THE CHILD OF MULATTO PARENTS
Today,
I made
a human experiment
In my kitchen.
I called it despair
After a few days,
maggots
began to crawl
out of the pot.
****
TODAY I WILL WRITE ABOUT FORGIVENESS, ABOUT HAVING A FORGIVING HEART
My mother
has turned into
a fire hydrant
She waters
the garden
with a boomslang
in her hand
Charles Bukowski
watches her
His eyes, two brown cells
He smiles at my mother, the fire hydrant
But she just ignores him
as if he isn’t standing there
He dips
a rusk
into the tea
There’s a tiny earthquake in the cup
Waves across the saucer
The tea spills into the verdant-green silence
Its perfume
The sound of the hosepipe, water gushing
out of it
Birdsong
We’re all free now, says Chris Hani
Bukowski nods
I don’t agree
But I don’t say anything
George Botha
and Stephen Bantu Biko
play a game of chess
If philosophy is medicine, what is poetry?
Albert Camus remarks
Frantz Fanon
turns his head
in the direction
of the cacti and says,
Philosophy is philosophy is philosophy
Fanon, who am I to disagree, says Camus
There’s a knock
at the front door
It’s another pilgrim
on a spiritual mission
They want to meet
The other pilgrims present
I made more tea
Bukowski says
that he wishes
he had been happier
I remark how well I know that feeling
Anna Akhmatova
and I spoke about the men
that we had loved and adored,
and the men who had left us
We spoke about the women we became
as we lost our innocence
as we grew older
and the springtime
of our youth
faded away
Petya Dubarova is quiet
You’re a rebel, Hani says
She’s a poetess, Camus says
She’s a teenager
She wants to be left alone,
I want to holler
But I can’t seem to find the words
Petya stares into the distance
as if mountains are gazing back at her
Look! The roses
The parsley, the mint
The flowers sparkling
Their mouths, rainbows
No spoiled identity here
No stigma
No fractured sensibility
Yes, no stigma
Look! Look!
There’s Patrice Lumumba
under the shade
of the guava tree
dancing
cheek-to-cheek
with his wife
Look! Look!
My father, my father!
A young man
before he had me
before my sister came along
then his namesake
He puts his arms around my mother
And kisses her cheek
And she laughs
She laughs
While I hand out fortune cookies
And the earth is still round
The glaciers are melting at the North Pole
There is still a hole in the ozone layer
They want to colonise Mars
They still send rockets to space
Babies are still being born in refugee camps
But my mother is laughing
My mother is happy
And my father is a young man
in the prime of his life
It is not too late to forgive you
No, it is not too late to forgive you, my brother
It is like the habitat of mitochondria
Forgiveness is a work-in-progress
It is a process.
****
THE REMEMBRANCE OF GOD
Yesterday, my brother taught me
how to make soup
Today, I cut up the onions
I followed his instructions
My brother still struggles with anger
But there is a light in his eyes again
that wasn’t there before
He is writing a book
containing the universal truth of God’s Holy Law
I think it is going to change the world
The past doesn’t define who we are
It is a mental illness to live in the past
Be kind. Just be kind
Be the change you want to see in the world,
Mahatma Gandhi said that
It was God who gave me a brother
He is younger than me,
but infinitely wiser
I am following his instructions for making soup
Hey, Brother!
Every woman has a mind of her own
Hey, Brother!
You are my world & I love you so very much
And the last thing I want to tell you
Your recovery-journey inspires me everyday
Maybe tomorrow you will think of the past
and you will be quiet
or angry with yourself
But I am making you a cup of coffee
that will greet you this morning
I am pouring the sweetness of love, yes, and forgiveness into it.
****
CONSTANT CRAVING
“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.” -T.S. Eliot
The fragrance of the wildflowers listens to my heart
How eloquent are the wounds of the bored skulls
The first woman was the Amazon rainforest
Her husband, the firm bones of the Nile
Sun, lover of portraits of solitude
Moon, the awakening of sight
The Kingdoms of sadness
On the other side of the threshold, Switzerland
Insomnia, the cool paws of a kitten
On the vessel of my body
Silke Heiss
Chris Abani
Petya Dubarova
Adiela Akoo
Leonard Cohen
Kwame Dawes
David Ishaya Osu
Tuoyo Palmer
Their poems, spells,
their religions like prayer and hymns in the roses
leaving me with the vision of Jung in my hands
Love, don’t bury it
Don’t conceal it, don’t hide it
Yes, everything is spiritual
The breeze chants and chants and chants
I keep meeting the same people, and I have
realised, that there is repair in letting go
Blackest sadness, today you made me smile
Even though it was cold
And I did not have gloves for my hands
Branches crack through the air
The storm, the stone, the prophet approaches
The moths do a kind of ballet.
****
READING WHATSAPP TEXTS FROM THE NIGERIAN POET, TUOYO PALMER
The sea of my childhood
Softened each blow of my mother’s
Spiritual erosion
My bitterness is also my joy
Little earthquakes, their instincts, seismic
People have left me in hard times
Have they left you in hard times?
At night-time, the feverish trees outside my window listened
To my soundless weeping
The flame of the candle, a silent witness
It was my mother who took me to the psychiatrist
When I was sixteen years old
This is my ministry
The flowers, the garden, my father resting
Knitting this scarf
And then God spoke
And then the answers came,
It will keep you going. Your dreams will be believed
For you. It is a feeling. This is for you. You are
A human being. There was no difference between
Your ignorance, and the man’s who was briefly in your life
I am turning into my mother, into my father,
every youth of the northern areas, every youth
at my father’s school, Rilke’s long-suffering wife,
Rilke’s ministry, also aloes from Bethelsdorp.
Daybreak,
dawning,
those who work night shift yawning,
Korsten,
Schauderville,
Timothy Valley,
Barcelona,
Sanctor,
Bloemendal.
I am turning
into the sky above
the northern areas,
school gardens, libraries.
The books
found in those
libraries
have osteoporosis.
The learners are not allowed to remove them from the school property
Or take them out to read.
I read
the poems of Rustum Kozain
and Joseph Fasano.
Poets are physicians too.
Tyler Perry was right, you can’t be angry with the people
who forced you into your dream.
I won’t.
Not anymore.
****
Poetry (c) Abigail George
Image: Frederik Merten Unsplash cropped