Sun bleached white door curtain invites rest, To the hours spent on my butt now numb. Ducks waddling defecating the backyard Us on a mat them centimeters apart Eight hands are expertly pinching extensions to my scalp A humble courtyard with five rooms A commotion of tenants and the landlord ‘Bibi Dina’ The entrance is…
vangile gantsho
vangile gantsho is a poet, healer and co-founder of impepho press. Unapologetically black woman, she has partecipated in literary events and festivals both in Africa and abroad. She is the author of two poetry collections: Undressing in front of the window (2015) and red cotton (2018). She holds an MA from the University currently known…
Jean Rhys
I think of the divided self of Jean Rhys in Dominica, her invisible self in London, and the depth, scope, scale of her writing: What was achievable in her lifetime is achievable now, the winter’s tale of Jean Rhys, and her tragedy of errors, of losing a child, and her failed marriages. She was a…
Invisible Cuffs
They stepped in And cuffed my hands In police custody I asked What’s my case. The state Vs Annet. He shouted. In cuffs In cuffs. Invisible cuffs. They suffocated me in my own house. He raised his hands. His finger prints stained my cheeks. In tears I asked. What’s my case? Nature Vs Annet. In…
My Crush, for Many Years
Melanin ambience, 6’3, broad chest, well defined arms wet round scarlet puckered lips, enlivenly gleamy eyes I looked at him as he walked my way The appearance of the earth in the galaxy like a band of light seen in the night’s skies and formed from the stars which cannot be distinguished with the naked…
This is not a feminist poem
This is not a feminist poem This is not contorted metaphors with neither punch line nor chorus This is not a feminist poem It is a woman learning to trade possessions before her lover takes his last breath. She will never get the chance to say goodbye because those final hours are one match-point away…
Dear Daughter
Dear Daughter I have never loved myself enough To laugh through the rough times I have seen different colors Fading in the beauty of the flowers I have woken up to different nightmares Only to calm down through the power of a Prayer I know of those days when I needed someone beside me to…
My younger sister (How these things go)
She is the size of my palm the day I first see herwrithing in white slime, hair slicked backlike wet maize tassels on her head For a few weeks her skin shedsand we joke about how muchthe chunks of dead skinon the soft spot of her head, weigh When she clocks 18 she is a…
Nya Ku Toc
It’s sarcastic how girls at seventeen, Who should have been singing, Baba black sheep or father Abraham, Are singing songs like, He has played me, he has played me. Trashed my heart, took my virginity. And so forth, and so on. And, and you wonder where kids learn songs. This poem was inspired by…
Priscilla Ayuen
Priscilla Ayuen is 22 years old, she studies Business and Management Science at the University of Juba. Her pen name is Wingless Bird, a name she cherishes and means a lot to her, although she doesn’t use it when introducing herself on stage, where she is always and completely herself. A stage she wants to…