dimakatso-sedite
Bloemfontein,South Africa
Dimakatso Sedite is a poet and writer from Bloemfontein. She writes with a South African female voice in order to unearth voices of marginalised groups in contemporary South Africa. She also writes prose on colonial history, but with a fiction tinge.
Are we chicks with curves
who bounce in tight jeans,
curves cutting concrete corners,
chunky gold cracking our necks
and boiling the sun?
No. We clasp hope in our hands,
like rope
it slices our palms
we slurp the blood to redden our lips
which shimmer in the Joburg sun.
This anger -
hunger
took our fathers places
where fathers died young,
tied our mothers to places
where mothers grew old..
Copyright ©2016, Dimakatso A. Sedite, adapted in 2017
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 7:55 AM UTC
As night crawls
you paint your face
like porcelain
porcelain smashes the wall
as night crawls
as faces form shadows
hiding men folded into fists.
There it lies
porcelain face
crumbling like biscuit,
abandoned like cake
in a muddy puddle.
You scratch your head,
lips bent like mascara
lipstick weeping from eyes
like cake in a puddle.
Alone,
trapped in a mess
of love and cuteness,
trembling in mud
you hear salt
raining down your cheeks
for a man shrouded in ugliness.
How will you taste the ugly
when you are porcelain,
flour raining down your face,
jam gluing your lips?
How will you smell the real
when you are cake
covered in vanilla
tossing in trash
in the Fenomenon of Fake and Freeze?
Cutie
can you crack through that capsule
and melt?
We are dying to see you live!
Copyright ©2016 Dimakatso Sedite
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC
The day you meet a woman
you love
you will see why
you made me laugh for no reason,
why I drove in the rain for days
to dry the palms of your hands with my sweat,
why the blackness of your skin
lit my eyes
which were a mirror
to your chocolate sculpture
carved by
taxi rank crowds scampering around you
at rush hour -
just before the rain -
framing you into a portrait of dignity…
You'll see
why drums beat in my chest
and shook me like daisies
whenever your soul
slid towards me
to sip ...
You'll see
why blemishes of my tattooed hands pricked
creases on your forehead
and cupped
my tears below your greying chin,
why death had stopped stalking me
after I had jazzed with you under
our passion-splashed umbrella
and tasted the rain
under our toes -
on cobbled streets at Kippies
on Mirriam Makeba Street…
The day your Black Magic Woman
stumbles through
your Mute. Deaf. Door...
you'll grasp
why you were once my sugar chocolate tree
in a faded world where hearts were not papers.
© Dimakatso A. Sedite 2017
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 7:33 AM UTC