(6 poems)
by Abu Bakr Solomons
B———light
Does the pope’s walk of words for his followers’ scandal of evil –
‘’assimilate, you savage Inuit!’’ – heal wounds…
?
Can the German nation’s Nazi guilt ever pluck their demons
from the gas chambers of history …
?
Will Yale-groomed American presidents bring reparation for the bloody sweat
of African slaves stripped and sold in the colonies…
?
Who will clean the killing fields of Cambodia, purge the blood-stained earth
and placate haunting sorrows of the Khmer and their Buddha’s tears …
?
Will TRCs usher deliverance to lives forced into barren Bantustans and beer-stained rape
tortured in detentions of the mind and matter…
?
Who is the real enemy the mountain men in Afghanistan are battling
when they veil and chain their girls and women…
?
Can we expect to leave the shadows of chaos
Or imagine we will ever be reprieved?
Why not sanction sin, commit abuse, as we ponder:
are we born free?
Remembering me
(for Rhoda Kadalie)
When you speak about me
after my death
speak about me
not yourself
say how I am missed
for things you didn’t like
don’t sanitize my memory
by outlining only my virtues
let me stand between you
and the line that divides us
just as I was, authentic, not
some polite version of me
tell the people how obnoxious
I was at times, even offensive
how I hated safe superficiality
political correctness
Speak about me, not what
you think you should say
about me, to satisfy protocol
talk about all of me
if you want to remember me.
Spectre, Malmesbury
Seeking salvation’s never been easy:
even if you cloister yourself during
sacred hours in a house of worship
retreating to rise above the profane.
Nothing safeguards supplication
for vengeance and zealous bigotry
become a butcher’s knife that slits
a throat, plunges into a pious body
in the middle of a night – fallen heart
submitting to visions of delusional
bliss, blinking from blood-drenched
miasmic and macabre missions.
All that’s left is knowing that the walls
of a mosque, a town’s healing springs,
have collapsed, inhabitants now ruled
by fear and perpetual threat.
A bullet-riddled stranger lying in the
dust is a spectre offering no clues,
except to say: it has arrived, no longer
a faraway figment that menaces others.
Wig (less)
(for Precious Gumede)
I looked at your profile pic
and saw that you were not
donning a wig anymore
It felt, after so many
years, that I finally saw
you, real, bold and true
Your beautiful dark eyes
contoured eyebrows
and generous lips
all seemed so distinct
defined, unspoiled by
a shadow of fibred crown
Then you confirmed
how relieved you felt after
wearing it for sixteen years
how long you struggled with
make believe (oh what we
do to ourselves to be loved)
you exclaimed how elevating
it is to feel rain pattering on your
head, no pulling and flattening
and the dreadful itch is gone
vanquished like a persistent
curse, punishment, exorcised
Finally you are free to declare:
I am here – no longer fraught
with the moil of shame
re-entering my world with
my soft, shiny, ebony crop
laid bare, so triumphantly
Ageing
There is a community of folk,
often invisible, overlooked
somewhat during busy days.
They move slowly, with ease,
making time seem insignificant
yet the morning’s pre-eminent.
Neat, meticulous, hair groomed,
their style ‘s perfunctory,
carefully weather-conditioned.
Sometimes there’s a hint of glamour:
an emphasized eyebrow, ruby lips,
blue-rinsed hair, spiffy cap.
Shopping is sound and sensible,
an odd small indulgence tossed in,
hesitantly.
There are signs that ankles hurt,
a nerve pinches, an eyelid sags,
copper bangles are a panacea.
Going home is about settling into orderliness,
where waiting is routine.
Memory a visitor.
Peace is paleness, a soft skin,
cup of tea and a light muffin,
stroking a cat in a scanty room
where the air is fresh,
light dim.
Love, mined
Love that is buried in a memory can be mined,
unearthed, brought to the surface,
raised towards the light,
and there be duly resurrected,
stroked, brushed, restored in shafts of the heart;
strung together ruby red,
glowing ceaselessly in eras
when mad men, mayhem, anarchic adventures,
hatred and greed,
shun love.
Between sediments of time,
love’s cooled with tender songs, loyalty sublime,
yet stays undefiled,
intact and alive.
To revive such a love is to rebuke shadows,
defy age, the tyranny of time, foolish frailty;
love buried in memory is a rare find
yet a gift tied to time: sobering sorrows,
sombre days.
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