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Thursday, March 8, 2012

Uprooted Rose

Breaking fabrics of our relationship
Showed rusty glitz
Like dusty aging plastic tits
The gleams of my love light died
Like fading hope of repudiated seeds

So I saw we were just two souls
Cocooned in secrecy of one fleshly room
Dancing out of sync with the rhythm of one heart
Just two spirits intertwined repeatedly
In raging wars with each other

Then I realized without the use of
Rotating swords, gazing guns
And swinging knives
We had to break-up…….

©Mpoba knowledge Monyeke


These streets echo their broken silences
To the ears of bleeding hills and crying mountain peaks
These streets bear footprints of unsung heroes
These streets give birth to children who raise themselves
By themselves for themselves only to be
Named street kids…

These streets breathe greed and sink it into
The lungs of these children
Even birds don’t sing here
They might get shot while chanting
Their freedom melodies…

These concrete floors dance to silent music
Of daunted spirits buried in these streets
At least Jozi streets feed the pigeons
But Maseru streets are full of lifeless concrete blocks….

©2012_monyeke_ mpoba_knowledge

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

the value and state of poetry -eye opener

As a creative writing student (extra-mural studies) at the University of Johannesburg, I have learnt that writing (poetry) without sincerity and honesty is useless and not worth listening to. Without sounding too political, I would like to quote one of the most prolific writers of all times Langston Hughes-" the pre-requisite for writing is having something to say”. With this being said, one would wonder what's the point  I am trying to make here.Ok, whenever a poet (writer) holds his pen to inject the paper with his thoughts, feelings or emotions with respect to any  issue, what matters most to me, is honesty behind the writing. Being a poet myself, I have talked to numerous art-practitioners in Maseru and Jozi, in pursuit of knowing what makes them distinct from the "mass of poets in the box”. The most common answer- ability to be oneself in one's writing. Does that ring a bell? You may be wondering what I mean by "the mass of poets in the box". WELL. Have you ever heard some poets sounding the same or muffling up their voices tying to be someone else?
From my point of view majority of people calling  themselves poets are puppets of entertainment, just merely role playing and good-show-makers. One of the Mountain Kingdom lyrical giants and rap activists- CORE-WRECKAH once wrote on those KOL hip-hop needs the gatekeepers- I also believe that. Innocuously speaking, poetry is the most open art form but sadly gets tracked in a mud. The state of poetry in KOL is slowly growing in terms of support, however I still wonder if our own poetry will one day be read and taught at school! Frankly, I too like my fellow brother and poet Lyrical Bacteria don't see the use of having 600 poets who recite, write and sound the same. If we continue being replicas of others, in no time our beautiful art (poetry) will reach the verge of collapse. Da Principal (one of the most established poets in Lesotho) of POETS ALIVE CREW defines poetry as blending of emotion with thought. Bearing this in mind, then how does a poet become him/herself while replicating the other? Like verbal st said "our artists have their minds inculcated in the survival of the fittest ideology"- hence the copycat behavioural attributes. This has been inspired by da principal's ten instalments of poetry through the lenses of a microscope...just think ABOUT IT. TO BE CONTINUED!!!
© Mpoba monyeke
Posted by POETS ALIVE CREW at 3:44 AM 0 comments 

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

childmolestation is wrong all the time tolerance

8 .Emotionally Cold At Thirteen 
The lick of his torture tongue aggravates pain
Like she has her lungs immersed in blood,
She coughs hurts, exhales agony through her eyes.

Winter tries so hard to erect barriers of defense
But only with liquid self-confidence,
Then step-grandfather has already jumped the boarders
And invaded the territory of this virgin heart, 
His verbal barbed wire strips flesh
From her self-esteem and breaks her back-bone
Leaving blood oozing from the wounds within
Every night hell breaks loose with 'the supreme
Demon' caressing her thighs and breasts,
Reading through 'her book' that she once promised
Herself to keep it closed until she reaches twenty one.
Her interior landscapes polluted by fear toxins
She inhales from the monster figure's atmosphere,
She keeps her mouth absolutely shut.
She has no one to cry to because to
Father’s family she is a rejected seed,
And her father died when she was conceived
While her mother passed on during her child birth.
"I guess life is mean, she said".

Every day she is dressed in tears with
Nile eroding her facial make up,
Hiding her hurts and fears with a
Fake fragile smile, but analyzing the
Situation through her eyes, even a blind man
Could see that deep down she is a lost soul
Abhorrence woven into every fabric of her thoughts,
She is disgusted by every glimpse of him,
She hates his hands invading her private faculties!

The lick of his torture tongue aggravates pain
Like she has her lungs immersed in blood,
She exudes hurts, and exhales agony through her eyes

Being tongue-tied and introvert, silence murders
Winter’s self-worth, crushes it into fine fragments,
She is emotionally cold, and is so the name.
She writes sad episodes of her life, trying to find a healing
For the misery the future is about to un-hold,
As in destiny the heavens are about to unfold.

Survival is tougher than that of the seeds
That fell on concrete streets.
She decides to be bold, and takes the matter to the police,
Guess what she gets from the police officer!
A sense of relief like one would think, not exactly that
But the heart-rending situation is exacerbated,
Like step-grand dad, he too forces himself
On her as to 'harden the evidence'
Indeed she was born from the sorry side
She thinks of choosing the grave over life
By committing suicide as the hand that once
Protected and nurtured her is the hand that finally
Molested her

On second thoughts, she makes a phone
Call to the toll free number 0800 05 5555
Lays and presses charges of abuse and rape,
Being the person she is talking to
I totally decide to find her psychiatric treatment,
Lock the monsters up, offer them prison cells
As their life time homes 'cause that's where they belong.
It's upon ordinary people like you and I to eradicate
These monsters, pedophiles and child molesters from
Our social scene….

© Mpoba Monyeke
 male poets project 2010 the courtesy of weeklymail newspaper in LESOTHO...

Friday, June 17, 2011

today i present to you the work of my fellow poet..the man from the BIBLE.

Virtuous Woman…
She  smiles  when  there  is  no  reason  to,  just  to  convince  me  that  she  is  happy  even  when  she  is  not.  She  always  tells  me  about  the  Lord,  tells  me  that  I  have  to  quit  my  odd  lifestyle. She never makes vain promises, hates seeing me in pain.  She takes the blame for all my faults.  Without her my life is a blur.  I love  how  her  fair  hair  matches  my  fur  coat.  She  is  a  complex  specie,  her  complexion  is  yellowish  like  fresh  almonds,  her  face  glitters  like  crafted  Sierra  Leone  diamonds  every time  she  sees  me.  Every  time  we  debate  I  let  my  points  abate  before  I  abdicate  as  my  will  is  to  make  her  elate  all  the  time.
 In  South  Africa’s  population  she  is  one  in  49  million,  I  would  kill  an  army  of  a  million  Shaka  Zulu  warriors  for  her.  After  the  war  I  would  open  up  all  the  contents  of  my  heart  to  her and  tell  her  where  my  strength  lies  because  she  is  far  different  from  Delilah.  She  separated  me  from  boys  like  a  quality  sieve,  far  different  from  Eve  so  with  her  the  serpent  is  bound  to  fail.  I  hail  her  name  with  pride,  I  can’t  wait  to  make  her  my  bride  and  abide  to  her  simple  pleads.  Before  I  turn  my  back  on  her  I  kiss  her  on  the  forehead.  I  can’t  wait  to  introduce  her  to  my  forefather’s.  No  sex  before  marriage  I  let  her  remain  a  virgin  until  our  honeymoon.  That’s  when  I  will  passionately  make  love  to  her  under  a  full  moon.  And taste the bloom of her pink lips.  Clips  of  a  happy  couple  will  be  shared  via  Spiritual  Bluetooth  by  the  angels  of  the  heaven  as  a  testimony  to  the  Father  that  two  soul mates  have  indeed  tied  the  knot.
Her  presence  in  my  life  is  invaluable  and  she  is  more  reliable  than  the  terms  and  conditions  of  my  furniture  shop.  She  is  an  innocuous  specie,  she  is  more  precious  than  pearls.  She is far more expensive than rubies.  Every  woman  is  jealous  of  her  and  that  makes  me  zealous  of  her.  As  she  watches  the  stars  at  night  I  am  presented  with  an  opportunity  to  watch  her  blossom  in  our  bosom  moments.  Virtuous Woman your truly are a blessing to me.  I love you.
© Danny Mahaba

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

"they say life is a struggle..i know what i know there is no need to convince you"

13. Messed Up Broken Home

This kingdom is a messed up broken home
Where indigenous people travel and live
As foreign slaves in their own native land,
And my people's dreams are like castles built on sand
To be eroded and washed by rains of corporate greed
People of this place struggle to meet their basic needs.

Four decades of independence are meaningless
To people who can't have their views openly expressed.
This kingdom is a place where my people are sold to Asian states
Lesotho is a rut that releases stenches of putrid democracy
Progenies of this home flinch from the truth because
They are scared of being whipped with iron “kopere”.

Lesotho is a messed up broken home
Where dictatorship and aristocracy are synonyms for democracy,
And this place is a global joke and a comic relief
As it fails to feed only 1.8 million people!
You can’t comprehend this poem if you are not
Compelled by major forces of life like HIV
To be a head of a family at the age of twelve

You can't relate to this unless you’re a child who lost one parent
During the 2005 textile industry workers massacre,
Or a parent who went through a loss of child
In the 2009 brutal shooting of NUL students,
Or breadwinners that sell sweets alongside
Maseru streets and get chased by MCC guards.

This kingdom in the sky is a loose broken home
Where freedom of speech is locked up in slavery archives
Freedom fighters are frightened with fire and brimstone,
So don't tell me to vote, if I do, what will it be for?
To vote for people who will only masticate the cake’s cream
Right before my eyes while I’m licking my desiccated lips,
With my stomach humming a sorrow-filled chorus of hunger
I can't vote for an indirect concealed colonialism!

© Knowledge Mpoba Monyeke



Thursday, May 5, 2011