NuBlaccSoul Jul 10
I remember her.
But I remember her differently now.

She was melody,
A sweet sounding summer song.
Ballads bellowed below, brass bass
reverberated round gongs, going gag.
Her eyes spoke the misery of worlds,
Yet, with a smile brought peace to a ravaged soul.
Memories morphed into melancholy
Our dry bones with melting marrow of pain ***** again,
Letting it seep through the cracks of a once whole heart, thought to be incapable to feel.

Redemption - left for dead - rose.
Wallflowers wallpaper into still reds.
Red of blood, red of passion, red of danger , red of sin.
Sin that not even the lucid can avoid.
Velvety crimson haemmoraging life.
Becoming, being, be. Breaking black.
A scene of a thousand sunsets,
A sight of a freedom of doves only to be captured and enclosed in a dark, dark memory.
Flaking coffins of my palate
Cromoniun incence with crow cranium

I remember her.
She would remember me differently.
Only as a thought of momentary happiness,
An anomaly of an intimate feeling too great to define.
I was the calm amidst her tornado.
An avalanche taking over her very existence, pulsing through her veins, consuming her inner-being.

Plastic spring summer bright bundled
Autumn animosity and winter nu-ness
A calm sandy beach with a mayhem of waters consumed and controlled by desire.
When the waters come you won't survive the waves.
By the time you run, it'll be swimming against currents
An electrifying pulse of push punching shove tide,  tucked safely in the underbelly of under leagues sea, below Patrick's rock, exhaling energies from one lung to squirrel trees.
Money-watering branches.
Twigs in their twilight on an orange afternoon .
Yellow was his blue.

I remember her.
But I remember her differently now  
Becoming, being, be.
(C) 2018.  - a nu blacc soul gone crimson , on a Durban winter night
NuBlaccSoul Feb 18
We are forgotten yesterdays of tomorrow,
note-booked mementos on thighs time travelled,
back from the future, few tsha-tsha with flashes,
blackouts and gray-matter gashes
The slurred dance of good memory,
crib-notes on collar-bones,
bare chest, a loose tie, knots, not around neck
formal education white-suits, tucked-in remembering.

A formal date chasing me indoors.
chasing me into doors of consistent
nurturing nature of the neuro
doors on the right, left doubt outside.
A manner of hindsight sighs.

Running back to tomorrow to save my 4 unborn children
from my present past. Amnesia.
The pendulum swings in reversed backwards.
Forward is just an antithesis, poor protest-art
An analogue, roman-concept coded in digital now.
Fraudulent, faux and pseudo. We look at the sun
to tell day from night. Progress practising stillness
Passage of pain frozen in time,
sun is amber lantern,
phantom of what & who has risen,
out of resin's
suspended-infinity-loop prison.
The bitterness of honey stings
sour-sweet on the taste buds of trauma.
Strolling up memory lane, compassion
for former faults. Less envy, only empathy
Fragments of a broken dream further smashed
can’t fill in the gas smothered cracks.

We died many deaths.
A mass burial, a mountain of bodies brewing
under the garden, the slumbering soil wakes.
3 is the number of perfect balance and ***.
Ma’, Sister, and I.
Mother died the day Doctor
told her that the body she named
Home was evicting her, with a 10-year-notice.
She must have watched herself
watch herself
sitting on covered couches
thinking what a theft of life
this holy trinity is –
what is left
to see
here?

I saved all pain of breaking
bones for this,
I ran in opposites, dislocated my hip
tore tender tendons, I have a Belgian-Congolese tendency
never stood for much but numbness
an absence of nothing because
feelings ****.
I saved haunting ghosts of night for day
For this day
For today.
All these reservoirs of resilience won’t be enough,
ever.

I wept
winter sunsets –
to remind my new self on the coldest of nights
that once time was warm days
a slice of life’s beauty in Redemption.

Efforts tuck sweat under my arms,
gravity grounding my prideful chest down.

A bed of waves
afloat sober dreams
nightmares of wrinkled water
submarine my day dreams
and flowing peace.
Please be polite and let me be.

I now know, less hoarding.
A pair of paradox, or pandora's box: written by Phila Dyasi
Published by: NuBlaccSoul

To call it an existential crisis
would speak exclusively to a disturbance relating to the decaying case
that encapsulates my eternal hold of being.
NO!
This crisis is a crises extending to the infinite.
A philosophical and metaphysical troubled state.

NB: Please comment and critique and share :) Feedback is always welcomed.

(C) 2018. Copyrighted 19 February
2018 NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
NuBlaccSoul Dec 2017
If I started crying,
It would be a bath tub
without a plug - yet, overflowing.
I'd still drown
in my own mistakes, mishaps and regrets.
NuBlaccSoul (C)  2017.
NuBlaccSoul Aug 2017
My Name is Phila Dyasi.
I can’t remember who,
but some person
used to address me by my full name
and I took a liking to that.

My Name Is My Name.

My first name is life
Phila, to live, not simply to be alive.
Breathed into existence by uKhulu,
Phila badane abagxeki.
And yes, it’s my only one. No middle Christian name – thank Gran'

My Name is My Name.

Dyasi, my mother’s last name,
my grandmother’s maiden name,
my late great-grandfather’s last name,
uEzra Makhwenkhwe Dyasi. He preferred Ezra.
Dyasi, his father’s father’s fani, his great-grandpa’s only name – uDyasi.

Makhwenkhwe is a boyhood reference, an insult to a proud Xhosa man,
from eGcuwa nase Dutya. A man. Not a boy as these afrikaner ******* would say.
A man. A man of ***. A devout man of ***, Christian by faith. His name is Ezra.
Methodist by denomination, Ezra Dyasi was. In the name of the father, his is Ezra.
Married to Cecilia Nomaza Dyasi. Married to Nomaza Dyasi, uMaSobuwa, her name.

My Name is My Name.

We had beautiful names before the white men with the black book came.
We had beautiful names before they told us to name ourselves in translation.
Our names were powerful, rich with meaning before they invited themselves here.
Our forefathers’ names that told tales of our glory and beauty were discarded for theirs.
We chucked away our good names, in favour of meek ones.

Rolihlahla became Nelson.
Bantu became Stephen.
Mangalisa became Robert.
Thembisile became Chris’, short for Christopher.
Kalushi became Solomon.

Call me Phila Dyasi for short.
My nickname is Phila Dyasi.
“Ph-“ is not “F” you ****.
Please capitalise the ‘P’ and ‘D’.
I do not answer to “P.D.” any more.

Uncle Phil’.
Phillip.
Dr. Phil.
Pills-Philzit.
I could be Phila Dyasi, but my name is not my name.

My Name is My Name.

Phila-ni is not my name, that’s the other black guy
Joshua Mark, I only have one name but you cannot
bother remembering it right, my classmate of 5 years.
Phila-sande is not my name, the suffix is suffocating.
Fila is a sports brand, I am Phila Dyasi. Dyasi, Phila Dyasi.

My Name is My Name.

Ma’s name is Thembisa, Theodora is just a 1970s-safety-net.
Mama’s ma’s name is Nompumelelo. Mavis is political accommodation.
And well, Maxwell the headmaster is better than Thandabantu, uThisha oMkhulu.
My parents unlearning their old names, displacement navigating home, steadily so.
Transkei is Eastern Cape now. Ciskei is Eastern Cape now. What is in a name?

My Name is My Name.

I am not faith, grace, hope, joy
prayer, prudence, patience;
gratitude and forgiveness
is not my namesake.
I am not a product of translation, no.

My Name is My Name.

Mbali as in flower? – No, sir.
Mbali as in Mbali.
Can I call you “Q”? – Wait, a line or the letter?
Mama said, Qiqa, uQaphele, uQaqambe nto ka Qunta, qanda lam’
Lokugqibela. My existence to be reduced to a line or the latter?

My hoerskool boere buddy James,
we naturalised him Jabulani,
uMahluleli, uMbhele and myself,
gave him his BEE scorecard.
His mother a subtle, Christian racist.

Aah! iBhele elihle lase Lenge.
Khuboni, Qunta, Langa lokulunga.
noNtanda kuphakanyiswa.
Ndabezitha. Sonani singoni m’ntu.
Clan names. I am Phila of House Dyasi. The first of my name.

It’s not globalization, it’s colonisation in your colon,
the annals of white history are ****, call they by name.
The eagle saved the fish from drowning with its claws,
Call it by its name; Uncle News, Father Propaganda.
Where can we be Black, Becky?

I am not monkey, ****, kaffir, ******, *****.
I am not boy, *****, barbarian, uncivilised.
I am not primitive, predatory, sinful and ******.
I am not native, tribe, village, jungle, bush.
And you, you are not chosen nor superior.

I am the Original Man.
Human. Hue Man.
I am the we I speak of in the book of beginnings.
My Name is the Name of Names, I am Phila Dyasi.

Born, 7th of Mahogany May. Made Man in Jet July. Black, Nubian consciousness.
The son of the sun, child of the soil, mothered by Lady Liberty, the original.
One with the earth. The warm people: the red, orange and yellow of the rainbow.
Africans fighting to be African in Africa. My black skin is on fire, a blue flame ablaze.
**I am still Phila Dyasi.
My Name Is My Name: written by Phila Dyasi
published by NuBlaccSoul

(C) 2017. Copyrighted 23 August
2017 NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
NuBlaccSoul Aug 2017
19/03/2017. 8:59 pm. Port Elizabeth.*

My sister's guests enter to leave -                                                                ­  
front door open.                                                            ­                                  
Knowing a thing or two about allowing things through, as i heave          
the other front-door opens, we ‘re hopin'                                                           ­         

we shake off the trembles.                                                        ­                      
  Brakes fail as we pass, past                                                             ­           
  the road that’s running down the street, it resembles                                      
the holy mortal spirit of Shembe, shackled-free, free at last.                                

  But if these wounds would wind-wide up talking, they would whisper
  in drowned out mumble-rap rhymes, reason
  lost in transmit, a bear trap.
From screeching screams that broke
the voice box, vocal chords caught
in zipper lips, the sewing stripped.                                                        ­                                                                
                                                                ­                                                          

Freedom is restriction, control, the non-liberties niceties                              
   When wooshy winds trespass tree's tired arms,  
      we will be home, where we come to die.
written by Phila Dyasi
published by NuBlaccSoul

(C) 2017. Copyrighted  31 August
2017. NuBlaccSoul™. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.
NuBlaccSoul Aug 2017
And my father's little brother
stood tall, with his bean bowed,
feet floating like faulty heaven.
If I continued with that B.Com degree
I would have been him. A host for his ghost.
Unlike you all, I drove myself here, to this ****.

No Ma' can be blamed for dropping me off.
This is free-will, formulated by fate.
Each feeding into the other in an endless loop -
an interchangeable cause and effect.
What caused the effect, and who was affected by this cause.
Emaciated frames of Hanged Men do not wear any joy.
18 August 2017. (C) NuBlaccSoul
NuBlaccSoul Jul 2017
Home is the intersection of two lines – the vertical and the horizontal.

The vertical plane has heaven, or the upper world, at one end,
and the world of the dead at the other end.
The horizontal plane is the traffic of this world, moving to and fro – our own traffic and that of teeming others.

Home is a place of order. A place where the order of things
come together – the living and dead – the spirits of the ancestors
and the present inhabitants,
and the gathering up and stilling of all the to-and-fro.

Leaving home can only happen because there is a home to leave. And the leaving is never just a geographical or spatial separation; it is an emotional separation – wanted or unwanted.
Steady or ambivalent.

For the refugee, for the homeless, the lack of this crucial coordinate in the placing of the self has severe consequences.
At best it must be managed, made up for in some way.
At worst, a displaced person, literally, does not know which way is up, because there is no true north. No compass point.
Home is much more than shelter; home is our centre of gravity.

A nomadic people learn to take their homes with them.
When we move house, we take with us the invisible concept of home – but it is a very powerful concept.

Mental health and emotional continuity do not require us to stay in the same house or the same place, but they do require a sturdy structure on the inside – and that structure is built in part by what has happened on the outside. The inside and the outside of our lives are each the shell where we learn to live.

Home was problematic for me.
It did not represent order and it did not stand for safety.
An excerpt from the book "Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?" by Winterson, Jeanette.
Next page