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Poems By Poet Yolanda Mbatha  2/28/2015 1:16:09 PM
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African Roots

My DNA dates back to the trees that planted
My identity.
Soils creep up to distress how the hairs on my head were made.

My ancestor...
the ghosts that breathe through me
exclaiming their identity.
The roots that planted my existence flow through me
African roots.
The earth carries on its back the blood of those who fought for our liberty

Liberty... Our hips, our thighs
Free to paint itself into a frame of its own choice
And it chooses the hourglass
Dating back into time where
African women spoke through their stride
Head bowed down
An unspoken noun

That he the man and his muscles may protect his crown
Wabonga izulu
Esho izithakazelo zikaShaka Zulu
Thina ma-Afrika
Thina esinsundu
Esabeletha isintu
Ngoba kwathiwa umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu
Thina esinezimpande ezingasoze zahlubuka

Indoda yabukwa
Yabukwa indoda
Kwaqubuka ukuziqhenya
Laqhamuka iqhawe
Kwaqhaqhazela umhlabathi
Kwazalwa izwe eliqhakazile
Thina ma-Afrika
Thina esinsundu

Our DNA dates back to the trees that planted
Our identity.

(A poem by Yolanda Mbatha and Mbali SImelani)
Yolanda Mbatha



A Walk Down Memory Lane

A walk down memory lane leads to screams of agony as I forcefully commemorate past tragedies. Life as a teen could be more difficult- that I know- but it could also be much easier...

The walls of my mind are engraved with the terror that is visible in my eyes, visible in my heart, yet hidden in my words, hidden in my stride- none attempts to look beyond what your tender eye wishes to see...

People talk- inexperienced yet so certain that they know what goes on in the mind of those who know, those who have been, those who are, Tongues poisoned with bitter emotions in favour of the so called victim... The offender is concluded as the offender without reason, without proof, without thought
it's a natural things to do for we humans tend to kill with the tongue and consider the physical assassinators murderers yet we ourselves are as saintly as what lay beyond the clouds of doubt.

I’m no more and yet no less a sinner than you
I’m me and you’re just you… I’m both good and bad, and that only makes me human… difference is, I watch my tongue yet we still assassinators, yes both you and me.
Yolanda Mbatha



Black and Brown

Making my way down town
Fully aware of mams’s Bantu time
I see a man in black and brown
In my fears I started to drown
Began to frown
take off my crown
And what’s meant to be my night gown

Could this be my first time?
Where I give up my precious dime
Where my cries and his sighs are meant to rhyme

Another beast in brown and black
With a sacred purity to hijack
Now a 3rd and a 4th man
Were my legs awake I would have ran
On the typically black tar I’m forced to lie down
Without a bed told to give head
My hand to the beast unleashed was lead
In it slid, out it bled
For a seraphic moment I was partially dead

Anal pain I did receive
For they all had a mark to leave
Cry no longer, no 5min was longer
I wish I was stronger
His penetration entered my system
The rest I was to drink off him
Sour milk gone wrong was how it tasted
I observed as my so called precious dime twitched
Only moments later I was ditched

A checklist I did make
Did I ache?
Did he penetrate?
He just wasn’t some sickly mate

A process originally to multiply the nation
Used for some assassin sensation
This peculiar emotion
A deformed heart, please take into consideration
No1 to wipe away the tears
Blood stains invisible to peers
No1 to discard my fears
The eyes never will dry,
Without reason to try
Afraid to shut them close
As the scream echoes after the voice froze
I no-longer belong to me
Do I define pain or does pain define me
4 it is now 5years down the line
And I still search for that precious dime
One step at a time
Searching for a motive for that crime

It's always a war, it's always a fight.
Acceptance, and love, and hatred abound
to burn out the darkness, to soak in the light.
Minds and words explode without a sound.
I claw my way up, I try to survive,
Some days it feels like I'm no-longer alive.

The breathe of night lulls in a scent in its arms
And grants me a bouquet of blood
To mother and keep me from all that harms
And you; Just let me cry for you abandoned and let me die

When you let that man in black and brown
Do as he pleases with my precious dime
Yolanda Mbatha



Black South African Woman

Because i anwser to our children when you're nowhere to be found,
because i provide food with the scraps i was given;

Because i am robbed of my privacy because i wont willinglt satisfy you,
because i have to accept htat i am no-longer a priority for i now have a fat belly;

Because for my children i am forced to be your slave; restricted to household duties,
Because I am forced to tolerate your inappropriate behaviour a you get home late from the pub

Because I do what I have to, but not what I want to;
Yolanda Mbatha

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Poems By Poet Yolanda Mbatha