The Hymn of Rachmaninov
Lest the stench of burnt tobacco wafts into the rooms yond, I sit on my desire and hold in my piss.
There really isn’t much a thought in simply sitting, for it’s when I roam, that thoughts flash into my mind – it is some novelist, I think, I can’t recall who precisely, who said she thinks in “slow flashes.”
Alone the pressing procrastination of work adamant, and dawn imminent. It is 4:48 and the sky is that tinge of white blue so wan it fills the onlooker with a loving melancholy, an aching of the heart one hopes wouldn’t cease – yet it is wrenching, it tears at the soul and strains the material body. A cold, scorching feeling.
I wonder what awaits me. Likely scolding. But why do I deserve it? Already my own vessel guilts me, aware of every crevice: the choking in my throat and the snot. What more can I do but say “Yes.”
Yes, I understand my failures, I’ll do better next time. Yet right now it is the past, and I am capable of the act of “doing better.”
I must piss.
So run along, little rabbit.
A piece must be more than an indulgent documentation of one’s doing. And yet inside me a big hollow sleeps. Nothing comes out. You walk in and become that black bottle standing.
You know, my name floats in space somewhere, it’s nothing I am proud of, but it is something… although it’s deceptively my name.
There is no narrative to follow. This piece is over. I hope I could convey my utter hopelessness.
In a sense the short-lived – I’ve noticed, a pet phrase of mine – nature is reflective of my reality.
My name is
(New) not titled yet
And so she becomes
yet another shadow
along the edges
of my heart
and I want to reach out
call her back
tell her
its not that I don't want you
need you
or desire you
but I have been broken
for so long
that holding you
only brings back those tears
I thought had long died
and I have grown to fear
not the mountaintop
that is the altar
of your love
but the depths
that have long fathered
my despair
and so I whisper my lament
not to burden you with tears
but to remind you
sometimes
the most broken of hearts
hide behind
the sunniest of smiles
Forgive my pain
I can't sleep mommy, I cant sleep.He yanks at my skirt with the persistance that locks hands with desperation. The night cradled my hunger underneath my eyes and my son continued. He pulled and moaned so much so that my eyes began to water. No tears fell I was too tired. They had arched my back,beaten my heart and stolen my voice. So I just sat- all night, only getting up once to carry poor Mandla to the bed. See the will of desperation can tire a young soul but it can never tire mine. If my soul was a solid, it would defy gravity,to fly way above all life and weep a wail so beautiful it could shatter the heavens.Listen.They did not break me, I broke myself before they could.My way of damage control but my son,my son Mandla...should not be bruised by my life.
The shock took hold of me that night,it did not humble me,scare me or defeat me but it commanded me. Commanded me to be,just be. If I could not stop time I would stop mine,even if it was just for a night. But that night was not just a night. We mother's fear night,and despise the day. Although our sons and our husband's are killed by day their souls are only taken by night as they dance like embers over their lifeless remains. Some women pray every night with their windows wide open, through sun and rain. In hopes that they can catch their lost ones soul once more and say goodbye. Others,well, they just go on,they are walking wells, so hollow inside,like someone dug out their heart,one can fall to their death inside their pain. I feel for them the most,because they hide behind smiles and sly comments.But If you listen closely you can hear a faint whine of a child whenever they laugh. Ah, they do not know we understand, so we all go along with the charade. It brings us some solace in knowing even the seemingly coping people are but posers trying to get through it all.
The year is 1976 and I am mother of 2 one living one dead. Hate sentenced my son on July 21st to death without trial. I know not what reason is anymore. Art does not bleed me as it once did,music does not move me as it once did and joy disgusts me.A anger as flew and built a nest on my beaten heart and saw it fit to call it home. I have allowed it.Some may say it has corrupted me but it is not sly like a snake it can not trick you. Anger does not slither it simmers and it burns within me,bright and silent. After last night,contemplating while rebelling against time I agreed to do what needs to be done.
I am going to write a letter to Mandla before I do it. He needs to understand why I did it and for that I must start from the beginning.
Beloved Mandla,
Though you are still too young to understand the words I am about to place down on this page, you shall when you are older.Before I begin you must know Mommy loves you with everything I have. I shall begin from where all great things ended for me to make it easier for you my love.
My days were once long and my nights short until your father trotted into my life. I was a maid since age 13,following the labor steps of my mother and hers before and so on. My mother took me first to the big house when I was 16. She always worked at Meneer Van Niekerks house for as long as I can remember. Now you must understand I grew up in a small little shack with one bedroom,no electricity on the outskirts of town with my mother. We were not as bad off as everyone else,we had a warm meal in us every night, a fire to keep us warm and a proper roof made out of slate with wood. We did not grow cold like our neighbour's whose three children died of pneumonia last winter. We were blessed, I thought then.
When we walked up to the house my stomach fell in while my mouth opened in astonishment. My mother snapped at me often when I reacted to the things they had.My amazement soon churned into jealousy as we walked up the long drive through,trees with feet of vibrant flowers all around. The scent of jasmine impeded my senses. When we went inside Mevrou Van Niekerk let us in. Her face was pale with a pasty texture and a consistent look of judgement on her face. I thought God has given them so much but has contorted and screwed their faces into ugly scowls for pay. This was debated when I met Mr Van Niekerk, a man with face that announces to gentle folk he is one of them. His calm deminure and soft spoken words were far different from other men I had seen.
We greeted and he came in to shake my hand. With a tight grip I smiled and stared directly into his eyes. This back then was a statement,a very dangerous statement. When you level with someone's eyes you imply you are their equal,and in his world we were seen as not even close. Instead of threatening me or putting me in my supposed place he held my hand. A look of what I thought for a second was pride was then glassed over by a chuckle and a pat of the hand.
My mother then led me out and instructed me to go sweep the upstairs balcony. Before I could ask where that was she slammed the door in my face.Although Just before it closed i caught Mr Van Niekerks concerned face which undoubtedly confused me a bit. While I pondered on the question I wandered upstairs, cleaned the balcony quick-quick then trudged down the long staircase. To be completely honest I got lost in that house more than once that day and so it was by no accident that I got lost again.Dazed and confused I wandered the seemingly never ending white tiled halls. I became frantic with the fear my mother would leave me in this white plastered mansion so I began to walk faster. Not stopping to take a break I went down every avenue until one bumped into a head.
A dark navy blue shorts, combed back brown hair and emerald eyes. His skin was tinged like honey under the sun ,it shone. At first he mumbled obscene insults my way but he stopped when he found the sincerity in my wild expression. He introduced himself as Wayne Abraham's. Not even a minute later a tall,well-built boy with the same shorts appeared from the room,his blond locks fell over his blue eyes and his smile seemed familiar.
The Hercules look-a-like brushed passed me and yelled down the hall at the emerald eyed boy. He did not move he just stood still and asked for my name. So I gave it to him ,little did I know I would give this man my life with the lick and slap of my tongue I formed Zuri.
He passed me while holding eye contact and then he followed the yellow headed boy. I stood their for a second before I trotted after them,like a lost puppy. They led me to an outside, tennis court with a green ground and white layered lines. I followed alongside the house till I reached the front where my mother was angrily waiting. I already knew I was in trouble but Mr Van Niekerk came out and said he understands many people get lost in the house first time around. A up and down jig of his shoulders with a laugh that eased me and surprisingly my mother, who laughed with him. She apologized and off we went.From long drive ways into dirt as narrow pathways,garbage at the feet of short trees and shacks all around made of glimmering scavenged material. A joke of a poor man's honor.
I returned to that mansion for over 2 years,wherein I encountered the blond headed and the emerald eyed boys frequently. I became close with them both as we all were young teens unaware of the true extremities hate can have on people.The blonded headed boy told me he was Jan Mr Van Niekerks son and Wayne Abraham's was his friend. We all played innocently shielded by the large world in ironically a mansion. Jan and I became very close but Wayne always kept his distance from me. Whenever I wasn't cleaning they came to bother me and sometimes they would deliberately make messes for me to clean. It was always Jan, he wanted me to clean his room while he just chatted with me. This annoyed me but Wayne helped me sometimes when he saw I was irritated.
When I turned 18 I told my mother I want to be something more. This was sparked in me by Tuesdays. Mr Van Niekerk would call me into his office and we would chat about many things:Philosophy,Mathematics,Morality but we never spoke about Politics. After a couple months he started lending me books and embarrassed I hid the fact I could not read. He eventually found out and started teaching me every Tuesday,I got homework and assignments. It was a welcomed exercise for something other than my body which was often sweeping and scrubbing the floors all day.
Your mother was a fast learner, I could read pretty well after 6months. We got really close,we even had debates about philosophy especially between Aristotle and Sigmund Freuds. We debated for weeks over wheather humans are innately evil or born good i always believed good back then. He would make us some tea with biscuits even after i insist on doing it for him,he always responds with i've got two hands dont i.
I enjoyed Tuesdays most of all. When I was 18 I came one day to him and told him that I want to be something more. Just like the first day we met,a glimmer of pride sparkled in his eye that was then glassed over by a chuckle. Hurt by this demeaning chuckle, I questioned his response and for the first time ever I felt small in his company. He clamped me like a car,prevented me from thinking I could go forward. Delicately as he could he put it,he said his world does not allow women or people like me to aspire. I threw all the debate skills and knowledge I had acquired through extensive reading and talks at him. Stunned by my clear cut argument he just sat their and whispered:Leave now.All I said was we were all equal.
So I left,as I went out Wayne stopped me by chasing me down the road. He wanted to know what I was doing at that moment,which I replied with a resound Nothing. He told me to join him as he was going to a meeting. Annoyed, I wanted to take my mind off the bigger things in my life and nurture a small thing rather. He took me to a meeting a gathering of people of all cultures in one place. I had never seen this before. I sat with a new kind of awe as I looked at all these young faces from all walks of life wanting something more.Daring it to come to fruition.
After this everything changed a fight sturred within me. A fight I found out lied dormant within for a while until Wyane like a cancer woke it. I joined him at many meetings and we grew closer,while he grew more radical. We began a relationship not to long after one which I later found out infuriated Jan. Wayne became more and more radical,soon holding his own meetings.
His meetings became a movement against the state. Freedom today not tomorrow was our famous chant. I supported Wayne and fell in love with him for his passion. We were never close but I always was fond of Wayne Abraham's when we were young. When I was 19 years old I fell pregnant with your older brother Silumko(a wise man). His name was befitting for when he came out he was already a little wise man wuth a inquisitive frown. My mother helped me raise Silu while Wayne often traveled the country encouraging others to take up arms. We disagreed on armed resistance I always believed peaceful protest can make a change until Silu.
Silu grew up to be a fine young boy, when he was 10 when Mr Van Niekerk visited my mother's house. We were still staying there as freedom fighters don't have salary,so I did work only here and their writing up pieces for newspapers as well as businesses. I at that point hadn't seen him for 10 years after our...fight. I was shocked to see him their,like a peacock among pigeons. Such a strange sight to see him sitting down on a broken bed in a small shack whilst wearing a tailored clean cut suit.
He spoke with me before Wayne came home,he warned me about the plans he heard about an attack. An attack that was planned by the state to kill Wayne and me as we were seen as threats against the regime. Wayne at the time concerned me he was becoming a bit violent with me and Silo over the past months.I did not know how to feel.
I was angry,because I have not seen Mr Van Niekerk for ten years and here he comes acting like a savior. So i asked him why he even cared?That's when he shared a concerned look with my mother,who nodded at him. That evening I found that Mr Van Niekerk was my father, that I was his only child. I asked how is this possible on the count of Jan's existence. To my surprise Jan was his wife's child from a previous relationship. He is the son of his best friend:Van Rooyen.
My mind that night could not take it all in, and this was exasperated to find out that my mother has been having a secret relationship with Mr Van Niekerk for 30 years now. They could not get married because of the immorality act that illegalised mixed marriages so they made a deal with his best friends wife. He will help raise Jan and protect her while he has his secret relationship with my mother. I did not know what to feel,what to think so I just sat.
Wayne barged in the door right then, with a gun and a look in the eye that scared our son. Silu came and sat by me While clinging onto me. Angry with a faint smell of Beer wafting from his breath ,Wayne approached my now father. All the hate and fear had eaten at his emerald eyes, it had become a dull Grey. He pointed the gun at my father and pulled the trigger once,twice then silence.
There was no bullets in his gun all it was filled with was a rage induced by oppressions grip.
That night I held Silu in my arms after I sent Wayne out. Now I don't know what happened to Wayne that night but later I heard he was ambushed and all our friends were shot dead by police but he ran away.My father allowed my mother,Silu and I in his house to stay but he did not allow Wayne to come visit or see us after the incident.Me and Wayne drifted apart for months.
There I reconnected with Jan who came home after spending mandatory time in the states army. He too was different but he was still the same in some regards. I shall not go into the details of how your father and me finally got into a relationship as its too personal my boy. But you were born not too long after we reconnected and fell in love. I needed him and he needed me and we both wanted you. Mandla,you gave us strength.
After you were born I heard Wayne was being hunted by the state for his 'terroristic acts' such as bombing communication lines. He came to us,disheveled and scared. We took him in but that same day the police came when I was out with you and Silo shopping. The police Shot dead your father, your grandfather and Silos father. When I came home I could not breath their bodies were riddled with bullets but Waynes was beaten to a pulp. Silo took you outside but I knew he saw.I knew he saw them and his father lying there.
A part of me still blames Wayne,why us?
I do not like to speak of that night because it was the turning point in my heart. Silo became radical like his father only a couple of years later,protesting and fighting until one fight on July 21st he was met with a bullet. This he could not fight. That was 2 days ago.
I have lost a man who I bonded with to topple a regime. I lost the father to my child,the blond headed man who loved me beautifully. I lost a father I never knew I had all along and now... I lost my beautiful boy,my wise son.
You are gonna hear many things about me son but I want you to know I tried. They took too much so they must suffer a lingering pain. I will take this bomb and plant it in that area with their long drive ways but I will sit still just there and be.
I loved you more than you can know. Remember only God can prosecute you so never judge another. Revenge is for the weak,and so I accept my defeat as the fickle do.I'm going to sleep now,and dream of you forever.
Love
Mom
Mirror Mirror
A blue coat enveloped the decrepit house.Not even smiles of joy could tarnish the ever present gloom that rested in there.Living there is a family we have watched dutifully through the years.We do not get attached, our feelings are not the same as yours so when we felt something for them it was new. You must understand we are God's to them small but worshipped nonethless. Every morning,night and day they search within us but over the years we have dared to look back. When the small one began to walk and the tall one began to cry we did not understand. When the small one fell and screamed and the tall ones ran, we did not understand. When the small one smiled,laughed and shared with us her mind we finally did,understand. Fooled by this enigma we all felt something, like she was our kin,a caring beyond what we knew possible developed.So when things began to change we noticed.
No one expected him,no one does but we do.We know what he does at night when his family is gifted peace. We know what violence dances about when the warm cloak of night comforts him. See we never rest,our duty is to reflect and what we saw we cannot unsee.Everynight it traumatises us a new chip forms like a crack in us.Slowly breaking from the sight,it haunts us.
When she climbs into bed and sniffles into her stuffed baby giraffe at night we saw him. When a tall woman rests her head at exactly 9 :47 every night we see him. He waits patiently like a hunting snake. First he walks down the stairs barefooted in nothing but a loose trousers and top. He slithers into the kitchen with a eyes which hold great secrets,it weighed on him. Thirsty he always drinks a quarter cup of fresh orange juice .He never finishes it.
Eager he leaves the cup on the counter and hurries to his daughters room. He reaches her room and slowly with care he opens the door. He allows it to fling open wide. Strange,he never steps inside but just stares at her. The concept of time we cannot grasp but we have noticed it's power over the years. So we know now that he spends about 4 hours watching her. No movement,not even an itch he stands there with a look that we wish we never saw. So unwavering in its intent,so cold in its delivery but what really scares us is how determined it is that it's almost eerie.
After this he goes down stares into the basement in a rush. When he comes out a smirk is always plastered on his face.A look of relief or fulfillment one seems to disappear the next morning.He wakes up early and shakes her up.She always insists on taking her stuffed giraffe with her.It feels sinister when he grips her hand dragging her down stairs towards the basement.Her giraffe bashes it's head against the steps while the girl let's a tear escape.Everytime.
We do not know what goes down there in the basement but it is not right. When the sun creeps away and the girl hides under her covers she cries rivers. She always grabs at her tissue box next to her light when it overwhelms her. Her melancholia overtakes her,outruns her and it will drown her.To witness her tears every night is torture so we like knights shall fall on our swords to end our suffering and hopefully hers.
A plan has been devised one that needs to be conducted with stealth. See every night the tall one that sleeps beside him wanders to the bathroom at 2:50 am. She relieves herself then returns back into bed at 2:54am.This gives us a 4min gap to end him. One of us is situated above the bed where we have seen horrendous things occur. We shall all crack and break in protest to our dear little friends slow shattering.
Hopefully our shards shall penetrate those eyes that haunts her and all of us each night. Hopefully tall one will feel free and not cover up her scars with us. We are exact but we have studied them,appreciated them that it has softened our eye. So although we may never die, we will never see our dear friend again. Hopefully they will move out this house. It never suited them expect for him. It enfolded him,welcomed him in like and old friend. This houses suited the kind of secrets he held in his eyes. The house was not cluttered it was almost sterile void of feeling and life. Everything was so clean and put neatly together expect her. She was a little walking chaos and this always infuriated him. It also interested him to a point we wished someone threw a dark cloak over us all.
Sadly duty does command us and to not listen and reflect would be denying our very being. So when we all shatter into pieces we shall hold her close. We captured her broken heart and our broken shards will piece it back together. That baby giraffe will not have to bash its gentle head against those cold wooden steps again. Tears will not fall upon her pillow anymore. The tall one will not hide those blue marks by her arms. We will not have to see all this and more.
We will never know why there was so many of us in that house in the first place. A family with so much to hide next to us who reveals everything was odd.
There smiles did not fool us and he certainly did not.
We knew the day we saw him first when he hung us all around except the basement. When he stared into us just a little too long. Desperately he scoured us top to bottom for himself we wonder. Maybe he wanted to see if we could see what others could not.That dark blue coat that sits on him heavily.It was the way he smiled at us like there was something hiding crouched behind it.
He fit in well with the decrepit house...too well.
Musically inclined
Strings gripped my tongue,it's cords cut into my speech and it's tune swayed my focused gaze. My eyes scoured over the ignorant beasts cramming past one another. Strange,
a neon yellow pants-that is bold for a young man. Curious
I followed the brave fashion choice;yellow led me to the strings end and a dapper man stood there
Waiting to
Rip up my discipline as if it was a passport to a heaven he would never enter.
Awaiting a growth spurt that never happened
When a boy,
I wanted to be as tall as my father
(he passed away October seventh
two thousand and twenty
linkedin to congestive heart failure),
who stood at his prime
about six feet and two inches
and tipped the scales
close to two hundred pounds.
Teachers and other familiar adults
chimed in that though diminutive
(yours truly, he unwittingly offered himself
as the ideal scapegoat
courtesy being longitudinally challenged,
weighing no more than an ostrich feather,
and hashtagged as "the quietest student,"
a flower child of the ninety sixties
always kept mum every single day of school),
would unexpectedly experience
peak height velocity.
Neither at ages eighteen, nineteen, twenty...
sixty three, sixty four and sixty five
bore witness to any added inches,
which topped out
around my sixteenth birthday
approximately seventy inches tall
and attendant weight a scrawny
one hundred and
twenty five pounds or thereabouts.
Actually since graduating
from Methacton High School
two score and seven years ago,
my weight ballooned
an avoirdupois unit of weight
divided into 16 ounces,
and equal to 0.453 592 kilograms
approximately forty plus times
such said constituent parts
first thing in the morning
after eliminating evacuating
re:excreting bodily waste.
A preponderance of adipose tissue
long since upended my once upon a time
twenty nine inch waist.
Slab of flab protrudes from ab - feel free to grab!
What follows initially written
quite some years ago
when being skinny as a rail meant
no meat on these lovely bones,
thus hired myself out as scared crow,
now excess adipose tissue thy foe
losing battle partially explaining
why knight spends inordinate
amount of time in his grotto.
Twas an incremental
subtle expansion of waist
plus olympic challenge to tie shoes
most likely side effects of one
or all nine prescription medications
to stave off severe melancholy,
social anxiety, panic attack, et cetera
when yours truly merely
prepubescent self starvation courtesy
emaciated Anorexic skeletal ribcage
traced (about two score
and a baker's dozen years ago),
now whereby most everything
thy tongue doth taste
immediately delivered
a randy (new man) paunch
to former washboard six pack
smooth as a fresh application
of gesso like paste
readying fleshy canvass
for partially nude
self-portrait masterpiece
(adjacent to barenaked lady)
lived three doors down
depicting mine once perfectly,
(albeit one scrawny lad)
proportioned body electric laced
with flat as a washboard physique
unlike present disk graced
whereat when sending a photograph
of shirtless self-try with futility
utilizing photoshop to get erased
displeasing equatorial zone of anatomy
saddled with unwanted
fatty tissue that defaced
proportionate rock hard stomach
one generic measly slender adult man
about five foot and ten-inch build
evincing an aura of being chaste
gone forever analogous to temptation
gobbling house constructed
of cake and confectionery,
that nearly did likewise
to Hansel and Gretel
readying their not quite
plump enough bodies
tubby slathered with baste,
yet just in the nick of time
the two abandoned minors
actually removed courtesy
children, youth and
family services (CYS)
under care of adoption in sync
with spade work
aced the sinister plot outwitting
cannibalistic cackling
croaking old woman
inducing all to break out into song -
singing the following tune
I learned in grade school.
Loose air into pipes and croon
solo loud enough audible to man in the moon.
Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
A doray-oh, A doray-boomday-oh
A doray-boomday ret set set
Ah say pah say oh.
Your brother’s 1996 240sx
it was my DeLorean
a time machine on wheels
back to the beginning
bucket seats worn
burnt the clutch on Dean Road Tokyo Drift dreams in my head (you, next to me)
didn't know then love could feel this real
maybe it was your patience the way your voice calmed the storm
as I stalled on a hill.
you had to jump in to the rescue shifting gears your hand on mine
or maybe it was how you sacrificed the bus ride the car wouldn’t drive
social anxiety forgotten
"as long as you see me," you said "i can fight it.”a tug in my chest
a pull to the start of a story.
stepping out i glance back at the car this is it, i say under my breath the place we fell in love.
Past & Done
My therapist said she specializes in the hole in your heart
that lacks a mom,
& I thought, no s***, Sherlock
that's your job
& I could write a post about mothers
my mom in particular
that would offend
almost everyone
but I won't
and that's growth
that's the hole in my heart
shaped like a machete wound
which are weapons used in combat
to fight our enemies, our
evil counterparts
& that is not the definition
Merriam Webster uses to define parent.
Combat.
& now I sit with the damage, the collateral effects
of it -
but it's our job to overcome
what was done to us
to move on and fill the hole
that sits and festers
until we seek professional help -
the machete hole in my heart
is saying:
it's okay to be broken
but don't pass on
this trauma, this propensity
to sit and ruminate about
what is past, and done.