Poetry in Crosstitution Rips | Thuma Mina; I'm Ready ...

2019-01-12T13:26:14.000Z Honest Cash

"Thuma Mina!" Incorruptible on swords you shall fall, bury yourselves quietly beneath your bloodied banner. Die with your shoulders to the movement wheel. Led by dancing vipers of gore, slide onward dutiful snails and build a palace Foursquare and Fool, Erect a stone and inscribe names of the dead and the poor..

Photo by nappy from Pexels

"I'm ready to be deployed" is the sub-title of unfinished lines scattered like limbs on fields of suffering woes, of drowned-out cries, burned-out tyres, on melted and marked black tar, on cracked earth, from the southern-most soils of Africa, to Caracas - in the collection, Crosstitution Rips.

_When Jazz musician Hugh Masekela performed the song Thuma Mina in 2002, it expressed the desire of many Azanians to be sent to the front in a common cause to alleviate the suffering of the sick and to empower the marginalised. It's a song of liberation and celebration of our potential to do good. Fifteen years later, Masekela passed away, at a moment when neo-liberal capitalist turncoats had infested the halls of political and economic power. Bra Hugh's two-word cry now heads the populist branded campaign, for re-election of a movement he served. One has to wonder if he'd approve.
_

_2019 - _Context -_ It isn't until a whistleblower to corruption repeats in testimony the words of a cadre at the end of a conversation to his president, that we begin to appreciate the way Thuma Mina is heard by different ears, or the way it sounds uttered from different mouths. _

I'm ready to be deployed from my shack, in our barrio, to march with honour under banners bloodied by heroes. Thuma mina, send me! I shall leave my bloodlines, may they grow to rise and stem the next tide. throw myself on the sword, push the wheel ahead, toiled and bled until soil gushes oil, or delivers her gold to my soiled hand. i shall pass all onto the belts and the crushers, then the smelters, in barrels and bars, to counting machines pushed by hands of the bankers, adorned with Italian cufflinks and Swiss watches. May it pay for soft rugs to deck a Foursquare palace. Thuma mina, send me. My calloused hands may add a tile to the walls, to echo derisive laughter of men and another tide of bloodlines of whores.

29th January, Gapyeong

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© 2019 TRUMANITY

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