A perfect example of why I love the poeticians is our newcomer, Nobuntu.
She wrote to me out of the blue saying she was inspired by the readings we are having and would like to attend. She said she had thought she had left that life behind. That life of poetry. That we remind her of who she used to be.
She came to a reading and was too shy to say hello after. I encouraged her to write something for our third event, themed Lust and Love. And so she did. And she was worried. And I was worried that I pushed her to something she will hate.
And then the lady roared. She let out a poem so sexy, so strong, so well delivered the audience sat in shock and joy and clapped and clapped. Yes. I will never forget that. Welcome back, to the new old you. Warrior!
Here is one of her older poems:
Black girl with many issues
Throw away your box of tissues
The time has come for emancipation
Sing your song of celebration.
How long shall you cry, wail, woe is i?
Black girl raise your chin up high!
Like the peacocks that grace your garden, walk tall
Like the lioness that protects its pride.
From the mountains of Kilimanjaro
To the rapids of Victoria Falls
Leaping to the edges of Morocco
Black girl your voice will resound.
No longer will you be the Pregnant
Barefoot, mother of ten cooking supper
In the kitchen, broken, being beaten
You my child, a priestess of the highest order
You my child a fertility Goddess
You my child a descendant of the great warrior uShaka
They scoff, but flee when the lioness roars.
Black girl, I cradled you from birth
Shielded you when all they did was hate.
Watched over you when you blossomed.
When your anger reared its ugly face, I pruned you.
Today Black girl in your stride, today, the horn of Africa
Looks up and smiles, a tiny seed, unwearyingly
Watered with love, strengthened with character
Fertilized with hate and cultivated with sorrow.