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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:
NuBlaccSoul Feb 2018
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 god.
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

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,

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.
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 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 God. A devout man of God, 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’.
Dr. Phil.
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 stupid.
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 Jan 2017
I'm reaching but never gripping,
It's soul ripping how they're preaching, yet aren't teaching.

I'll never hide,
even when I die.
I'll be immortalized
in some formaldehyde.
Where my soul and skin divide
I'll be like a deity,
the higher me,
doing the Lord's work,
hire me.

The humble apple pie
can satisfy no appetite
here comes the hunger tide.

When wings carried Icarus
through cutting winds
we were pulled feathers
of wisdom's birdy-body of ink
taking flight to Olympus planes
the son, seeks The Sun

I'm grown now,
dealing with chronic stress,
and I believe less in a deity,
it seems like too far a stretch
The stench from a faithless
Hopeless, homeless.
(C) 2016. Copyrighted 27th January
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 2016
This waiting room is painted of pain,
featuring faces with mouths down-turned,
impatience taking up these empty seats,
of family members already lost,
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate's
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients
to be visited during the night shifts,
by nurses and doctors,
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan - barely hanging -
is closing in full circle,
a whole life lived.
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling,
alongside the walls' stripes
designed with a print of doctors' usual words,
"I'm so sorry for your loss."  

If life truly begins at forty,
then hers ended at the starting line.
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor
if it weren't for olympics silently running in the background on the tv
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound.

It ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation
a possibly cancerous lump.
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages,
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn the pages over better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box,
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing.
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time.
It was just a little, smallish lump.
these news are hard to swallow.
my eyes are peeling onions.
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out.
Grandma's sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting "pressure".
neutral colours ***** the Scrubs' floors,
hypothermia lurking in the corridors,
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm.

It was a game of musical chairs,
But when the seven trumpets sounded,
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation.
An angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now.
With a plot twist, it's less players each round.
Who dies first wins, I've tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are *****.
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin.
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away - the whitened clay still one,
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh.

It's also winter our hearts,
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral.
And his life was a summary,
too brief a breath, as the contraction is.
No sympathy to bother saying
"I am".
Public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

Twenty-twelve was a scar,
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs, from the bottomless pits,
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely,
so very early.
Some of the things we will take to our graves
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves.
And hurt still drops in drips,
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood-washed tiles,
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares
are too real to be dreams.

uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 31 August 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. 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. || Thank you to Brian Walter and Lewish Bosworth for helping with the editing. I sincerely appreciate it.
NuBlaccSoul Apr 2016
I am the broken dream
of the sloppery porter. 
A vase that never survived
the spitting furnace fires.
The clay that cracked
at Man's man-handles of mould.
Some riverside thought,
washed away by the sweeping rains, never created.

I am the seed that never got to see it's flower bloom.
Gone a short summer too soon.
The shelter that could offer no security...warmth...cover
--- my heart.

Uprooted with our home, 
and left me in this haunted house,
Where nothing rattles me more than my thoughts.
When the winds came I caved in.

Thoughts of how I journey through life
On a constant adventure of the unknown.
Where even my own perception of myself
Has been left distorted by how I continue to be left feeling how I am truly estranged,
An unwelcome guest within the confines of what used to be my humble abode.

I'm a stranger around familiar walls that whisper commands of eviction,
Under-breath chants of...
Echoes of...
Soft whispers of...
Gentle shivers from...
Subtle quivers from...
Shattering outbursts of the deafening silence.

Home has become a ghost of spirits ascended,
Of what I probably thought to life,
Of what 'reality' has continued to have me believe is what it should be,
Then again,
All I had was a glimpse into what a misconception I had fallen into the deception of.

Could it be gullibility?
Or perhaps,
Falling into the trap of believing something to be,
Just to fill that void of a missing feeling of belonging, arriving.

“When my house forgives my heart for plundering its walls, we will be home.”
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Nonkululeko Anicia Khumalo. All rights reserved. Intellectual property of authors. || This is another piece for the experimental writing collection, Writings & The Other Things. This is the second collaboration between Azanian king, nublaccsoul and Queen Nonkululeko Anicia Khumalo. The first being the poem titled "AZANIA" which is found here. Today, the 27th of April, is an important day in South Afrika. It is a public holiday known as FREEDOM DAY. “27 April commemorates the day in 1994 when the first democratic election was held in South Africa. Today, South Africa celebrates Freedom Day to mark the liberation of our country and its people from a long period of colonialism and White minority ******* (apartheid).

Apartheid 'officially' began in South Africa in 1948, but colonialism and oppression of the African majority had plagued South Africa since 1652. After decades of resistance, a stalemate between the Liberation Movement and the Apartheid government was reached in 1988.

The ANC, South African Communist Party (SACP), Pan African Congress (PAC) and other organisations were later unbanned on 2 February 1990, and a non-racial constitution was eventually agreed upon and adopted in 1993. On 27 April 1994, the nation finally cast its vote in the first democratic election in the country. The ANC was then voted into power, and Nelson Mandela was inaugurated as the President of South Africa on 10 May.

It is important to note however, that "freedom" should mean emancipation from poverty, unemployment, racism, sexism and other forms of discrimination. We are 15 years into our new democracy and many of these issues are still rife in our country. We are still a long way away from solving many of the legacies of Apartheid and now face new challenges, like the growing inequality among South Africans and political and economic instability in the region caused by a new elite who are interested in pursuing their own interests.

Freedom Day therefore serves as a reminder to us that the guarantee of our freedom requires us to remain permanently vigilant against corruption and the erosion of the values of the Freedom Struggle and to build an active citizenry that will work towards wiping out the legacy of racism, inequality and the promotion of the rights embodied in our constitution.

Further reading: Freedom day, 27 April

• UKZN, Freedom Day Celebrations 27th April, from University of Kwa-Zulu Natal, [online], Available at [Accessed: 21 April 2009]
• OTB, National Freedom Day Celebrations, 27th April 2011, from Out The Box - Productions, [online], Available at [Accessed: 29 April 2014]
Last updated : 28-Apr-2015 ”

This is for NomaFreedom. This is for the children of the rich soil of Afrika. Nonkululeko in known in the anglican language as 'FREEDOM', so the co-author is honoured today. It is interesting as we are born in different time periods in our diversified nation. I was born in 1996, post-democracy and my co-writer was born pre-democracy so this is truly an experience from both sides of time. The poem itself is not about today.

It is what it is. Enjoy.
All praise due to the most High.

Ooooh, before I forget!

Please peep the link:

#JaMag Edition 8. My work is featured here.  

It's the body, mind 'n spirit/
Father Son, Mother God/
I pray you hear it!!!!!
NuBlaccSoul Feb 2016
My armless legs carried my body
to the finish line
that my spent will had given up on already,
prior to the bell ring.
Dehydrated and devoid of energies,
in need of divine moving waters,
the very same that spring out of me.

You see, my mum and Uncle Siya'
are but blurry snapshots
in the fading distance,
sights of surroundings in doubles,
from fatigue.
But the running winds carried
their vibrant vuvuzela voices,
a vote-of-confidence hymn
sung by the choir of one plus one,
reverberated from ear-drum down,
in my heart the beat found rhythm,
the lyrics were prosthetics of love,
the art of ululating with our praise songs
and proclaiming proudly
our clan names
sung and said boldly,
megaphone manner
with the tenor
and a Brenda Fassie cadence
by iBhelekazi elihle, uSonani, unoNtanda kuphakanyisa, iLangalokulunga lase Lenge, uNdabezitha, Ahhh Khuboni,
UMama wam'.

And so I drew the sap
for the last lap
from branchy wells
of my dry back.
My bony chest having troubles caging an ambitious and a hopeful heart,
this palpitating ticker.

Today's high-jump is the rise
of an amputated grasshopper,
the leap of an injured springbok.
No, I will not pass the buck;
for any failure like a baton -
the relay run was victory undone.
Standing on this last leg,
800 metres long.
No looking back, cutting curves
at the apex.

Neatly knitted nerves
of my ten toes
endure every tread, 
barefoot feats,
they have to
for my brother
and his numb-below's sake,
we are on bended knees
for a miracle still,
And he is pushing the wheel
until he wins.
Balancing aggregately
on losing legs,
rugby pillars
turn to
marathon sticks.
The petty party
is a few years over,
and no pity is left over to offer.

Diabetes is sour jokes now,
bile-bitter bite from my great-grand's
cause of death, distasteful how i did not even bury her.
Grandma's mouthful of dentures
denouncing my youth's sweet tooth.
My blood in need of a sugar rush
for the kilometres left, 
to speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.

Coach André Leach said the race
was mine to lose.
My hothead coupled with coldfeet and topped off with
mixed emotions,
I wished I had the same
unwavering belief in my destiny.
No spikes,
I cannot keep up with the
price hikes
and no takkie,
their new trend is tacky.
After school is not afterschool,
hours of practice await
and an uphill walk home after.

All my efforts would have been that of  laying eggs on the roof
if my chicken flight didn't out fly
the hen on my back,
and the last grain-ground
I must gain now, again.
I ran with a quickened pace,
only behind my dream,
a few steps amiss from happiness.
That feeling is fleeting,
ever too fast,
so I chase contentment instead,
and that I caught up with.

Middle-position podium, I stand,
Winner is me, with the posture
of David Rudisha, but not as pronto
I'm 2 minutes: 32 seconds:
93 semi-seconds fast.
RUN! RUN! Run for your dreams
Run towards your dreams. RUN!
And don't look back.

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS
(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. 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. || The title is in the Azanian language of IsiXhosa, "Baleka!" is a command for one to run, whether to or away from something or someone.
This poem is an extended metaphor based on athletics,  long distance track event - 800 metres as I look back to my last victory in the aforementioned event and the other life-changing experiences in life's lengthy race. This is my favourite poem I've written yet.

Peace and love upon your head, thank you for reading/liking/reposting/adding to collections.
Saturday December 10 2016 19:23 I did some editing. Re-read!

— The End —