Lindisa Mathabela

Lindisa Mathabela May 2013

Heat waves in iced water.
Chilled moonshine on the scorching sun.
Blades of green earth on a long-lit fire.
Fresh-water creatures in the salty sea.

A glow, brighter than, and in the ocean of night.
A rock in the sky and birds that can't fly.
A whale on the beach with the sea out of reach. And Blossoms in a dark room.

An infant on his feet soon to fall into defeat.
Ever-greens in winter and ghosts in mid-day. Lungs underwater and gills in air. Like drugs in one's system that slowly pass through.

Owls at dawn, daylight birds in nocturnal song and eyes staring at the sun.
A snake on smooth surface and a worm on the rough.
Like a house cat in the wild mountains and rivers in suburban territory.

Like pillows stuffed with stones and a child with evil inside.
Free spirits in a cage and prisoners freed.
Like a stick in quick sand, a weighted mass floating on a light surface.
Like a dog, a cat and rat peacefully below one roof.

Like a beaten lion and a victorious antelope.
Like the colour of green against the shadow of black. Like hopping on concrete and civil wars. The hood in a college girl and a college girl in the hood.

Like curtains in the morning and yawning windows at dusk. Like an aged oak in the midst of a flood, like a water lily in the days of drought.
Like a forgotten pearl in a waste dump and fake gold on a woman's index.

Like a loud song muted by those who fear volume and a soft one forced to yell above its pitch.
Like a ladybug on a pesticide- poisoned crop.
Like a polar bear in the African Sahara.

Like a camel by the coast, ants with no work and busybodied sloths. A scarf in summer and crop tops in autumn. Plants dying in September and coming back to life in June.

Like a written-on page on a brand new day and wordlessness when that day is old and weary.
Like a torch at midnight. Like cellphones in a filled bath tub.

Like a fat man sprinting and the turtle losing the race. Like a homeless mother in a mansion.
Like a teenage girl with no tongue, and oppressors with no power.

Like David and Goliath, like a insane Albert Einstein. Like a flame on the ocean floor. Like me in this world, I shouldn't be, but I can be and I will be.

Lindisa Mathabela May 2013

Rhythm, The Ruler of Beıngs

The music shot into her eardrum like a trance-inducing drug, each bang of the drum, each rhythmic flow, each string of the guitar would slowly take her under. Under hypnosis.
The power of the beat was so intense, that it lifted her chin and shoved her into the floor of dance. There, was where she found herself in a state of uncontrolled and vigorous rhythmic movement. The music had somewhat possessed her limbs as though they had a mind of their own. Her routine was calculated and her foot movement, unique.
She, all at once, knew and knew not what she was doing. As her surroundings stood marvelled in awe, she was alone. Her hips shaking and bouncing as though a chemical mixture was being synthesised deep within her, a mixture that was yet to explode. Explode with power so great, it would possess others in her 'roundings. Surroundings that would, in time faster than inhalation, be under the same knife. With movements and sways that embodied and humanised the worship of music.
Rhythm is their God, the controller of beings. Almost as if dance is the ritual of prayer, and the club, a mosque or sacred ground.
Like rhythm is the favoured slave-driver. Like rhythm is the unfeared tyrant. Like rhythm is what brings the animalistic spirit within us all back to life after daylight and spiritual rest. Like rhythm is the pair of unspoken arms that push them, its subjects, over the precipise and into the river of flow. And under The Rhythm's spell, they will move, they will love it.

Lindisa Mathabela May 2013

Untitled

Music in the night time. Just me and all the words written and sung by poets alike. Nothing is together but everything is calm. Somewhat scattered peacefully around me. My head is rested on a pillow but my mind frantic and the only way to ease this rush is by giving it a rhythm to think to; for the impulses to dance and sing along to as they bounce from cell to cell.
Solitude.
Suddenly I realize that I am at my best when the powerful voice of silence washes through me. Shadows accompany me on my quest in darkness but they stand around me like ghosts, ghosts of which only silhouettes can be seen.
Silhouettes that are mainly composed of excess musical notes that escape through my earphones and travel to a place where they belong, as the silhouettes. As the shadows move swiftly around me, they are powered by the harmonious hum they produce. The rest of existence is shut out and paid no mind to. At an occasional break, the silence that is outside of my earphones remains awkward.
Outside, with everyone else, and where I am lonely, I hear trees sing and dance to my music. Perhaps their scrambling frantic minds can only rest in the silence where there is rhythm, or it could be that they have adapted to my religious routine of rhythmic thoughts and they, each night, dance and hum to it to put their rustling, busy-bodied leaves to sleep for the eve.
And when the inflow of magical music comes to a gradual halt, the trees outside know to wake up and continue to dance in unrest during day. I understand, because I am shown in the same light and only at night, my willow friends and I put our souls to rest and we sing and sway with the night, calm, until our calculated dance routine is interrupted at wake. Tonight again...

Lindisa Mathabela May 2013

Music At Twilight

Music in the night time. Just me and all the words written and sung by poets alike. Nothing is together but everything is calm. Somewhat scattered peacefully around me. My head is rested on a pillow but my mind frantic and the only way to calm ease this rush is by giving it a rhythm to think to; for the impulses to dance and sing along as they move ufrom cell to cell.
Solitude.
Suddenly I realize that I am at my best when the powerful voice of silence washes through me. Shadows accompany me on my quest in darkness but they stand around me like ghosts, ghosts of which only silhouettes can be seen.
Silhouettes that are mainly composed of excess musical notes that escape through my earphones and travel to a place where they belong. As the shadows move swiftly around me, they are powered by the harmonious hum they produce. The rest of existence is shut out and paid no mind to. At an occasional break, the silence that is outside of my earphones remains awkward.
Outside, with everyone else, and where I am lonely, I hear trees sing and dance to my music. Perhaps their scrambling frantic minds can only rest in the silence where there is rhythm, or it could be that they have adapted to my religious routine of rhythmic thoughts and they, each night, dance and hum to it to put their rustling, busy-bodied leaves to sleep for the eve.
And when the inflow of magical music comes to a gradual halt, the trees outside know to wake up and continue to dance in unrest during day. I understand, because I am shown in the same light and only at night, my willow friends and I put our souls to rest and we sing and sway with the night, calm, until our calculated dance routine is interrupted at wake. Tonight again...

Lindisa Mathabela May 2013

When She Wakes Up

If you wait long enough and allow the silence that roams through the air to stream into your system, you will be lucky enough to see Her in Her wake. Who, you ask? Our Earth.
You can just about see Her blink in the clouds, and Her blue pupils in the vast sky. As she wakes Her little souldiers up and prepares the day for Her people. You can see a driven arachnid as it pulls for its little significant life up the bark of a strong standing tree that was able to handle its own through the night time, with none but a natural rope.
You can see the winged pilots as they take off into the open blue. If you listen carefully enough, maybe you can hear the sweet messages hidden in the midst of their honey-like twitter. You can see the newly dressed Autumn leaf let go of the water droplets it has used through the night as though sweating after a long night's work.
You can hear the young laughter of the first few children as they run about free in a field of their own, you can almost smell their candy-scented breaths. You can see the shadows of the trees as they drag away on the ground, just before they retire for the day. As the dusk progresses, The Sun smiles brighter because it knows that it has human spirits to cheer up, a human duty that it so happily performs.
In the night, I will thank Her for the beauty that she bears and welcome The Night with free sense, for He sings a beautiful lullaby to put Her and Her hard-working souldiers to rest.
And if you listen just right, you can hear His perfect rhythm of nature so that you may sleep as peacefully as She is.

— The End —