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little African girl, you belong with the sun
little African girl you grow with the soil, the trees, the earth.
Your melanin glows whenever light shines upon it.
Your beauty aligns with the galaxy that surrounds it.
When you see the way your hair defies gravity, the way it curls and is a beautiful bundle a top of your head, what do you think?
I hope you don't think of perming it so it could be completely straight, so it could lose it's fun, because it should stun anyone who walks by it
You should never have to think that your hair is not beautiful with it's tight curls because I 4c you glowing radiantly as your hair surrounds you, I see you loving yourself every way imaginable to man, I see a girl who was taught that your hair is too hard to handle, I see a girl who wished she had straight hair so she would look pretty all the time
I see a fighter who fought to stop the hurt she brings to herself.
Little African girl you are beautiful the way you are.
From where you came from your, beauty stuns them all.
I made this poem while thinking of myself, not only is this for me, but it is also for the African girls who think that their hair isn't beautiful the way it is
NuBlaccSoul Apr 29
be – becoming being*

Our war is a spiritual war. The great depression is our lives* – Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

I remember her.
But I remember her differently

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

Redemption – left for dead – rose.
Wallflowers wallpaper into still reds.
Red of blood, reds of passion, red of danger,
reds of sins.
Sin that not even the lucid can avoid.
Velvety crimson haemorrhaging life.

Becoming being. Be. Breaking black.
A scene of a thousand and one sunsets,
A sight of a freedom of doves only to be a cage
of crows, crying. captured. enclosed in a darkening

Flaking coffins of my palate
coronium incence with crow craniums
Imphepho smoking the air inviting the future
to witness the past to see what yesterday blew into

Galloping eyes tracking along this rented tent.
Her hand planted on my ****** canvas
stained my natural state to resemble
her unstained unnatural state.
We bury grown grudges in the ground,
between the granite and the shrouded ghoul,
tucked in like borrowed breath where death
dies, and life stretches
its nucleus beyond body.

X, with forgivable sins and unforgettable flaws,
faults and ****-ups.

A departing enigma of arrival.
Cell One below
The Fifth Chamber of the Pits planked
neatly wound around the whirling netherworld
the land of the dead undergoing going undead
the abode of the ******, drowning
eternal dam of damnation, sinking
Some shades so summer:
Abominable Abaddon;

I remember her.
She would remember me differently.
Only as a thought of momentary joy,
An anomaly of an intimate feeling too great
to define.
We were calms amidst of tornadoes.
An avalanche taking over her very being,
her effervescent existence dissolving dizzily
Pulsing through her veins torpedoing, consuming
the inner faculties – the fabrics of the core.

Plastic spring, summer-bright bundled
an autumn animosity and wintery nu-ness
a calm sandy beach with a mayhem of waters
consumed and controlled by elemental thirst.
When the waters come you won’t survive the
By the time you run, it’ll be swimming against
An electrifying, electrified pulse of push-punching-shove
tide, tucking safety and tidely in the underbellies of
underleague seas of oceans, bundles of memories below
Beneath Patrick’s rock, exhaling energies from
one lung to squirrel trees.
Money-watering branches.
Twigs in their twilight on an orange afternoon.
Yellow was her blue and her blues.

I remember her.
But I remember her differently now.

I have not been home since 13yo
Only a hole
A bundle of dirt, concrete and doors,
Dug out dung sprouts up from a molehill
Caving in.
The house stands. Streets unchanged.
Names named a-new.
People/Animals uncaged. Minds/mannerisms still chained.
The house stands.
9 years since I was last home.
The house that habited home is here, still.
I have not been home.
Nowhere is Home.
4our walls broken like the fourth wall
Home is somewhere not here.
I have not felt home since hands felt, fell
frantically out from my foul mouth,
index finger first  
having lept out,
up from bubbling and bellowing bellies.

Hanging aimlessly at a cauldron.
Caudro on, mokey Margate weather.

A few of us quite simply, and sadly
do not have homes that vibe friendly
enough to call home.
Homes that stretch sufficiently wide
and tower tall enough
to call home.
To protect our reality.

Buy my poetry collection here:

© 2013-2019. Phila Dyasi. All rights reserved. All poems are the intellectual property of Phila Dyasi. NuBlaccSoul ™.
If chickens laid eggs on the cannon, what literature would hatch? This is ancestral, past-life reading; this is meditation and prayer; this is future telling, a spiritual fair. philadyasi’s debut collection of poems, Chickens Laying Eggs on The Roof, emerges out of a need to offer a nuanced socio-political commentary on the personal and public space. Shifting between different temporal realities, it all collides into a colourful body of work that spreads itself across spectrums; nowhere and everywhere.

philadyasi, also known as nublaccsoul, is a media, communication and cultural studies scholar. Born and raised in the KwaZulu-Natal province of South Africa. Phila currently lives in Port Elizabeth, where he is both a student and works part-time as a writer. He lives by the motto: Do better; be better.  Phila has featured his poetry in, ‘Experimental Writing: Africa Vs Latin American’ anthology (2016); two anthologies by the Nelson Mandela University, ‘Piece by piece’ (2015) and ‘Carved onto the page’ (2017), Editions: 7 - 10 and 12 of the Cape Town based e-zine, ‘Ja’ (2016-8); international online SWITCH Magazine October 2017 edition; and

© 2013-2019. Phila Dyasi. All rights reserved. All poems are the intellectual property of Phila Dyasi. NuBlaccSoul ™.

Chickens Laying Eggs on The Roof available here:
An African girl married a Chinese man,
They spent their honeymoon in a caravan,
Soon they had a baby girl,
She looked Chinese with black curls,
They named her Mwana Dandan
Mwana is African name for child
Juan Bot Feb 26
The boy walked to the store.
The boy wanted a smore.

He asked the store owner, and the store owner said,

Why is the world so racist? SMH :(

If you laughed at this, you should be ashamed at yourself.
Racism is bad.
When will
These people
Marked by
And known
By grace
Have a voice
That isn’t only
A chorus
Ciel Jan 30
The coils on your head are the crowns
that were ripped from your ancestors' head.
The melanin in your skin is the reminder
of how the sun loved you when no one else would.
The stripes on your hips
are the representation of your growth.
The scars on your skin
are the proof that you won those battles.
So don't you dare be ashamed of them.
They make you who you are,
and you should be proud of it.
“I am the descendant of survivors,” I think as I reflect on the lynching trees.
I think of the pain, fear, and cautiousness that my ancestors experienced in their lifetimes.
The normalcy of it.
I think of how far we’ve come.
As a nation: one inch.
As my brothers’ and sisters’ force: eons.
There is so much pride I feel in their transcendence. I am here because they learned how to survive.
I wonder was it through power? Cowardice? Hiding?
How much does it matter? Isn’t there strength in whatever method works?
There are so many generations that did not make it. I am one of the lucky ones.
I get to live out the dreams that my ancestors cried out to the stars,
The ones they whispered into the void of a tunnel lit by a single flickering light,
The ones they inhaled from a friend after they bubbled up to the water’s surface,
The ones that danced in the breeze like the leaves on hanging trees.
I have the honor.
I have the pride of knowing they survived fear and turmoil for me.
The past is dark and grim, but the future is bright because now I hold the light.
Sometimes when people ask me what it means to be African-American, I tell them
It means to be lost.
Displaced from your real home; tribe; ripped from your roots --
But does it?
When I look up at the stars that may have guided generations of them,
Sometimes I feel as if I can see some of them blinking
Watching over me.
Life of man

Is like a flaming candle b’neath rivers



A ****** paradox


If solitude be joy, it is the hermit’s verdict,

Man could be the beast he wishes to be

And the very angel we yearn to see.

What treaty has man with futile predictions,

Ghost promises, stillborn prophesies?

And if there is a god to presage our destiny

Shouldn’t it be Man’s inner trinity?

Thus; I call faith, courage and fortitude.

Yet, No star, nor deity

kings our fate but wholly Thee;

Who governs the fine empyreal above.

B’hind the bridge of weariness and age

Is death―a boundless tributary

From life each man comes along with a Skiff

For some time in life rents a ferry

B’hind the bridge, each departs in a skiff

Into a wooden jeep, moving nowhere where we must be.

i still dream about my lover
crossing 7 rivers on her old boat,

rowing ripples of sorrow,
formed by droplets of tears

that moon-walked down her cheeks,
like silver lines in dark clouds

running like water fall, down a hill,
falling with deep sighs, with each clock tick

every drop into the river sings a song
as she rows along:

'take me deeper than my fears/
do not taste like my tears/
fare me well to yonder shores/
do not draw me to his voice'

too late

there were days of sunshine and plenty,
when the wind was art and poetry,
how much of him was loved?

there were days when rain was heavy,
when affection was your vanity,
how much of him was loved?

now, by untamed naivety
and itchy ears of the gullible laity,
you laid off, like Jonah,
the plot of your journal,

tell me,
how far are you from where he drowned?
not long, yet you miss him sore?

for along you row,
deep he sank and swam,
calling and pleading and hoping
you'd, for past's sake, heed

but your sadness waved back,
like stray dogs wave tails,
you couldn't, again bark,
when you met your fears,

not so long a time,
'time is the balm'
you claimed, but look, dear dame,
who's got no healing

i still dream about my lover
crossing 7 rivers on her old boat,

on lonely nights of cold
and faint moon lightning

her voice floating in the wind
that swishes west to east,

while an interlude of distant thunder,
rumble in low solemn tones
the song she left unsung:

'take me deeper than my fears/
do not taste like my tears/
fare me well to yonder shores/
do not draw me to his voice'
Thank you for being love when my soul craved it most.
Thank you for being refuge when I needed peace.
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