Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

As I Took My Last Sip of That Dublin Beer

Enlarge poem

You going home homie?
You going home kinta kunte
You going home to africa?

It was only fair that I insult him back
That I sharpen words and fire
Etching and branding it clearly
Across his skin
Lest he forget and do it again
To some other unsuspecting victim

It was only fair I expose him,
That I remind him
In his old age
it is Kinta Kunte
And his mother who wipe his ass
Lest he forget and bite
The hand that wipes

It was only fair that I respond in furious anger
That my knuckles speak for me
I was not articulate enough to convey the sorrows of being orphaned to the likes of him.
When you are older wounds take longer to heal
Lest he forget from whence they came.

It was only fair,
But life is not fair.
At least I had a good beer.

Thato Ntshabele

Featured Poem:

Signs Of The Struggle

Enlarge poem

Like ripples
When water is troubled
There are signs of the struggle
Like the sound of rustling as the wind blows through leaves,
There are signs of the struggle
Like heat on the forehead
When a fever rages
There are signs of the struggle.
And some struggle more than others.
Ripple more, rustle more, burn more.

The pages felt like a formless landscape
An endless expanse of ideascape
To escape this cape of humanity that cages the god in him.
A place where he
Forms and unforms,
Builds and destroys
In the beginning those
Pages were his earth
Formless and void
And with every word he breathed life
On to dead pages
Dividing light and dark
Earth and sky
Land and sea
Night and day

Till the white was clothed
In a lush metaphorical green,
Reaching skywards
As though trying to bring
Down a piece of heaven,
Through pages
On an earth where hell rages

But there are signs of the struggle,
Unable to escape his cape,
Shards of humanity pierce the God in him
Causing the cause off course
And suddenly he who forms and unforms deforms
Leaving twilights between light and dark
Pillars of earth invading the sky
Uncertain if their genesis
Land is the seas nemesis
The lush metaphorical greens
Metamophose
into rainbows of hurt and sorrow,
Paradise doesn’t rain,
But his poured endless showers
As if trying to wash away the signs
And return to white pages
On an earth where hell rages
But u know as well as I do,
The struggle continues…

And there are signs of the struggle.
Like coffee stains on table tops
When work spills over hours
Like Darker than black skid marks
On the road to collision
When the brakes are not enough.
Like frowns on faces
When joy and sorrow
Switch places

The more he wrote
The harder it became
It was as if heaven
Was alive with malice
The closer he got
The further it ran
Reaching for something
Unattainable all he could get
On his pages was blurred images.
Of what could have been perfection
If you could see right
Or if he could rewrite
But life is seldom so kind
Some scenes you can’t unwrite
And most sentences you can’t unspeak
He battled with the pages
Pen in hand
Struggling to keep
His world pure
But words
Often without remorse
Relentlessly haunt the speaker
And Spoken to
Speaking that hidden power into situations
And even as he picked up the 9th pen
to write for the 100th time
on 71st piece of fresh paper
There were signs of the struggle…

Like the way his hand kept shaking
As if overcome by the sudden
Desire to write something other
What was currently being written
There were signs of struggle
Like the labored breathing
Heavy, difficult breaths as though suppressing
Urges seditious to the current endeavour
Hardly intelligeble handwritting
As fingers choked rebelious the pen into
Spitting out what ink it had,
Into words.
he wrote, sometimes retracing as if to add more meaning,
Yet the more he wrote,
The less meaning it seemed to have,
Like scribbles on paper.
But that was only a sign of the struggle…
His words spoke in threes

Dear *leizel*
{Let the be light}
[Bull shit!]

How does this featured poem make you feel?

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  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
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Biography

Thato is a poet, currently working as a copywriter at an ad agency. He is also co-founder and current leader of the Poets Passport Organization in Botswana, a literary arts movement aimed at promoting literacy among the youth.

Thato started writing poetry when he was 10 years old, but started performing publicly and competing in slams when he was 18. He was active during his university years having won the Kuala Lumpor Slam Championship several times and lastly becoming the AsiaPac Champion in 2012 before returning to Botswana. In Botswana he has performed at 100,000 Poets for Change Event, and at the Poetavango Maun International Arts Festival.

One of Thato’s poems, Asphyxia was published in the inaugural edition of Readings at Readings, an anthology of Malaysian writers.

Thato is passionate about developing young writers and helping writers find their voice in their mother tongue.

Thato Ntshabele

Biography

Thato is a poet, currently working as a copywriter at an ad agency. He is also co-founder and current leader of the Poets Passport Organization in Botswana, a literary arts movement aimed at promoting literacy among the youth.

Thato started writing poetry when he was 10 years old, but started performing publicly and competing in slams when he was 18. He was active during his university years having won the Kuala Lumpor Slam Championship several times and lastly becoming the AsiaPac Champion in 2012 before returning to Botswana. In Botswana he has performed at 100,000 Poets for Change Event, and at the Poetavango Maun International Arts Festival.

One of Thato’s poems, Asphyxia was published in the inaugural edition of Readings at Readings, an anthology of Malaysian writers.

Thato is passionate about developing young writers and helping writers find their voice in their mother tongue.

As I Took My Last Sip of That Dublin Beer

Enlarge poem

You going home homie?
You going home kinta kunte
You going home to africa?

It was only fair that I insult him back
That I sharpen words and fire
Etching and branding it clearly
Across his skin
Lest he forget and do it again
To some other unsuspecting victim

It was only fair I expose him,
That I remind him
In his old age
it is Kinta Kunte
And his mother who wipe his ass
Lest he forget and bite
The hand that wipes

It was only fair that I respond in furious anger
That my knuckles speak for me
I was not articulate enough to convey the sorrows of being orphaned to the likes of him.
When you are older wounds take longer to heal
Lest he forget from whence they came.

It was only fair,
But life is not fair.
At least I had a good beer.

Featured Poem:

Signs Of The Struggle

Enlarge poem

Like ripples
When water is troubled
There are signs of the struggle
Like the sound of rustling as the wind blows through leaves,
There are signs of the struggle
Like heat on the forehead
When a fever rages
There are signs of the struggle.
And some struggle more than others.
Ripple more, rustle more, burn more.

The pages felt like a formless landscape
An endless expanse of ideascape
To escape this cape of humanity that cages the god in him.
A place where he
Forms and unforms,
Builds and destroys
In the beginning those
Pages were his earth
Formless and void
And with every word he breathed life
On to dead pages
Dividing light and dark
Earth and sky
Land and sea
Night and day

Till the white was clothed
In a lush metaphorical green,
Reaching skywards
As though trying to bring
Down a piece of heaven,
Through pages
On an earth where hell rages

But there are signs of the struggle,
Unable to escape his cape,
Shards of humanity pierce the God in him
Causing the cause off course
And suddenly he who forms and unforms deforms
Leaving twilights between light and dark
Pillars of earth invading the sky
Uncertain if their genesis
Land is the seas nemesis
The lush metaphorical greens
Metamophose
into rainbows of hurt and sorrow,
Paradise doesn’t rain,
But his poured endless showers
As if trying to wash away the signs
And return to white pages
On an earth where hell rages
But u know as well as I do,
The struggle continues…

And there are signs of the struggle.
Like coffee stains on table tops
When work spills over hours
Like Darker than black skid marks
On the road to collision
When the brakes are not enough.
Like frowns on faces
When joy and sorrow
Switch places

The more he wrote
The harder it became
It was as if heaven
Was alive with malice
The closer he got
The further it ran
Reaching for something
Unattainable all he could get
On his pages was blurred images.
Of what could have been perfection
If you could see right
Or if he could rewrite
But life is seldom so kind
Some scenes you can’t unwrite
And most sentences you can’t unspeak
He battled with the pages
Pen in hand
Struggling to keep
His world pure
But words
Often without remorse
Relentlessly haunt the speaker
And Spoken to
Speaking that hidden power into situations
And even as he picked up the 9th pen
to write for the 100th time
on 71st piece of fresh paper
There were signs of the struggle…

Like the way his hand kept shaking
As if overcome by the sudden
Desire to write something other
What was currently being written
There were signs of struggle
Like the labored breathing
Heavy, difficult breaths as though suppressing
Urges seditious to the current endeavour
Hardly intelligeble handwritting
As fingers choked rebelious the pen into
Spitting out what ink it had,
Into words.
he wrote, sometimes retracing as if to add more meaning,
Yet the more he wrote,
The less meaning it seemed to have,
Like scribbles on paper.
But that was only a sign of the struggle…
His words spoke in threes

Dear *leizel*
{Let the be light}
[Bull shit!]

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (4)
  • Pride (1)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (0)
  • Reflection (0)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

As I Took My Last Sip of That Dublin Beer

Enlarge poem

You going home homie?
You going home kinta kunte
You going home to africa?

It was only fair that I insult him back
That I sharpen words and fire
Etching and branding it clearly
Across his skin
Lest he forget and do it again
To some other unsuspecting victim

It was only fair I expose him,
That I remind him
In his old age
it is Kinta Kunte
And his mother who wipe his ass
Lest he forget and bite
The hand that wipes

It was only fair that I respond in furious anger
That my knuckles speak for me
I was not articulate enough to convey the sorrows of being orphaned to the likes of him.
When you are older wounds take longer to heal
Lest he forget from whence they came.

It was only fair,
But life is not fair.
At least I had a good beer.

Comments

Your email address will not be published.