A Series Of Letters To Poets

To Common Man

How long will we glare at posterity fumble, and history forget all behind a common veil of loveless exchanges?

Will poetry be a sword spiked with fragrances of buried roses and charms of an age when defenses could have been mounted but neglected?

Now, we starve with book smelling of nostalgic thoughts of philosophers and prophets, those who told of dooms and pleasures of humanity in its final spectacle.

They spoke what you remember, and remembering how once you asked of me to remember you… today I ask: Do you remember yourself, Common Man.

When Seven poets spoke love bells at Market Theatre, novice wordsmiths with paths diverging at fates will… many, we watched and those verses of young rebellion spawned a community.

That was then, when poets were brethren, always found off guard and spelling spells on either walls or paper, musos with blown chords howling among us, the silent observers at bay couched in corners and dark theatres.

I once saw you once at Worker’s Library drooling on a sheet of wrinkled paper, a poem seeping through a worn microphone, among turbans and colorful scarfs – words that spoke with a strangely vulgar innocence.

That was when Newtown was an oasis, Mak Manaka sliding through fluid crowds with a sleuth demeanor that was art in motion, crutched and each stride a song accompanied by bold words.

What became of that harem of rusty poets crowded in art stalls, hoarding memories of mundane exhibitions, of joy, and pains and art and more art?

Never thought time would fold its palm on it all, and as many nostalgics mourn, I beg, still that mind brother, as time has boiled your skin pale in the name of libation for the dying in you.

And at times, when we watch as many make a factotum of your crafty sorrow, plied with township humor brazen with thirst and sweat, we will forgot your wits, dusty with outdated books by revolutionaries and villains.

But remember, you oiled podiums for tortured messiahs, Denis Brutus and other Botsotso clad avengers of truth who spoke with pride when gentrified art was blossoming in decorated restaurants - you were there, and awakened a wounded few for a fight that persists, as time watches you watch, together wondering.

Khahliso Matela 

17/04/202

Kokosi