force. 2012 he was one of the headlining poets at the National Book Week. He has graced the stages with Luka Lesson (AUS), Lesego Rampolokeng, Lebo Mashile, Ntsiki Mazwai, Bongeziwe Mabandla, Don Mattera, Afurakhan, The Brother Moves on, Zubz, Mxo, Tumi to name few. In 2014 he partnered with Word and Sound, as the Eastern Cape facilitator in their Slam Your Life national competition that was held in Grahamstown.

He currently pursues a BA in Corporate Communication and has assisted with conceptualising both Maxhosa exhibitions in 2013 and 2014. He was part of the company that assisted in bringing Ian Kamau (Canada), Tutu Puoane (Holland) Vatiswa Ndara (SA), to Nelson Mandela Bay. He freelances in communication for various artists and businesses.

walk angels (with broken wings) alone

Enlarge poem

walk angels (with broken wings) alone
open-ness of wounds
The scar-parade

exhibition of inhibitions
Showing exterior of the interior
that manifests in the majority of the inferior
who show-face of internals
during relationship intervals
For it took hurting someone I love
to…understand the permanent gesture of a one-night-stand…
when hair at the back of your neck do hand-stands in ovation
of cowards who brave the cold in telling truth about lies…
Behind every hand-clap to poems I’ve written lay the comfort of not feeling bad about the fact: me ruining my life
words retreat to mouth
cant come-out “China’s number”
empty cups, of mean-mugs from street-thugs, asking for a “loose fag”
yet, them cursing the gay with a straight face
Prophets if doom, with whom lies the Gospel title “Gods messengers”
their moving-soft voices, yet still-hard to preach/exorcise the devils out-in their mirror

It’s not always the saints pointing out the sinners
lesson learnt from “pretend-prefects” at my high’s cool
if they drink a cup of my thoughts
…my brain swirled then around their half-drunk teacups…
mentally-french-kissing all that have watched me
as they’re “sipping what I’m spitting… ”
I get on the plate
when the brain has a dinner-date
with the head
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
often realising that the “free-gifts” are uniquely expensive
When I go off, on topics that people refute, found refuge in what you refuse
denounce/reverb the spoken mistakes…
i write with the unsharpened pencil, these blunt words
of how i may not need a girlfriend, if i have someone to believe in
I listen to her cry so much, i was all tears
and if I could use my plastic power for good, I wood
and how they killed our belief in feeling that plants, and the earth’s greens are not alive
the condemnation of the meat-eater, conversions to being vegetarian
i have to catch-up as the dead-cloned-tomato that now drapes your potatoes, something’s fishy
I took all the sky-stars and aimed them at celebrities
Shooting-stars with shooting stars

Featured Poem:

White Flag

Enlarge poem

A white flag, evidently rose from the ashes
With our hands, phoenix-like, reaching for the heavens
Our fists defying gravity.
Knees in the earth – proof of our submission
Our arms laid down, in all their humility – grounded.
Fear…war-painted on our faces
Loyalty, a half-tied noose around our necks…
The death of an ego…
Confidence forced off the bench.
We give in…
To the voice inside
We live to try another day…
The battle scars
When the war ends,
And the blood of the brave, is now watering flower-beds
Needs us to yield, surrender…
We have to quieten down the noise of the drones and tanks
Choose life and breath
Allow the soldiers to rebuild broken homes and bridges burnt
Raise our flags, give peace a try,
Relinquish the rage
concede to our humanity
We cannot all be charging bulls
When we see red.
As behind the flag is man with a sharp object.
The fight is not lost, just paused.
…for the cause.

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (1)
  • Pride (0)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (1)
  • Reflection (1)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (1)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (1)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (1)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

walk angels (with broken wings) alone

Enlarge poem

walk angels (with broken wings) alone
open-ness of wounds
The scar-parade

exhibition of inhibitions
Showing exterior of the interior
that manifests in the majority of the inferior
who show-face of internals
during relationship intervals
For it took hurting someone I love
to…understand the permanent gesture of a one-night-stand…
when hair at the back of your neck do hand-stands in ovation
of cowards who brave the cold in telling truth about lies…
Behind every hand-clap to poems I’ve written lay the comfort of not feeling bad about the fact: me ruining my life
words retreat to mouth
cant come-out “China’s number”
empty cups, of mean-mugs from street-thugs, asking for a “loose fag”
yet, them cursing the gay with a straight face
Prophets if doom, with whom lies the Gospel title “Gods messengers”
their moving-soft voices, yet still-hard to preach/exorcise the devils out-in their mirror

It’s not always the saints pointing out the sinners
lesson learnt from “pretend-prefects” at my high’s cool
if they drink a cup of my thoughts
…my brain swirled then around their half-drunk teacups…
mentally-french-kissing all that have watched me
as they’re “sipping what I’m spitting… ”
I get on the plate
when the brain has a dinner-date
with the head
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
often realising that the “free-gifts” are uniquely expensive
When I go off, on topics that people refute, found refuge in what you refuse
denounce/reverb the spoken mistakes…
i write with the unsharpened pencil, these blunt words
of how i may not need a girlfriend, if i have someone to believe in
I listen to her cry so much, i was all tears
and if I could use my plastic power for good, I wood
and how they killed our belief in feeling that plants, and the earth’s greens are not alive
the condemnation of the meat-eater, conversions to being vegetarian
i have to catch-up as the dead-cloned-tomato that now drapes your potatoes, something’s fishy
I took all the sky-stars and aimed them at celebrities
Shooting-stars with shooting stars

Comments

Your email address will not be published.