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Showing posts from October, 2016

The Mulberry Tree

The Mulberry Tree By Nicole Meyer There is a mulberry tree on my way to work. When I pass it, I remember a time When I considered myself a good girl but wanted to be bad. I had detention. I cannot remember what I did to get there, But what followed was greater justification for me being there. There was a boy whom I did not know well. His name was Ingo Hallenbauer. He too was still at school. And somehow we decided to go up the hill To where the mulberry tree was. The mulberry tree was not on the school’s property but on private property. I was more afraid of a dangerous dog Than of the owners coming But we got over the small wall And what was at first just Picking fruit illegally Turned into a mulberry fight At least in my memory And we jumped back over with our school uniform on Speckled in mulberry juice, And ran down the hill Back to from where we’d come. It felt good to feel bad. Funny and fun. And I believ...

Humble: inspired by Stanley Claassen

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Humble By Nicole Meyer Imagine a wall On the left are numbers 1-50 On the right are numbers 51-100 To be cocky is to be close to a hundred To be arrogant just underneath But close enough to the wall And just on the right of the wall is humble To the left of the wall is self-pity, Even self-loathing, self-deprecation. Where I want to be is just over the wall To the right, Placed confidently there. What will it take? Cocky isn’t really cool And arrogant neither But woe to him Who's full of pity And self-hatred. He too falls short Of humility. Behind the half-way mark, Where your feet can push firmly against the wall To give you a strong start For the race ahead, That’s where I want to be. But my race must not make me arrogant or cocky But root me deeper in humility, So that my soul can grow up And blossom into What God wants me to be.

White African

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White African I am a White African I have seen the pendulum swing the other way And consider it normal That it should happen this way So I decide not to take offense When events become exclusively black And blacks talk of decolonising literature As though to say that only the black voice counts from now on And the white tongue must be still or lay dormant for a while Because the white man had his turn It’s the black man’s turn now I can understand the rationale Behind such thoughts But I do not agree And believe it is wrong To think in this vein Where individuality is stripped away And thoughts and feelings have worth Only by the colour from which they are conveyed. Why does it come into play? I am a White African, Born and bred in Joburg, An X-generation child Who saw Nelson Mandela released from prison And become our president Not understanding the logic of that Until I was old enough To visit our past and gain und...

A writer

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A writer By Nicole Meyer I am a writer. I cannot but write Of thoughts that cannot be heard among the routines of my existence And the banalities of my day-to-day regime Where my true thoughts are not welcome For reasons of appropriacy And my tongue that seems unfit at times to express what is going on inside. But when I write, I immediately feel understood, As though the mere attempt to express my inner thoughts Gives rise to my inner tsunami Which breaks upon the shores of these white pages And yet with each attempt It seems in vain To write If Indeed No one should read, As though the waves come over this page And wash all the words and all that I am trying to say Away. And yet we who call ourselves writers Do so merely because it is what we do. We write. We cannot but write. To you.