Writing Is Painful
Poverty cannot be romantic
If anything it is a sea bed
Of suffering and therein the hobo
And the money lender can sink
But the poverty of the soul and
The empty basket of the spirit
And the begging bowl of the
Mind are the modern sins
Into which the unwary will drown
Some spend life times and effort to
Acquire acquire money and power
This they say gives them status
There is power hidden in the leaves
Of the little things in life to whose
Pleading we pay scarce attention
Poetry is devastating like limpid
Water in less ignorant vicious ways
Best of all like music like a delightful
Beautiful woman poetry makes us happy
But writing is painful
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Book of the calm 10.Outcast of the dying romance
The pretense of this
dying love is over
Take your hobbling
memories with you and
Leave my dying memories
behind to die in
My hungry blood
The desire is put on
the hang man's noose
We're the outcasts of
the dying romance
There was a beautiful
dream asking to be dreamed
There was the ticking
hope hurrying in a hurry
To be hoped and grasped
But now all that hope and
those dreams you have
Shattered and looted
all by yourself are gone
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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To They Who Are Hauted By The Spectre Of Death
Do not fear death because death is not to be feared.Death is the bride of every household therefore welcome her with open arms.Death is inevitable therefore do not deny yourself the pleasure of having a nice time while you're still alive.Death is a stage through which all of us must pass.Death is necessary and this old life would be very boring if we would all live forever.Accept the inevitability of death and die gratefully with less worry lines on your death mask, There are no worries in the other world and over there they offer you virgins to pamper you to compensate for your undeserved suffering in this world.Therefore be willing to die young and have a good looking corpse
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Despite my love I seem to flicker in and out of your life
Like now you're wiser
With bitter knowledge and
Romantic dreams
At your loving best you
Love me like you're loving a god
You tantalize me and you make
Me feel wanted and desired
Ah...Mabel! Mabel!
The shadow of you looms
Large over my feeble self
At your worst you're
The soundless slayer of my heart
You give me the bits and the
Pieces of your heart that I want
You give me the morsels
Of the numerous that the world
Cannot offer me
You break my heart and you make me
Your little plaything
Despite my love I seem to flicker
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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(Solitude poems) Love hangover
My darling!
Your mother has threatened
To stab me in the eye
With a needle!
Your uncles would not
Talk to me when I met them
Somebody said she saw
The army of the tribes men
And they're said to have bundled
You into the back of the army truck!
I'm afraid for you!
Ten days have come and gone
I'm alone to face the solitude
Alone IN MY helplessness
What have they done to you?
I'm all by myself with no one
To share my deepest thoughts with
It's like I've done something
Vile and wrong...
This loneliness hurts
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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(Childhood poems) The soul of the world
The child is
the soul of the world
On the continued good life
of the infant lies
The salvation of the world
The well cared for child is
the safe haven of the universe
On life's continued survival
Hangs the crucial safe
upbringing of the unmolested child
The child is the Heaven of the earth
the baby cannot grow up to be
The man or the woman who wins
despite the obstacles where
The world is polluted by tribal
chauvinism and ethnic madness
And the stockpiling of the weapons
of mass destruction and the flourishing
Of mercenary bandits and killer squads
The child is the rock of our spiritual
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(Rose poems) Arise! ... oh rose!
Arise! ... oh rose!
The world may look cold
And aloof and unconcerned
And too preoccupied
With itself...
Arise! ... oh rose!
The world is the burning fire!
Open the floodgates of your love
And Holy tenderness and bring
Love to the world at war
With itself
Douse the strife of hatred with
The waters of your vast seas
Oh beloved and cherished rose!
Arise! ...beautilicious rose!
From the ghetto mansions of
Their degradation and the slum
Prisons of their humiliation
Bring the sweet scent the Hope of their
Emancipation oh sweet and lovely rose!
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(Money poems) A dire need
No doubt I am
thirsty for power but
Without the ruthless dire
Need for money I am
bound to be tied to
Pretending that I love
you even though it is
Plain to the world to see
That I have nothing but
Contempt for you
I need money all the time
I deal with the mighty dollar
and the unstable ruble and
The the true frank franc
I sing the limerick
to the tune of the lira
And I say yes to the yen
and I mark your love with
With the Swiss franc I love
the hard currencies of the world
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(Solitude poems) International women's day
I walk to their villages
And I see spread before my eyes
The terrible suffering of this women!
I walk amongst them in their rural towns
And I am confronted by the uncalled for
Total lack of services for this women!
I meet millions of them in the cities
And I'm saddened by their frightened stares
And the unjust exploitation of this women!
And you madam
You're so glib in your presentation
You make the same speech every year you
Trumpet the same lies of yesterday of...
Rural women are side lined by their leaders...
The women must be empowered...
Whatever happened to the propaganda of
Rolling back the frontiers of poverty?
Roll your sleeves or watch out you puppet
We will come down to your comfort
Zone and roll you out of your comfy position
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Mob justice
The judge in this lawless court he
Has the strength of ten devils...
And I saw the fairness of mob justice
And with their jabbering mouths they
Sentenced their victims to the punishment
Of their blood thirsty stoning
Before my own eyes I see the tyranny
Of mob justice
It's ugliness glares angrily at me
It's victims are jeered at
They are prodded with iron rods
Their eyes are torn from their sockets
Their limbs are broken with hammers
They are pelted with rocks
Nobody wants to hear their version
The perpetrators of the hyenas crime are
Many and the criminal cowards can with
New found bravado toy with their quarry
And ill star on national television
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poem by Ngaka Motaung
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