Write Stuff: Poetry by Tawona Sithole
once in a while i hear the comment
you speak good english
in my school days it was a compliment
but at some point it got a bit complicated
i have good memories
of school
though i cannot remember exactly
what period we got history
or why geography kept getting
moved around
though i can remember
english came aftermath
of a hectic hectic
timetable
learning english was
easy at first
but at some point
it got a bit
complicated
some of my peers got
a little fierce
in the determination to
speak good english
i wish this good english
was good enough
to translate the shock of
hearing
people mispronouncing their own
names
in order to sound more english
i wish this good english was good
enough
for untwisting of the tongue-tied
bristly brush to briskly brush
themselves aside
i really could have done with a better
student’s companion
to clarify some questions of spelling
was it supposed to be copying or
coping
we were meant to be doing
and where was that trusty student’s
companion
to detect silent letters and other
landmines
just waiting to burst into laughter
humiliation nicknames and other
dramatic grammatic shrapnel
embedded in so many innocent
victims
i really could have done with a better
student’s companion
to clarify some issues of
pronunciation
was it supposed to be a minute
silence
we were meant to be observing
to reflect on our loss
reflect on our neglect
what happened to my mother tongue
my tongue mother
but nowhere to start
or how to react
so it’s just a smile
a little awkward smile
my euphemism for words
every so often i hear the comment
you speak good english
i wish this good english was good enough
to persuade the easily-swayed
to stop living the shame way
i wish this good english was good enough
to calm the hysteria what about
the pre-set re-set incessant alarm
that shattered my dreams
my pre-school dream
of elders taking care of everything
before it became all uniform
on the assembly line
blazer basher blazer basher
on the assembly line
shut up sit down stand up sit down
on the assembly line
pray sing pray sing
shut up sit down stand up sit down
pull up your socks tuck in your shirt
and fix your tie
weak arms twisted by the brutish
on the assembly line
no more freestyle freestyle
but specified hairstyle hairstyle
single file single file into the classy
room
in order to be classified as educated
i try to say something nice
instead it’s just a smile
that little awkward smile
my euphemism for words
sooner or later i get to hear the
comment
you speak good english
i wish this good english was good
enough
to uncomplicate this compliment
good enough to politely object to
comparisons
with “what’s-his-name” from
“what’s-it-called”
or “what’s-her-name” from “what’s
it-called”
back in the back of the mind
nostalgia of my conditioning
it’s that “what’s-it-called” from
“what’s-it-called”
oh yeah, good english
i wish this good english was good
enough
to modulate this frequent flush rush
of mush
invading my inner field of vision
but here is just a simple meeting of
people
and besides
etiquette is adequate
so it’s just a smile
that little awkward smile
my euphemism for words
i wonder when i’ll next hear the
comment
you speak good english
i wish this good english will be good
enough
to express the simplicity of humility
within the complexity of society
the scribblings are there and i am
where
sprinkling inklings of my humanity
and again like the ancestors
keep praying for rain
so that next time i hear the
complicated compliment
you speak good english
i’ll be ready to react
probably with a smile
that awkward little smile
my euphemism for words
✑ ✑ ✑ ✑
Truthfully
betepesu
i hear the butterfly
joy i enjoy listening
i see the butterfly
joy i enjoy glistening
beauty of the sun
i see
not in its face
but in all things it brings to light
wonderful to know
in nature is the truth
Look–alikes
in the fight for acceptability
look-alikes can be hard to pull apart
but devoted eyes see to it
easy-to-assemble build-yourself kit
to tan the hide for the best whip
muscle-bound frame found bound
with the invisible chain of insatiable
gain
free from freedom
and the burden of liberty
✑ ✑ ✑ ✑
Hero with no name
deep in rhetoric
lies a hero
with no impact
no reputation
no status
a hero with no name
far from the limelight
in the blind spot of history
rests a hero
a hero with no face
no significance
a hero with no fame
completely out of view
out of the camera shot
resides a hero
with no relevance
a hero with no acclaim
hidden behind the calendar
is a day
a day without a date
without celebration
without fuss
no commemoration
a day for the hero
hero with no name
✑ ✑ ✑ ✑
The poetry of life
the poetry of life does not rhyme
not in the way words neatly combine
to connect dots into a punch line
or the way sentences elaborately
intertwine
to join twisting limbs of the
grapevine
the poetry of life does often chime
in the way raindrops randomly
collide
to connect clear dots into storylines
or the way veins intricately
intertwine
to join the natural flow of bloodlines
going back and forward in time
going back forward and back to the
first line
the poetry of life does not rhyme
✑ ✑ ✑ ✑
See me
see me in the light
see me in the dark
see me as you like
see me as you please
see me as you wish
see me as a profile
the official stereotype
see me through the lens
of pitiful photography
the unofficial stereotype
see me through the eyes of history
propaganda of the past
see me as you’ve been told
see me as you’ve heard
now see for yourself
see me as you see me
see me as i see myself
see me as i am
✑ ✑ ✑ ✑
Slow burning tales
that’s the man
the man’nequin
stands eloquently
in a window of opportunity
busy catching gazes
can’t excuse such excuses
the man kind
he just isn’t
it shows on his melting grin
his melting chin
it’s those slow burning tales
shaky equilibrium
about to fall off the scales
and on the other hand
that’s the lady
the lady just’is
sits articulately
on a seat of power
busy charging batteries
can’t adjust what just is
the lady like
she just isn’t
it shows in her smoking habit
her smoking habitat
it’s those slow burning tales
shaky equilibrium
about to fall off the scales
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Better known as Ganyamatope (his ancestral family name) Tawona Sithole’s heritage of storytelling inspires him to make connections with other people through creativity, and the natural outlook to learn. Poet, playwright, mbira musician and educator, Tawona is co-founder of the Seeds of Thought arts group in Glasgow. Based at the Centre for Contemporary Arts, the group is a free, fun and supportive space for creative writing and performance. As well as working as a freelance artist and in collaboration with many organisations, he is currently poet/playwright consultant on the AHRC-funded ‘Researching Multilingually at the Borders of Language, Body, Law and the State’ project at the University of Glasgow.