skade loop in die bloedlyn af. Mariëtte van Graan


skade loop in die bloedlyn af
deur oorloë en kruistogte en konsentrasiekampe
deur die een slag en die volgende en die volgende
majuba distrik ses kerkplein
en hoor jy die magtige dreuning
dit druis soos bloed deur die geskiedenisboek

skade loop in die bloedlyn af
en spat teen ʼn trok in Nice
en op die vloer van ʼn Turkse lughawe
teen kameeldoringbome en op die gras by Langa

skade loop in die bloedlyn af
dit bal die vuis en borrel soos bloed
uit die monde van die mense
#feesmustfall #rhodesmustfall

skade loop in die bloedlyn af
en jy sal nie vry wees
voor die geeste van jou voorvaders
leeggetap is nie


This is not a poem. Marlize Hobbs-Russell

This is not a poem; it is a protest march
these are not words, they are an angry mob
with this I become what you call “a barbarian”
Is this what our freedom has become?
I will set the captives free again, break the shackles
With my words: I am setting fire to your ideas
of righteousness; I am burning down Nkandla
I am throwing stones at your windows, tearing down the velvet curtains
keeping us in, taking away our freedom
Look! There is a world outside your window
The earth is shouting it out
from Tabel Mountain to Wits
From the farms to the schools
from the sea to the Kalahari:
The struggle is not over
It has only just begun
Come arrest me, you policemen, come guard my words
come lock up what I have to say, come show me your cowardly strength
I am roaring like the ocean, I am joining the tsunami of voices
Is this your freedom? Is this your equal opportunity?
Is this what our people died for?
I am drawing blood from the jugular of the alphabet
I will use my words to march against
your ‪#‎institutionalizeddiscrimination
I will claw at your gates of privilege
I will tear down these invisible walls of haves and havenots
I am not writing poetry, I cannot afford your alphabet
I am stealing letters to form sentences
to somehow make sense of it all
I am stealing from your Alphabet
my feet are burning in the streets
of the capital… we do not have the capital to afford
your alphabet of violence
This is not a poem
these are not words
these are our children
our future
yours and mine and ours
The struggle isn’t over,
it has only just begun

As the crows fly. Emma Bekker

There were crows, who once ruled the earth. They had escaped from the ark of a terrible god,
their beaks seeking the carrion that was borne on the waves of a flood.
They had a taste for blood,
this black sorority of all that is pragmatic,
turning floodwaters into amniotic fluid.

They bored out eyes, opening the view to the unseen, their cries piercing deaf ears.

They were unpickers of the thorax,  scissoring through the last fibers of that which binds human to earth.

And then they taught that wily Gilgamesh a lesson that his seed is still struggling to plumb:
floating isn’t flight.

Alternative transportation. Des

Brand-new BMX
Dad worked hard for you,
shiny and sticker’d,
bright paint, grease and glue.

Not allowed on curbs?
No bicycle lanes?
Give way! SUV!
God forbid it rains.

Oh, white elephant,
bought with blood, sweat, tears.
To get from A to –
in twenty odd years.

They say it’s easy
to exercise your new-car-smell-freedom
– like riding a bike.