Poetry

The God in Poetry: Two Poems by Amandla Didiza

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The God in Poetry

As I drink deeper from the source of my brother’s keeper, I lose myself in the expression. As I soak my conscience in the basin of love I have for You, revealing every human emotion as I draw close to You, where my Holy desire lies at the surface, my prayer becomes my confession. Putting words On paper to Express in part, Thought from me Right to Your heart. As I undress before you I feel your warmth and forget every single piece of clothing that ever existed. As though time stood still for that second where I looked into your heart, I articulate sounds with the ordinary voice; speak to me, thy servant hears, I insisted. Teach me what its like to be held by You and I promise I won’t remember how it feels to be left by someone you love. Un-tie me from the rope that seeks to take my breath and I’ll look for life above. Time after time, rhyme after rhyme, I look forward to bright seasons, yet all I can do is mime. If such freedom was the table that dined the beginning of mankind, then I curse the birth of common life for making me so blind. A place where there is less of me and more of You, from a view that can only subdue the minds of a few I shall find my rest on these words so true. They told me that the purpose of a writer is to keep humanity from destroying itself, yet the battle to the Promised Land leaves my mind dry in the sand of this barren land. Trying to articulate where I’m coming from as simply as possible. Stumbling across words that make sense as syllables, nouns and verbs on their own, but when put together define an unqualified state of mind. Trying to create a public illusion of a social status, I’m tired of this repressive system trying to contain us. My eyes are ever on You, for only You will release my feet from the snare. Do not remember the sins of my youth and my rebellious ways; according to your love remember me, for You are good to me. Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. Relieve the troubles of my heart and free me from my anguish. Deliver my Israel, O soul, of mind control, from all its troubles! The unconsciousness of pretentiousness of my own kind leaves me questioning my own black consciousness. To my disgust what now interests us is the lust for power in us that manifests distrust. Forgiveness is releasing a prisoner only to find out that prisoner is you. So let spiritual wickedness leave me so I can offer all the love and praises to You. My peace in poetry leaves me longing for more of Thee.

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Trip to Zion

Just as a snake sheds its skin, the perplexed nature of the African diaspora embarks on a paradigm shift, leaving reasonable doubt on the next of kin/

Strangers standing at an African doorway, deeply lost as the framework that constructs their identity, yet keep the face that is associated with the death within/

From leopard skin to Roberto Cavali, from Gana Kakaza to Muhammad Ali, the measure of the ideal man with a taint of black pigment is the ability to monopolise foreign culture, the “black divali”/

I look on as they embrace the eloquence of my words, as they seductively slip off the tip of my tongue and tickle the veins of creativity which shape my integrity/

Echoes of mercy and rhythmic elements of Don Mattera and alike visit me; I have abandoned my flesh and self-interest is the Broadway to death. I stand with a staff of inequity/

Prone to this facade, the image of black individuality I disregard/

The esoteric reference of the spiritual point from which reality emerges is one which I should guard/

With timid images of fire burning, the souls of a thousand yearning, the stampede and the sound of the soles of ancestors touching the soil, and waking up the likes of Abraham, Jacob and Isaac; erupting my mind, opening my eyes as I toil over the mountain of Calvary/

The smell of a second without sin invites a breath of life from within, I gaze upon my cavalry/

I stand before the cross of my Redeemer/

A Man said to have died to bring peace to my Hiroshima/

I stare at the crown where His head rest, where vultures and animals of the air have now made their nest, and I can still see His eyes fixed on the sky Above/

I move down with the stain, dried blood that has sunk into the wood and formed lines like the strings of a harp that plays a melody of memory, the whips and chains of my transgression have carved a new figure, and where His feet lay I see engraved the word Love/

I cannot comprehend the immaculate sentiment of intent that covers me as I shed tears of resentment/

What a sight to behold, yet its history barely told/

What started as an empty letter suddenly sparked the first page that filled a book, an ode to Your mighty recognition/

A comprehension with no introduction, my conclusion refers to sublime submission/

Israel still has a future, even after losing all/

If justice is punishment and mercy is pardon, I too shall stand even after my fall/

I’ve heard of a struggle’s cry, but never

a warrior’s roar/

Destitution and necessity are no longer my flaws/

That second without sin is my Psalm to a new life; love to be loved is what I live for/

Zion, in silence, your son waits for you to open your door/

As peace returns its weapons to war, I am in exile no more/

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© Amandla Didiza

Image: Bigstock.com

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