Thumping deep, deep
I feel a poem inside
wriggling within the membrane
of my soul;
tiny fists beating,
beating against my being
trying to break the navel cord,
crying, crying out
to be born on paper
Thumping
deep, so deeply
I feel a poem,
inside - Don Mattera
Let the children decide...
Let us halt this quibbling
of reform and racial preservation
saying who belongs to which nation
and let the children decide
it is their world
let us burn our uniforms
of old scars and grievances
and call back our spent dreams
and the relics of crass tradition
that hand on our malignant hears
and let the children decide
for it is their world…
"There was a girl who gave me (Leo Buscaglia) a poem, and she gave me
permission to share it with you, and I want to do that because it
explains about putting off and putting off and putting off - especially
putting off caring about people we really love. She wants to remain
anonymous, but she calls the poem, "THINGS YOU DIDN'T DO" and she says
this":
Remember the day I borrowed your brand new car and I dented it? I thought you'd kill me, but you didn't.
And remember the time I dragged you to the beach, and you said it would rain, and it did? I thought you'd say, "I told you so." But you didn't.
Do you remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you jealous, and you were? I thought you'd leave me, but you didn't.
Do you remember the time I spilled strawberry pie all over your car rug? I thought you'd hit me, but you didn't.
And remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was formal and you showed up in jeans? I thought you'd drop me, but you didn't.
Yes, there were lots of things you didn't do, But you put up with me, and you loved me, and you protected me.
There were lots of things I wanted to make up to you when you returned from Vietnam.
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn.
Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step.
There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in.
Toe die wêreld hier nog jong was en die horison wyd en oop
Was dit groen hier in die halfrond, suid van die ewenaar
En in die skemer as die son sak en die beeste huis toe loop
Klink die roepstem van die vrouwe oor die heuvels van die land:
Halala, ewig is ons Afrika.
Tula tula mtanami, tula tula sanaboni, tula tula mtanami,
Ubab uzobuya sihlale naye, ubab uzobuya sihlale sonke, Hmmm-Hmmm
Toe kom die skepe uit die weste, wit seile oor die see
Om te vra vir kos en water en te bly vir so veel meer.
En die land wat een tyd oop was, die land het ons verruil
Vir die ghetto’s van die stede is ons koperdraad gegee.
Halala, ewig is ons Afrika
Halala, sasiphila, kamnandi, halala, mayibuye Afrika
Tula tula mtanami, tula tula sanaboni, tula tula mtanami,
Ubab uzobuya sihlale naye, ubab uzobuya sihlale sonke, Hmmm-Hmmm
Daar was rykdom in die maag van ons moeder Afrika
Diamante en ook steenkool, goud, edel metaal
En die mense word die slawe hier want die mense word betaal
Om te tonnel in die aarde elke greintjie uit te haal
En die groot en oop grasvlaktes span dit toe met doringdraad
En van die olifant tot die gemsbok al die diere moes kom buig
Voor die mag van die grootwildjagter voor die mag van sy groot geweer
Totdat net die stilte oorbly, totdat net die stilte heers.
Halala, ewig is ons Afrika.
Halala, sasiphila, kamnandi, halala, mayibuye Afrika
Sasidjapolutjoloythina
Halala, sasiphila, kamnandi, halala, mayibuyeAfrika - Johannes Kerkorrel
Alien sky leaves one silent ... your soul shutters when you hear the beautiful sounds ... her incredible voice... and the inner heart of one of the most divine artists South Africa has ever produced.
One can listen to Karin's music night after night but it sounds uniquely different every time and leaves you with intensified feelings of satisfaction and inspiration ...
Harvest is a time of plenty, when the season's hard work is rewarded by bounty... Is this the story of your life? Lord of the ages - Magna Carta
Lord of the Ages rode one night
Out through the gateways of time
Astride a great charger
In a cloak of white summit
He flew on the air
Like a storm
Dark was the night
For he gathered the stars in his hand
To light a path through the sky
Rather hoofs of his charger
Made comets of fire
Bewitching all eyes
Beheld them
(Sigit Pamungkas/Reuters)
Lord of the Ages, nobody knows
Whether he goes, nobody knows
Below a dark forest in caves of black granite
(Amel Emric/Associated Press)
The children of darkness dwelt in oblivion
Betraying one another in endless confusion
But the Lord of the Dark
Had bewitched them
From time’s first creation
The wise men and prophets
And all workers of magic
Had warned of the reckoning
The wind and the fire
And the plague of destruction that follows the path
Of evil
(John Moore/Getty Images)
Lord of the Ages, nobody knows
Whether he goes, nobody knows
Far above the wide ocean and thundering rivers
Through the sun and the rain
The turn of the seasons
Rode the god of all knowing
(Firdia Lisnawati/Associated Press)
While all around him celestial companions
Friends from the void before time was woven
Honour his crown with words of white fire
And carry his robes with light
Whether he goes, nobody knows
But in the peace of a valley
A young child was born
Filling the night with his crying
And an old man gave thanks to the lord of the ages
Who’s battle is not with innocence
But the birds of the air were silent
Knowing that time had come when time was forgotten
The waters were stilled
The mountains stood empty
And the cities were deaf
Long, long ago
(Jeff Horner/Walla Walla Union-Bulletin/Associated Press)
Enough
Cried a voice
And the earth was awaking
Poor and the rich fell to ring of the fire
Death and destruction rode out together
Turning the world to a funeral pyre
It was the Lord of the Ages - Gathering in the harvest
I thank the Lord of the Ages - Gathering in the harvest
Oh, Lord - Gathering in the harvest
Gathering in the harvest
And from the blood and the thunder of men in their dying
His eyes dark with sorrow
The Lord of the Ages
Gathered in his harvest
Gathering in the harvest, gathering in the harvest . . .
(Sivaram V/Reuters)
But to the old and helpless
The weak and the humble
To the children of light
His words of compassion breezed on them gently
Dissolving the darkness across the great valley that rumbled with fire
And from the death and destruction
The Lord of the Ages
Carried the fruit to the harvest
To freedom
(Prakash Mathema/AFP/GettyImages)
Lord of the Ages, nobody knows
Whether he goes, nobody knows
