(3 poems)
by Deon-Simphiwe Rakaku
Graaff-Reinet
The hinted sense of desolation
haunts
The woundedness of faces
one encounters
weighs heavy on the heart
such is crispness of a people charred
by not having
poverty
lives here
in the street
more viciously
than in the cities
what a bloody terrorist and bully
this damn poverty!
Beneath the Skin
These men’s faces are their Achilles Heels
Look at that fellow with fiery eyes
face torn by raging fists
He even bleeds from his solid temples
Skin is not steel that bends when emotions heat up
nor does it cave in like pounded zinc sheets
It invites sympathetic stares
when aggressive blows have spoken their truths
on a face that once glowed and defined a man
Look at the twisted and defeated lips of that other man with a rigid face
His profound apologies are etched on his face for all to see
while the champ trots and brays gloatingly
A matter needed to be straightened out,
and the victorious man’s attack was the best solution – it seems
Even the police do this sort of thing from time to time,
but in their case it’s usually war
Evidence of their brutality traces to batons, rifles and paralyzing terror
Sometimes the facial skin resists tearing
it bleaches from tempered fists
like that lanky man with panda eyes
His regret over his changed appearance
is sculptured perfectly on his once precious look
Perhaps now he’d concede that a man’s strength lies beneath the skin
Am my own man
I can hear her voice wail
like an impatient church bell
it echoes in stately shrills
lack of restraint
casts her into the darkness of fears
“Be a man! Be a man, Joe!” she had demanded of me
as if she knew what she meant
as if she herself was a man
but since I had studied her ways
her innermost self
i had run away from her demands
her command of things she knew nothing about
i have been on the run since then
running towards becoming my own man
and when the bell rings now
i discover a new form of cynicism towards stately things
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