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Open Poetry #50
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Unforgiving
| Open Poetry #50 |
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Unforgiving |
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OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa 
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27 July 2019 How unforgiving this universe is when you don’t listen to it. What do you see with your eyes open? And what do you see with your eyes closed? Sadness drips from the green hills and the blue mountains and the cold winter sunshine on green and gold. The poverty, the harsh, cruel, empty, reality of it all. I thought I had little, but struggle and happiness trapped in a bottle, but they have less than nothing and I have so much. I thought I knew their souls; I thought I fed from the tree that knows; I will share what I know but that is not enough. I have to know the heart of it and I don’t . . . yet. |
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| © Copyright 2019 Diana van den Berg - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Gunslinger Senior Member
since 1999-10-09
Posts 901TX, USA |
Very deep, Diana. I hate to be a harbinger of doom, but there is no "knowing", only a continual learning process in an ever shifting chaos. |
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OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa |
Thank you for your reply, John. Yes, you are so right, but along with that, there is always hope. Last night, right before I wrote the poem, I saw most (not the beginning) of a South African movie on TV about a shack-dweller. In lieu of even giving a synopsis of it, let me just say that whilst it was more than likely fiction, it was very true to life. It was set in Johannesburg and the wilds of Lesotho. It made me feel that all other movies I had seen were frivolous and rubbish (which is, of course, not true). There wasn't a shred of sentimentality or pity in it - but lots of suppressed emotions and thoughts in almost deadpan faces, and it tore my paralysed emotions to tatters. It was not just the story, but the facts behind the story, and the fact that it was all too prevalent in Africa that gripped me by the throat. Also, what is part of the poem (but deserves at least one very happy poem to itself - but I haven't been able to write it yet because I was too touched, but is nevertheless part of the sad aspect of the inspiration) is an event that took place last Sunday, 21 July. My son's birthday is 8 July and he is an extremely dedicated Ward Councillor to I think approximately 34 000 residents. In his ward, there are more than 7 informal settlements, which is a lofty way of describing shack-dwellers. He was phoned on Sunday morning by one of the residents of an informal settlement and asked to attend a meeting at 2pm. That is a very common occurrence and he went along as he always does. When he parked his car, there were some of the residents waiting for him. They took him to the shack where the "meeting" was to be held, but went a long way round so that they approached it from the back. When he entered the shack, a crowd of people shouted "Surprise". The shack was decorated for his birthday party and they had all collected money to buy cakes and all sorts of goodies and cook a 3-course meal, and a birthday cake with literally 47 candles [EDIT: SORRY! - I misunderstood my son - it was a candle with 4 on it and another with 7 on it - I didn't know you could get candles like that.]! They said it was to say thank you for all the things he had done for them. He was so incredibly touched and so was and am I still. I am too emotional about it to write said poem, but hopefully I will be able to one day. It is the most beautiful birthday party I have ever heard of. That was an extremely happy occasion, but how they are woven into the poem is the dire circumstances in which they live despite what they did for my son. Also in my poem are my students. I have done 7 free computer courses for disadvantaged students and am about to do my 8th, starting with the pre-course meeting on 6 August. At times during the courses I feel dejected about many of them’s apparent laziness, lack of commitment, lack of ability, lack of common sense, lack of English, sense of entitlement, and waiting like baby birds for Mommy bird to fly past and put food into their mouths, although I try to understand their circumstances. There are so many things that they do or don't do,that I just don't get. When they are getting a computer course free that would cost them approximately R5000 if they went to a training centre, and don't do simple things I ask of them for their own sakes, but are supposedly hungry for the course, I can't fathom out the reasons. Perhaps worse than the poverty is the shocking level of education in South Africa since our democracy. Instead of raising up the disadvantaged, the powers that be dropped the level of education supposedly to help them cope - which was not the answer at all. I do the very best I can, but it has been very difficult. For 3 years I have begged and pleaded the librarian to have an anti-virus program put on the 13 computers we have at the library. At last it has happened. However, he has managed to cut my course by 12½ hours, so we have only 20 hours left. Apparently it is more important for the precious public to change their precious library books (the library has to be closed while the lessons are on) than it is for my students to be empowered, so that they can get a job, or a better job, or do better at their current job and feed their families. I don't get that either (but presumably the librarian does). Knowing the heart of it in the poem is referring to my need to walk a hundred miles in my students' moccasins which isn't going to happen. We cannot know what it is like to live another's life, no matter how hard we try or want to, but I really do want to. [This message has been edited by OwlSA (07-29-2019 04:46 AM).] |
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