Conversation with South African Poets - 3: Khadija Sharife
Khadija Sharife - http://worldpolicy.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/K2.jpg
This time, I've been thinking about a poem by Khadija Sharife published in Botsotso, titled self-curated, pixelated. Ms Sharife is a journalist and this poem seems political and environmental and angry. In other words, provocative and not my usual style. I do feel provoked, as I'm sure she intended, and I'm pretty sure I haven't succeeded at not being defensive, though I have tried.
Here is my attempt at a response. As usual, you are invited to read her poem too and leave a response in the comments.
Monsters at the edges and hope, a toxic thing
a poem by Jean Watermeyer, after Khadija Sharife
Donald Trump for instance
as the headlines have him
would take the whole cake and congratulate himself.
A woman I knew slightly for a while would take the cake carefully for her neighbourhood and her
sister's children.
A couple I know would take the smallest possible slice.
A housemate I once had would instead eat cauliflower rice.
My mother-in-law would bake a new cake after the visitors had gone.
A colleague from when I used to go to work would comment on the aftertaste, the crumb.
For months at a time most people pass by cake for budget's sake.
And there are organisations who will transport your portion away by the forkful
to where cookies are a rumour and all I have is fragments
and the ability to extrapolate from
the 7th waking in a row of my 10 month old son
healthy
in the night
God
how to have no cake no bed no medical aid and still
have something like what
constructs my soul --
out there there must be unimaginary suffering
and oh I hope proportionally
larger things worth hoping for.
as the headlines have him
would take the whole cake and congratulate himself.
A woman I knew slightly for a while would take the cake carefully for her neighbourhood and her
sister's children.
A couple I know would take the smallest possible slice.
A housemate I once had would instead eat cauliflower rice.
My mother-in-law would bake a new cake after the visitors had gone.
A colleague from when I used to go to work would comment on the aftertaste, the crumb.
For months at a time most people pass by cake for budget's sake.
And there are organisations who will transport your portion away by the forkful
to where cookies are a rumour and all I have is fragments
and the ability to extrapolate from
the 7th waking in a row of my 10 month old son
healthy
in the night
God
how to have no cake no bed no medical aid and still
have something like what
constructs my soul --
out there there must be unimaginary suffering
and oh I hope proportionally
larger things worth hoping for.
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