Thursday, April 22, 2010

Freedom is ours again


Are we FREE;
Yes, you and me?
‘Tis the time to really be free
To shed our chains and pangs of hunger
To remove the pains of oppression
From evil youth courses
Of Dark Third Forces!

South Africa will never be free
Or enjoy a free democracy
While the poor are crying
And the white farmers are dying!

We will rise again
Through the blood, carnage and pain
For our country to regain
From the Devil and his comrades

Yes, the demonic ANC!

© WEC April 2010

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Bickering affecting service delivery

Civil disobedience is Poetic Justice!

Mar 27, 2010 4:21 PM | By Sapa


Bickering among party members is affecting service delivery, ANC national chairwoman Baleka Mbete said.


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Residents of the township Sakhile near Standerton inMpumalanga protest over a poor service delivery and corruption in their city council

Photograph by: SAPA stringer

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•Protestors stone cars in Mpumalanga
•Delivery protests the work of "unscrupulous elements" within: ANC

Addressing delegates at the Mpumalanga general council in eMalahleni, Mbete said infighting in the ruling party was making it difficult to fulfil promises the ANC made during last year's elections.

She said the party wants the leaking of matric examination papers to be a thing of the past and called on stakeholders, especially parents to play an active role in the education of their children.

Times Online

Comments by Sonny

While the townships burn, the leaders of the ANC party!

My Pad at the Sea

My House At The Sea

In May it's the very place to be.
With Louis and the boys at the sea.
We will frolic and have tons of fun.
Sipping rum and cocktails in the sun.
Yes we are off to join the lads.
Be they joyful or faintly sad.
Enjoying life as only we can. . ...
Yes, all thanks to DAD!

It's that time of the year.
When MOTH comrades get voted in with a beer.
The rest of us will just enjoy the fun.
Out on the beach tanning in the sun.
The South Coast is the place to be. . ...
With Louis, Bruce and the boys at the sea!

Copyright © 2010 WEC

Princess of Mystery


Megan, Our little Princess.
How long has it taken me?
To try and bond with you?
I started you a piggy bank its true.
Then alas, I needed the cash.
I took a loan signed on an IOU.
The cash has gone now,
And Mr Piggy is bare.

I have no memories except your chair.
It has taken almost 14 years.
For a daddy,
do you think its fair?

Mommy and grumpy gran had the best of you.
She's given it up now, it's also true.
I am prepared to wait twenty-one years.
I will stand strong and hold back the tears.
If you are my Princess,
you'll wait for me.
A yellow ribbon 'round my old oak tree.
That's how you'll know how to find me!
Soon my darling we'll be together,


Copyright © 1997 WEC

The Fate of an Old Dog

It is not easy teaching old dogs new tricks.
It is easy teaching puppies new tricks.
Old dogs lose their teeth.
New puppies get theirs.
Old dogs lose their vision.
Puppies gain their eyesight.

Time separated old dogs from puppies.
Time separates the men from the boys.
The women from the men.
Pretty girls from old guys!

Now wonder young girls select gigolos?
Now wonder sexy young girls choose studs?
In the end the young grow old.
In the end the old fade away and die!

Copyright © 2003 WEC

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Sex and the poetry section

Between the Lines

Feb 20, 2010 11:12 PM | By Ann Donald


Ann Donald: In January I was part of a large gathering of poetry fans who had the privilege of listening to a live performance of TS Eliot's The Waste Land by John Cartwright, accompanied on the double bass by Leroy Cowley.


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For 45 minutes we were entranced by the words and the music, and were reminded of how rare a pleasure it is to hear classics such as this read aloud (Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats sung loudly on an opera stage may be entertaining, but doesn't count).

For most of us poetry was something we "did" at school or university. We probably wrote our own poems only for homework assignments or during the emotional Zeitgeist that was 16. For me, poetry first touched my heart when a boy sent me a copy of John Donne's The Good-Morrow. But, alas, our love turned out not to have been "mix'd equally", and by 17 it had both slackened and died.

As did, almost, my interest in poetry. It's not that I disliked the poetic form or doubted that it could make me a better person, but life took over and it simply got forgotten for a while. And then I moved to Kalk Bay, where one can't walk down the street without tripping over (or being run over by Gus Ferguson on his bicycle) some of the best poets writing in South Africa today. So the work of Gus, Ingrid de Kok, Stephen Watson, Finuala Dowling, the late Margaret Legum and others, encouraged me to dip into the art form again.

What I found was a thriving "underground" of poets writing, publishing and performing. This is not to say they were selling their work, because those South Africans who actually buy books are generally not buying poetry. And the poorer we are for it. Though not as poor as the publishers and editors who, despite all the signs, insist on keeping poetry alive: Snailpress, New Contrast, Kwela Books, and Modjaji Books, key among them.

If you are at all persuaded to pick up some poetry, to find out who's out there and whether you want to read more of their work, look out for live performances in your area. In Cape Town, we are fortunate to have Hugh Hodge's Off the Wall sessions in Observatory, Kommetjie and Kalk Bay, and the Cape Cultural Collective's performances at the District Six Museum. At these gatherings you can hear anything from the lyrical performance poetry of Lebo Mashile, Malika Ndlovu or Sindiwe Magona, the prize-winning work of Rustum Kozain, the intimate verse of Liesl Jobson, the wisdom and grace of Lewis Watling, and the whimsical, satirical rhymes of Gus Ferguson (a genius in word distillation).

At a recent gathering we had the joy of hearing poetry read in its original language, on this occasion German and Irish Gaelic. When the words are foreign, the rhythm and cadence emerge unencumbered by literal meaning and the effect is sublime music. Ultimately, poetry is a form of meditation, and poets are creatures who see an edge to words and life that they are generous enough to share with the rest of us.

So when next you are in a bookshop, ask for poems - if for no other reason than you never know what you will find there.

As Ferguson muses in Holding Pattern:

A couple called Gladys and Rexwere suddenly keen to have sex(such urgency's slightly perverted),"But where can we do it?" cried she"The poetry section!" said he"I've noticed it's always deserted."

Sunday Times

Comments by Sonny

Would Zuma's grunts be regarded as sex or poetry?

....."Twas a night for romance and chocolate coated with raunchy sex".....

Friday, January 29, 2010

Lost Soul

Lost Soul

You died violently in the streets of the City,
You were driving in your car and got hijacked.
Your assailants wasted you with a bullet through the temple.
Your mortal soul left your body in a flash!

As you lay on the ground,
People flocked all around.
Out of curiosity and despair,
Lifeless you lay there!

Then came the cops to do their thing;
Photographers and a mortuary van they bring.
Because you are dead they stand aside,
For in a mortuary van you'll ride!

To the morgue you go,
For a Post Mortem to show;
Which bullet caused the fatal blow.
For only the trained pathologist will know!

Copyright © 2000 by William Ernest Cox

Comments by Sonny

Free Clive Derby-Lewis and Eugene de Kock NOW!