While waiting for 25

We learn as we grow. At times we grow and learn too late, others grow and die without having learnt from their experiences. Some of us will not learn just because we are afraid to experience anything first hand, and so we live through television soap operas and the stories that are spat out by gossip mongers, oonondaba.

All of us posses the capability to live and learn. Ignorance is a choice.

While Waiting For 25

While waiting for 25
the whole world passed me by.
I watched the limp diseased carcass of my future 25

In the back of a hearse

Being driven off

Alone into the past

Hope failed me

Spite named me
Punched a hole into this morning

And pulled today’s goals

Away into the final flickering-outbursts of a dying dream.
Broken promises derailed future opportunities

Yesterdays mistakes never became tomorrow’s lessons learnt

All things magical were replaced by the baseless and immaterial

And petrol bombs burned me while hard words were thrown back at me

Like bricks to a mellow yellow, so they bounced back and bruised he.

While waiting for 25.

...

While waiting for 25

We bled our souls into dust

And butchered our eyes raw from eyeing the neighbours life.
While waiting for 25

Hunger became my mother,
Hatred became my father,

Burden was my sister

And Rape came to my home

As a visiting uncle.
While waiting for 25

Us became me

You became we

The future turned grim,

Last night’s celebrations turned rancid

And with an idol-worshipping purpose

Activists withered into textbook heroes

Believers became capitalist communists.
While waiting for 25

We became aware that we had once again become enslaved at 8.

The onslaught of defeat hangs as a cautionary tale

On the scarred faces of today’s children,

Un-noticed and appearing lifeless.

We were dead at 15

While waiting for 25.

- an excerpt from While Waiting for 25.

We must live and we must learn.

Namaste

Interview : Nathi Xinwa talks to Nathi Xinwa about Nathi Xinwa

In the following transcript of an imagined interview between Nathi Xinwa and himself, we ask the questions that everyone never bothers asking in interviews, the truly interesting tidbits.


Q: Why The Nathi Xinwa Experience?
A: Sheer vanity. I must admit though that I was not always this self-involved and conceited. In my younger days I was quite the introvert. I only became this megalomaniac on ego-steroids once I realised I was awesome.

Q: WTF?
A: I understand that we are all created equal but, let us be honest with each other, some of us are more equal than others. Case in point: me.

Q: Whatever man.
A: It is a hard truth to swallow for some people, alas it is one they must swallow nonetheless.

Q: Hey, I didn’t even ask you a question.
A: I know, but you had that “Please-explain-this-awesomeness” look on your face, so I took the liberty of making the process of assimilating my awesomeness into your life much easier.

Q: Ah, thank you. I guess. If you knew everything about absolutely everything, what one word would you used to define yourself?
A: Bored.

Q: I don’t think you understand the question.
A: I understand the question perfectly, thank you very much.

Q: I see. Why then, would you be bored?
A: Knowing everything takes away the thrill of discovery.

Q: That is profound.
A: I got it from the back of a sugar sachet. I have more profoundness. Want to hear?

Q: Not really. I can barely stomach your awesomeness.
A: Yes, I have heard indigestion and heartburn are a direct result of being in the presence of undiluted awesomeness.

Q: Oh, God. You are shameless in your awesomeness.
A: Please call me Nathi, you’ll confuse the readers.

Q: Okay, Nathi. What one thing, except for world peace and goodwill towards mankind would you wish for, if wishes could be granted?
A: That’s easy. A year’s supply of coffee.

Q: Wait, what about an end to hunger, an end to war, a new world order?
A: I do care for all of those things but, I would more significantly appreciate a year’s supply of coffee.

Q: Interesting. Do you consider yourself a people person?
A: No. I don’t like people at all.

Q: That explains it. So what do you like?
A: Coffee, oxygen, the paranoia of the upper class. You know, the usual.

Q: Fortunately, our time is up. Any final words for the readers?
A: No.

> After this enlightening interview with himself, Nathi has sworn off having conversations with Nathi ever again. He claims that his alter ego, which was asking all the questions, is out to get him.

Namaste.

Poetic License?

Q: What is poetic license?

A: I have no friggin’ clue but, it seems like a good way to get away with saying stupid nonsense that no one understands.


For the love of

The wizardry of words
I write in
The freeness of verse
And the power
In every line
Is magnified by
The truth in every word.”

- © For The Love of… (2009)



If I have offended you with the poetic license comment, then clearly you are feeling caught out.

Namaste.

Write something worth reading

I urge you, the writer, to plough ahead with great caution.
For one, I am not sympathetic to the pity parties people host in order to get attention of some kind or value and am not privy to their motivations for such things either.

If you are going to write something for the purpose of it being read (not everything that is written is done so to appease, educate, entertain or charge the readers) then you should make it worth reading.

Sometimes we write to drive our demons out. Other times we write in order to help us understand something, maybe even to catalog a perception we have at that moment, but for whatever selfish reason we write - those things aren't written to be critiqued or scrutinised by anyone else. In fact, once we pen such things down we tend not to want to share them with anyone as these are the writings that are not merely close to our hearts, but are the window into our subconcious that is the consciousness that penned it down in the first place.

I digress.

Writing for the the reader is a complicated task. You must know who the reader is, what their level of understanding is, who & what they identify with, how to appeal to them, and how to keep them reading beyond the first stanza, or even the first line.

You see poetry is a funny thing.

Sometimes you must be an impressionist, other times an expressionist. There will be times when humour gets the point across, and other times when the slight of comedy blemishes your work. If you write for the sake of others, you must be very careful, especially if you don't know who you are. And as a writer, knowing who you are is more important than knowing the grammage of paper you're writing on, the type of coffee you're sipping on, or even what time the high tide usually drags in.

You see, the art of writing is not solely dependant on the use of grammar and creative instruments. Good poetry is not written in the hallowed dining halls of posh universities and the shacks of freedom fighters alone. Prose is not the lovechild of formal education and systematic thinking. It's much more than that.

Writers need to work out who they are, what they understand, what they believe and what inspires them before they take on the task of writing for the purpose of being read.

Because if they can't decide who the hell is writing, how can they ever conceive or begin to understand what it is that they are writing?
Let alone who they are writing for.

Namaste

Wake with me

In 2007, I think – it might have been 2008, I performed a poem at the Guild Theatre in East London. I think it was the Sidla Sonke Poetry thingamabob, featuring a lot of great East London poets. There were some very young people there, which is good as it keeps poetry on the move.

Stagnant poetry is a lot like still water – it loses its purity and becomes stale.

“Wake with me

In my Africa

To the bellowing of drums

And the howling of the winds.

Wake to the

Greetings of the sons

Sun kissed by summer’s lips,

Drenched in the African heat

That is my reality.

Come

And walk with me.

Wake with me

Talk to me

About self-confessed martyrs

That chain their promises

To gold spawned tragedies

And walk on mined death

With diamond encrusted soles

And souls plagued with betterment wishes.

Come

Please walk with me.

Wake with me

Talk to me

Be with me

When my foreign brothers

Ravage my sisters

And my mothers bear witness

As my father sits on hope.

…”

- © Walk With Me (2007) – an extract

Like I said, the social-conscious whatwhat side of me will not let me rest.

Namaste.

A Poet's First Anthology

I am not published, so it is probably unwise for me to advise others on their first anthologies. I have read my fair share of upcoming and self-published poets who have turned me permanently off from their work through their first anthologies to know what tips to give myself when I am publishing my very first anthology.

This is what I have learnt:
> Gauge the number of poems you publish in the first anthology by how well known you are. Basically, if you are an unknown, it would do you good not to have over 50 poems in your first anthology. I say pick 20-50 of your very best works and let your words say it all.
> Wait it out. I know the feeling. Once you have written over a hundred poems, you might figure that the time is ripe and opportune for you to give the world your collection. Whoa! Hold on there slick. Write a hundred more and once you reach two hundred, write as many more as is necessary for you to settle on a style of writing. Yes, you won’t always write about pink clouds and purple oceans but, at least you will not confuse your readers by shifting to three different writing styles in one stanza.
> Make contact with other “better” and “different” writers than you. If you surround yourself with “Yes men”, you will never be wrong. That is no fun. Get poets whom you admire or respect, make friends with cut throat publishers and book critics who don’t give a toss about your feelings and aren’t interested in the story behind every single poem. Get these people to read your draft before you publish. You might find that you need to wait until next year or maybe to invest your time more in this poetry thing of yours. Give them a hardcopy as it is much easier to notice spelling and grammatical errors when in print.
> Be weary who you choose to feature in your first anthology. I think it is ideal for first time publishing poets to keep the focus on themselves. You really do not want to be the person who has 20 odd poems that do not measure up to the one poem that belongs to the featured writer.

> Anthologies are not CDs. If you are intent on releasing an anthology every December like your hero; MaBrrr, then maybe poetry is not for you. Two year intervals are okay, three years are even better. This time between your own anthologies gives people time to digest your work and that is what you want, right?

> Make friends. Make lots of good friends within the publishing and poetry industry. Make friends in every possible sector that could help get your anthology out of the shelves into the shopping carts, over the counter and sneakily into the ears of your new loyalists. Do this way before you publish. It will help get the word out there.

That’s all I’m going to say on that, I’ll revisit this topic once I have learned my own lessons by the time I publish my second anthology. Otherwise I have no grounds to lambaste anyone. Use it or lose it.

Namaste.

The Problem with Poets

Over the years I have taken note of hip hop emcees, rappers or whatever it is that they call themselves nowadays claiming to be part emcee and part poet. That, to me, is as good as saying that you are a part man and part woman. Both can be categorised as human, just as well as emcees and poets can be called artists.

My problem with this take on things is that poets have taken it upon themselves to adopt the same flawed mentality.

It seems that some poets, pleasingly enough not all poets share this destructive state of mind, figure that if they can write stanzas and prose with a brilliant “hook” then they can just as easily convert the hook to a punch line and sail on the great speedboat of hip hop.

The basic principle behind that is dishearteningly flawed.
It would be like taking a Shakespearean sonnet and saying it extra fast on a continuous backtracking beat and then figure oneself to be the next addition to Bone Thugz.
It is ridiculous.

Bloody ludicrous!

It is a lot like the rappers that think they can start reading their rhymes out slowly and pray to get away with calling it poetry.
Yes, poetry and hip hop/rap make a great combination when they have been well fused. I cannot argue with that. I love the results when it has been done right.

But, enough with the hybrids. Soon enough we will start having conversations with each other and at any sign of any insight, no matter how insignificant, we will call it conversational poetry.

MNXIM!

Namaste.

Ndiredi

“I am ready

For the monsters of anarchy

And the masters of liberation

To choke out the life within me,

Grab my frail sanity

And hold steady

On their promise

Of deliverance.

…

I am ready

For the political preachers of economic salvation

The robe-shaming individuals of truth-deprivation,

Those spit-on-you, spit-on-me, “I built this nation”

Shit-talkers.
I say I am ready

For the shameless “I-am-eternal”

Velvet conscience, red carpet crawlers,

Those – living to die for betterment wishes,

Dying to live in sky high shacks,

Drowning in a puddle of instant riches.

I am ready.

…”

- © Ndiredi (2007) – an extract

Written whilst I was going through the politically-fuelled, social-consciousness part of my experimental phase. That part of me still makes an appearance every now and again though.

Namaste.

Idol Worshipping

Over the years I have acquired an appreciation for other people’s poetry. For all the right reasons too. I have read, extensively, the literary works of poets from South Africa and beyond. I cannot claim that I have read most of the poet’s works worth reading. I fear I have only thrown a pebble into the ocean, in that regard.

Lynton Kwesi Johnson’s Inglan Is A Bitch is a pebble worth mentioning.

“w'en mi jus' come to Landan toun
mi use to work pan di andahgroun
but workin' pan di andahgroun
y'u don't get fi know your way aroun'

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi get a lickle jab in a big 'otell
an' awftah a while, mi woz doin' quite well
dem staat mi aaf as a dish-washah
but w'en mi tek a stack, mi noh tun clack-watchah!

…”

- © Inglan Is A Bitch by Lynton Kwesi Johnson

Too Nice.

Namaste.

My very first poetry experience

I would love to claim that my first poetry experience is recorded in vivid detail, with the scent of the day hanging onto the flashback like the remindful smell of stale cigarettes on a school blazer but, it is not so.

What I do recall thought, is that I was in primary school when I had my first recollect-able experience.

To be honest, I forgot about the poem for a number of years but, when I gravitated around the written word later in my high school career, it was the very first poem that I actively searched for.

“My luve is like a red red rose

So sprung in June.

My luve is like the melody

So sweetly sung in tune.

…”

- © My luve’s like a red red rose by Robert Burns

I found out later that Robert Burns was of Scottish descent and that this particular poem was in fact a song. I think.
I still relate to that poem to this day.

I guess as a serial-romantic (not my words), I am bound to fall for the soppy sounding sounds of a romanticizing, kilt-wearing Scotsman.

“These scars

Bear the truth of history.

They are a reminder of my memories

As they draw from me.

These scars are my loves.

…

These scars

Are a first encounter

With

Love.”

- © My Scars (2007) – an extract

And again, another morbid take on love.

Namaste.

Nantoni Na Oyifunayo

“Ndizakunika.

Ndizakuyisebenzela.
Ndibile – umzimba wam ushwabane

Ngokukrakra bobunzima ondibuvayo.

Ndakuyithwal’ emqolo

Kude kuvele nezilonda.
Ndakuyibeka phantsi,

Ndixobule izikhokho,

Ndiphinde ndiyithwale.
Ndingayibelek’ indikrwempa.
Ndiqine.

Ndingakhali.

Ndiyiphathele wena,

Ndikunike.

Nantoni na oyifunayo,

Sithandwa sam.

- © Nantoni na oyifunayo (2005)

I guess I have always had a morbid sense of romance.

Namaste.

Sore Loser: how not to get over not winning

In 2004, when I was studying in Port Elizabeth, my English teacher (a very well meaning lady) convinced her entire class to submit poetry to this poetry competition that was being run by the main campus up the street.
To her pleasure, the first top three places where all awarded to her students.
This has led me to believe that the contest had either been rigged to cater for the wayward creatives of the art campus down the street or our English class was the only one that entered the competition.

First place was given (I have chosen my words with care) to this guy we called Satan. He was the stereotypical emo-indie-punkrock-fanatic that listened to angry-white-boy music as much as I was drinking coffee at the time – which was a lot at the time.
Second place was awarded to a close friend of mine, Thokozani Kana – the very same culprit who got me hooked on caffeine.
I, unfortunately, was the guy everyone expects to smile from ear to ear as if they won the contest, when in actual fact I had been relegated to third place.

I am not implying that there was foul play involved, nor am I saying that my poem deserved first place but I have never been one to accept defeat gracefully.

“Days into moments

Crumbled…

Devoured by rodents

As I fumbled

For an identity.

The realisation

- like a pin

Pricked upon my soul.

The doctor’s insinuation

(my life being limited)

And my heart, rots black as charcoal.

Seconds into a lifetime

Being stacked

Too high.

Smiles and cheers tied in twine

My body, my being detached

(I bet you’d want to cry).

Skipped three funerals

(all being mine own)

Fought for a life (already lost)

- just look how much I have grown.

Till today

None of my worries were solved.

And in a way,

My being (frail to mighty) has evolved.”

- © Evolved (life-altering) (2004)

This piece was based on the idea of someone having found out that they had “contracted” HIV and now must learn to not only come to terms with this state of health that will haunt them forever but, also to live with it.

What bothered me most about the contest in the end, to be honest, was the prize money that you won; it was credited to your school fees balance.

Bloody Bastards!
What student do you know wants that?
I would have much rather preferred if they had given me the money to dispose of it as I wish. Alas, it seems, winners cannot be choosers, after all.

Namaste.

The Great Experience

The Great Experience

I have come to the realisation that every poem that I have ever written is, within my mind, bound to a moment in my life and came to me through an experience.
This great piece of information is useless to me as I have the most unreliable memory bank ever. I feel like my mind is one of those banks that needed money from the government during the recession. Useless!

For the experiences that I can remember, I will make it a point to try and explain the Experience to you.

“My words is alcohol.

Aphrodite’s ethanol,
a toxic love potion

That slurs my stutter

And blurs my emotions.

Derailing thought processes and cognitive motions,

Inhibiting my innermost fears.
I shake.
Quaking uncontrollably at the sight of this deity.
Good God. What a beauty!

My words is spring

The enchanting aromas of new beginnings.

Sweet tulips,

Dripping with the essence of romance.

…

My words is stolen kisses.
Forbidden.

Like true knowledge in the garden of Eden

My every word is the epitome of love.

…

My words is everyday prayers.

Pleading forgiveness.

Pledging redemption and honouring a relative salvation.

My words is denied loving,

Relentless and ravenous.
…”

- © My Words (2006) – an extract

Namaste.

Moments of Clarity

Moments Of Clarity

Rummaging through my hand-written collection of poems recently, I discovered this funny looking piece of paper. I nearly threw it away, had it not been for my concerning fondness of clutter, I would have been without another poem.

In 2005, when I worked as a godknowswhat at a clothing retailer in the city centre of East London (South Africa), I wrote a handful of poems on till slip paper. I am not sure if my boss knew that I was pilfering the paper, if not, he’ll know soon enough.
Some days, as a godknowswhat in the store, I would find myself bored witless.

There would be no customers to help as a store assistant. There would be no new arrival of stock for receiving and storage. There would be no backlog of old stock that needed to be priced and tagged and so I would find myself perched on the all-seeing eye of the cashiers (as sometimes I would help pack and at other times work the till), looking as appetising as a piece of meat in the presence of vegetarians.
It was during these moments that I would let loose the pirate within, and loot some till slip paper.

On one of these glorious days I wrote this:

”…sexually frustrated husbands

Who work overtime to afford

Their secret activities of dining

With unavailable prostitute-bearing,

High-dress wearing and low-status women

Only to undress their civilities and

Dine on their over-moisturised consciences

To soothe their nights out on the town

Sinking into orgasmic night clubs

With bright, blood-pulsing rainbow lights and

Pair up with dark souls that

Cover themselves with branded suits that

Scream of child-labour lawsuits

Dressed as friendly envelopes

Delivered by idle government officials

Who drive in fraudulent-deal SUV’s

And all-terrain, out the border 4X4’s…”

- © The Dead Awakened (2005) – an extract

Namaste.

The Real-ish Introduction

I recall one of the very first poems that I wrote.
It was titled “These Words”. I keep revisiting that particular piece of work, not to edit and make it better – even though I would admit that it could do with a face-lift of sorts – but, instead to remind myself of the journey that I have taken all these years.

”These words are meant to assist a lost soul find it’s mate,
These words are meant for broken hearts, not for breaking hearts.
These words are meant to build a family, not destroy its foundations,

These words are meant to reunite a nation, not to split it apart.”

- © These Words (2002) – an extract

I must confess that I find this poem rather repetitive; although I do not believe that it ever becomes tedious. Talk about self-praise!

Since that poem, I have written hundreds of others, which rather sadly have seen most of them fall into the trap of carelessness. And I have lost many of my poems either through plain forgetfulness or allowing someone to take a small collection and never return with it.

”Awunayo nencinane

Akukho nengququ yaphezolo.

Isisu sigqwethekile.

Kodwa, uhleli ekhona uMolo,
Mtnwana kaNontlupheko.”

- © Mntwana kaNontlupheko (2005)

This piece was written during one of my experimental phases. I must admit though that this phase is perpetual, in the sense that I am still in the same experimental phase that I was in 2005 when I wrote this poem, which oddly enough is exactly the same experimental phase that got me started with poetry.

I discovered then that writing in my own mother tongue was going to prove detrimental to my progress and so I stopped but not before I wrote; I AM :

“I am son

Of father. Son to chief.

Untondo kumgca wesizala,

Emva kwexesha.
I am

Ingwe yabantu

Great son of my father,

Filial of amadoda asebuhlanti.
Elephants, great in their pride.
I am

Ugabula ‘zigcawu,

Oqhub’ indlela kwamath’ empukane.

Andizinqob’ macala.
But, I am the son of a blood line

Of kings

I am the chief of lines
…”

- © I AM (2005) – an extract

My only defense for this poem, having unsuccessfully combined English with isiXhosa, is that I had a moment of questionable judgment. That is it.

Namaste.

A Failed Introduction

Before I go out of my way and blabber incessantly about things that you have no interest in, I would like for you, the reader, to know something very private about me.
Okay, maybe not so private as an (insignificant) unknown gem of information about me,

”I have been called many things. Never, not once, have I ever been mistaken for a person of any semblance of modesty. I have been accused of being humble, vain, self-interested and troubled – in more ways than the obvious one.”

This kind-of explains how I decided to start a blog and further stumble on the name: The Nathi Xinwa Experience. It seems incredibly shallow, I know. That is just the way I do things.

This blog will house, from this day forth, some of the more poetry-inclined thingamabobs in my life.

I end this first posting with a single word:

Namaste.