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Poems By Poet Yolanda Mbatha  7/27/2016 2:43:39 AM
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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




As the darkness settles in and lights go out
As the city goes to sleep and the owls see light
I cradle my bundle of joy close to my heart
I am awakened by the smell of impurity both inside and out
I battle to suggest what this is about
The lights go on, my intellect switches off
I am tied up innocence dressed down
I am blinded, innocence exposed
The tears pour down as baby wails out
I keep it in she cries it out
I spectate under black emptiness
Man is happy
Innocence is weeping
Baby is bleeding
The bath fills up
Innocence instructed to get dressed
So evidence is physically invisible
But emotionally always beams bright
The lights go on
Man is gone
And so is baby’s innocence
She is robbed of her pride
I am cursed with anger
Now man is locked up
Baby still crying
Mother still dying
Man still smiling
Innocence still living?
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




censured for actions I was pressured into taking,
blamed for words erudite practitioners said to me...
labelled a murderer...

yet i sought after being their nurturer
they wouldve had only a father, no mother
for the predicament was a death, how stagnant
to blame me is only regnant

Ive become a huntsman...
every thump every bump...
yes it makes me jump

hypnotised into blaming myself
the definition of a murderer is on any bookshelf
but, to eradicate onelf, thyself
from the he category of innocent
is difficult..

people blame me,
i don't fight them,
yet i dont agree
for the doctoers told me
that the likelihood of survival for all
is only 33

and so... Am i to blame, or is that part of the game
Yolanda Mbatha

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Poems By Poet Yolanda Mbatha