Tswapong Hills
o my ancestors
I pray for you I called by name every night
and you catch me unawares
slipping into my in-between states
not quite awake
not quite knowing what to do
reminding me
how you managed to live
long enough for
me to appear
now how may I best
honor your time?
offer you a cool drink of clear water
a shady canyon to rest your head
a wheel of vultures to look after you
a surprise in the deepest pool?
I ask humbly
knowing cured/cursed
are nearly one
The Serowe Museum has an exhibit on writer Bessie Head. She was born in South Africa to a white mother and black father, which was illegal. Our guide said it was lucky that the authorities hadn’t broken her neck. I had not heard of mixed race children being killed under apartheid, and I asked our main guide if that was true, which he confirmed. I wrote this poem reflecting on that. Now that we’re back in wifi, I have been Googling a bit and have not been able to substantiate that. Here is an account of what it was like to be an illegal mixed race child under apartheid, though. Trevor Noah’s autobiography, Born a Crime, also addresses this.
dark days in South Africa
there was a time
when black + white
equaled a little wrung neck
born babies accorded
no right to be
by some misguided man
dead sure of his
righteousness
stealing little whispers of breath
all to keep the world
less colored
yes people/no people
no people
stiffen
push their palms away
start shaking their head before you’ve finished
shut down their synapses
until all that’s left is
no
it’s not possible
they like to say
ensuring your fate’s in
someone else’s hands
yes people
smile
wave you in
squint one eye and purse their lips
searching for a way through
wrack their brains for a workaround
their only thought is
you’re fine
it’s no problem
they like to say
clasping your hand on this journey
we’re all making around the sun
The eight-pointed star is an important part of Muslim iconography. It is also know as khatim sulayman – “the seal of the prophets.” When tessellated, the negative space can create a four-pointed star. The pattern of intersecting 4- and 8-pointed stars is also known as “the breath of the compassionate”, signifying the rhythm of expansion and contraction. Lots of other things come in 8s, and this star may also evoke the compass rose. I used the first letter of each traditional wind’s name to start each of the 8 lines in this poem. We’re also reading Bill Bryson’s A Brief History of Nearly Everything at bedtime these days, and we’re learning about inflation theory and singularity.
khatim sulayman
The universe expands while the
Globe contracts.
Listening to Uptown Funk and the call to prayer
Simultaneously is a singular experience,
One step in our family’s eastward pilgrimage to
Learn other ways of being, to be
Purposeful in our conduct,
Mindful of the many forms compassion takes.
