Keorapetse Kgositsile Poems

An omelette cannot be unscrambled. Not even the one prepared in the crucible of 19th century sordid European design.
When Europe cut up this continent into little pockets of its imperialist want and greed it was not for aesthetic reasons, nor was it in the service of any African interest, intent, or purpose.
...

If destroying all the maps known
would erase all the boundaries
from the face of this earth
...

Is where the vowels dream
in a name among consonants
chasing the crevices of sound
in a ritual longer than the distance
...

Blessed are the dehumanized
for they have nothing to lose
but their patience

False gods killed the poet in me. Now
I dig graves
with artistic precision
...

A while back I said
with my little hand upon
the tapestry of memory and my loin
leaning on the blues to find voice:
...

deep in your cheeks
your specific laughter owns
all things south of the ghosts
we once were. straight ahead

the memory beckons from the future
you and I a tribe of colours
this song that dance
godlike rhythms to birth
footsteps of memory
the very soul aspires to. Songs

of origins songs of constant beginnings
what is this thing called
love
...

We now know past any argument
that places can have scars
and they can be warm
or cold or full of intrigue
...

The festive heart knows that
it is always possible to do more
of what you must do
and to do it better, always
...

When I swim in my music
a harmattan of colours
becomes an area of feeling
where a rainbow of feathers
...

Let me sense the chaos
I will respond
with a song
why else
...