Category Archives: Poetry

A Beautiful Sunset

The 5 megapixels on my phone’s camera do not do justice to the beauty that surround me in Venda. The skyline is always so beautiful at sunrise and sunset.I’ll miss such views when its time for me to leave.

A beautiful sunset as captured from my front yard

A beautiful sunset as captured from my front yard



Learning to forgive myself

What is a Poet?

“A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.” ~ W. H. Auden

By Tshauambea Ndou

My soul weeps

My soul weeps,
My ice cold heart has been melted into a river of tears,
Overwhelmed by the social inequalities that have spread like spores over the years,
Septic sores that have turned rural virgins into whores,
My soul weeps for humanity is in a coma, drifting closer to death daily.

My soul weeps for the widows who lost their husbands in struggle,
The same women that barely have food on their table,
Feeding on government’s promises that their husbands’ deaths were not in vain,
Waiting on their spouses blood to fertilise their barren soil.

My soul weeps for dust babies,
Whose only desire is to own a pair of shoes,
Who walk through dark valleys in pursuit of food,
The very same children left to nurse themselves for the angel of death has claimed their parents,
My soul weeps for Africa’s starving young.

My soul weeps for 13 year old Duduzile,
Forced into prostitution so she can fend for her younger siblings,
Constantly beat on like a marimba drum by her pimp,
The scars and wounds on her feet from those that wanted more than what they were willing to pay for,
Her legs, always open like a cheap Hillbrow store that knows not of any public holidays,
My soul weeps for 13 year old HIV positive Duduzile.

My soul weeps for the tenderpreneur,
He flashes his assets yet has an empty soul,
He drinks himself to sleep for the screams of those he cheated to get where he is are constantly tormenting him,
Exploiting minors to obtain his blood diamonds,
Over working orphans in sweat shops,
He lingers around expensive boutiques yet he knows not that salvation is what he really needs,
My soul weeps for the black diamond who knows not that he has sold his soul to the devil.

My soul weeps for the Congolese refugee who fled to South Africa in search of a better life,
Knowing not that he’ll be abhorred by hostile hearts,
Termed “lilwerekere” and set ablaze in broad daylight,
Not knowing his search for safety would lead him to his death bed,
My soul weeps for the Congolese refugee who fell into the arms of Xenophobia.

To be continued…

Star-Crossed Lovers

With the sweet melodious tunes of birds in spring and the alluring scent of flowers in full bloom we crossed paths,
Shakespeare’s ghost possessed Cupid who knocked us out and we soon took to our true forms; Romeo and Juliet reincarnated,
A modern day pale skinned, amber eyed Romeo with his highly pigmented, frizzy haired Juliet.
Our souls illumined the universe and we defied not only social norms but gravity!
To heighten our emotions we ditched our sight; love really is blind, we can testify for we went colour blind.

We defied gravity and ascended to cloud nine,
I stole his heart and he vowed to protect mine,
We painted celestial images of one another in the sky,
He was my muse and I was his,
As the sun set our souls intertwined and merged,
With each breath he took I felt my lungs contract,
We were one!
W e levitated to the moon and there he told me that I’m sooo fine and he promised we’d be together till the end of time.

I, his sky and him my moon;
The surrounding stars, fair maidens twinkling, twirling and curling their toes; desperate for his attention,
My moon shinning his bright light onto me, his sky and spitting his smooth poetic lines and rhymes so they’d know he was taken.
As morning came reality hit, Romeo and Juliet were star crossed lovers and so were we…

The Bridge by John Redwood Anderson



A view from Nelson Mandela Bridge by Aluwani Nemaxwi

A view from Nelson Mandela Bridge by Aluwani Nemaxwi


The pictures (above) captured by Aluwani Nemaxwi from the Nelson Mandela Bridge that lies between Braamfontein and Newtown in Johannesburg reminded me of a poem titled The Bridge by the late John Redwood Anderson for some reason. It’s amazing how the regular posts on photographs that I like have inspired some of my friends to unearth the photographer within them.

The Bridge


  Here, with one leap,

The bridge that spans the cutting; on its back

The load

 Of the main-road,

  And under it the railway-track.

 Into the plains they sweep,

 Into the solitary plains asleep,

The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel—

Fringes with their narrow grass,

 Into the plains they pass,

 The flowing lines, like arms of mute appeal.



A cry

 Prolonged across the earth—a call

 To the remote horizons and the sky;

 The whole east rushes down them with its light, 

And the whole west receives them, with its pall

 Of stars and night—

The flowing lines, the parallel lines of steel.



And with the fall

Of darkness, see! The red,

 Bright anger of the signal, where it flares

 Like a huge eye that stares

 On some hid danger in the dark ahead.

A twang of wire—unseen

The signal drops; and now, instead

Of a red eye, a green.



Out of the silence grows

 An iron thunder—grows, and roars, and sweeps,

Menacing! The plain

 Suddenly leaps,

 Startled, from its repose—

 Alert and listening. Now, from the gloom

Of the soft distance, loom

Three lights and, over them, a brush

Of tawny flame and flying spark—

Three pointed lights that rush,

 Monstrous, upon the cringing dark.



 And nearer, nearer rolls the sound,

Louder the throb and roar of wheels,

The shout of speed, the shriek of steam;

The sloping bank,



Cut into flashing squares, gives back the clank

And grind of metal, while the ground

Shudders and the bridge reels—

 As, with a scream,

The train,

 A rage of smoke, a laugh of fire,

 A lighted anguish of desire,

A dream

 Of gold and iron, of sound and flight,

Tumultuous roars across the night.



 The train roars past—and , with a cry,

Drowned in a flying howl of wind,

Half-stifled in the smoke and blind,

The plain,

 Shaken, exultant, unconfined,

 Rises, flows on, and follows, and sweeps by,

 Shrieking, to lose itself in distance and the sky.


                                     By: JOHN REDWOOD ANDERSON.

More on John Redwood Anderson:

Poetry Africa Johannesburg Tonight

Poetry Africa Johannesburg

Poetry Africa Johannesburg Tonight at The Alexander Theatre

I know its short notice but please come through to The Alexander Theatre in Braamfontein tonight to witness spoken word and music that is on another level.
The line-up:

 I think we can all agree that the line-up is amazing, tonight’s event showcases some of the best performances that Africa has to offer; it’s all about rhymes and tunes tonight.

 For more details on this event please follow the following links:!/event.php?eid=292636720762917

Rhymes And Frames