Thursday, 30 July 2015

A WRITER'S DEVIANT KIND - Part 1 - Onalethuso PBM Ntema


Creativity knows no matter nor color.
It knows no other than being creative.
It is relative, never absolute, for life would matter not.
It wanders beneath thought and expression; a soul searcher, a healer.
It paints in abstract and distorted reality.
It frustrates the writer yet comforts the reader or art enthusiast.
It breaks a virgin mind. It strains a rhythm kind. Walks in uninvited, unwanted.
It is human. It betrays the seeker.
Enslaves the teacher. Engraves the dreamer.
Braves the humble. Graves the struggle.
Paves way for a transformative kind, a creative kind.
A journey; a journal kind. A story told in metaphorical kind, the artistic kind.
It reigns in mountains and broken promises; a seeker, an imaginative kind.
It crawls silently. It mocks. It bothers, scatters, gathers, it shutters.
And if our minds could talk like humans do, what world would there be?
For creative thinkers are humans too.
And their thoughts have poetic inferences to mental;
Political, spiritual, economic, social realities.
And their works of art have emotions and gestures thereof.
They cry, they lie, they smile, they frown, they tell, they dwell.
They're deviants, truants. And so I am, human.
And a stranger that basks under shadows on shoulders;
Of the moon by the dark cloud.
A descendant of men and women that descended;
From ancestors of their descent.
A creative kind. A patient kind, but a deviant.
A rejected kind; a savage. But knowledge;
Is my golden kind. My chariot. My heritage.
My desert kind. My wretched kind. My faded kind.
My happiest kind, but a deviant. A timid young African kind;
Naively demanding answers unknown to men...
When questions surround in imaginative kind;
Drowsy but detained in matters of the past like a caged bird.
I'm a burden to this land of nature's innocent kind. But glad to be alive.
A stranger with strangest hands that touch and hold between toes of a virgin land.
And my throat swallows beneath friends of drunken masters as barren words;
Between their tongues they spoke but a deviant. And my deviant mind,
Is a broken smile of an orphaned child, a child slave to their mother's grave.
A writer's deviant mind. They speak their mind, they write. They paint.
They sing. They clap. They act. They react. They break;
A virgin kind. They seduce. They abuse. They confuse. They diffuse.
And so I am. But vulnerable like soils of a desert wind.
And you be the interpreter of my story. For I've long structured its phonetics.
And fanatics shall dwell in fantasies of their own imagination for ages.
Until they seem to be deviant like a deviant writer's mind.
So, would you suppress to depress your significant kind?
Or surround in hypnotic conclusions unknown to none?
Or be a moron that walks on the face of the earth, stubborn?
Or be a dusty soul that roars wildly by the evening shades?

Onalethuso PBM Ntema
The Voice of a Shadow, 2016

Saturday, 4 July 2015


My Life is a Journal
Life is a distant traveller,
And I wish to live and discover
More before my day of death
Crawls in to take me away from the face
Of Mother Nature. And so my legs walk me further to
Discover, to be inspired, and my stories shall echo
In ears of mankind. My word shall speak to many.
And I’ll die a happy man…
My life is a journal, a journey.
And today is gone. But life goes on. Yesterday is gone.
O life!
I am a storyteller, a human, a tracker,
The seeker of sacred voices of the gone,
The traveller, the rainmaker,
The folk singer who sings in echoes;
Of distant stories untold, a writer,
And my name is pure as melanin skin like footprints;
Of ancient men and women,
I am Buyile; the gone, the history, the old,
And my eyes see between woodlands,
Sunset cold,
Sunny days, fallen days,
Stolen days, broken toes. For life is a story;
And mine is one such story,
Yours shall be told;
When you tell, yet
Our days to be born may differ.
I am an African voice that roars;
In the silent jungle,
The melodious jungle, the furthest jungle,
A son of the African soils, a brother,
A father. A human. And the wind;
Shall take my breath away…
When the sun downs.
The sea shall begin its journey;
To the forbidden, the hidden treasures,
The ark, the covenant.
Rivers shall seduce nature,
Birds shall fly away like wishes;
Of a dreamer, but I shall tell my story,
For time will too, tell.

                Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Ntema
My Life is a Journal
The Voice of a Shadow: Life, Reality and Mental Inspiration poetry

 POSTCARDS designed @MAMBO267 & MEDIA.BW by OPBM Ntema, 2015

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Being Human (Part 15)

But our eyes have captured memories between;
Because we're human, and I know I am human from within,
And as though time could speak its mind,
The day would stay beneath our eyes,
And fade into sunset rays of blurring colors,
For the night would come, our eyes;
Would close for yet another time...
But the person between today and tomorrow;
Knows their desire,
They have emotions too, passions and wishes,
Their arms' entire;
Skin is covered beneath their souls to inspire,
For their word they utter,
Their works they matter,
And tongues would speak of their time together,
Their time shall cease to exist when their bodies decay,
For time can delay;
Their shield just for yet another day...
They're human,
And being human is as trees and flowers; they pale,
They shade, they paint in brushes of creative hands,
They beg for tomorrow, they seek the shadow before the day ends,
They dry before winter days calm, but words;
Have tongues of a human,
Animals talk in their own, but humans deny their known,
As though time could speak its mind before gone...

- Being Human (Part 15) extract by Buyile Petrus Onalethuso Ntema
Published by Mambo Music & Poetry as a promo piece.
— reading The Voice of a Shadow: Life, Reality & Mental inspiration poetry, 2016

Distant Hearts - OPB Mambo Ntema & PS Ndlovu

Distant Hearts
Traces of love can be traced between;
Traces of distant hearts like trails in desert winds…

Where passions react in obsolete love beneath;
Our foot prints, ages count not their patience,

Traces of life can be traced within;
Each of the living soul…

Where existence matters most….
When it really matters,

But distant others can still;
Become lovers at a distance…

So long as rivers flow and snake;
In between nations and space…

Their hearts are solid;
Their love is solid and great,

And what love there is for a poet to treasure;
When servants of love decry their innocence…

Than recite in spoken word to distant hearts;
As love echoes its touch like rain drops over their hearts,

O distant heart!
Throw me the beating of your heart at a distance;

Where our souls haven’t travelled,
Our eyes seen or our ears heard…

Hold me as we walk to a sacred space between our hearts;
With patient memories as rain falling on our body kind,

To trace our hopeless traces with patient hearts;
Over a dozen miles more where hope has faded,

Our smiles dawned, our skins pale;
Echo our love in its existence where passions behold…

Our kind at a distance like distant stories untold,
For love is just another state of matters unknown...


Poem Co-written by: Onalethuso Petruss Ntema (BW) and Pearl Sanelisiwe Gatsheni Ndlovu (RSA)
Book: The Voice of a Shadow: Life, Reality and Inspiration Poetry, 2016

Edited by: Mambo OPB Ntema  
Graphics: @Mambo267 Media.BW 

Copyright and Intellictual property of OPN Group of Companies (Pty) LTD t/a AFRICAN Arts & Crafts, Mambo Music & Poetry. 


30 June, 2015 at 23:00 via Facebook
"He came before they came and the soil in my garden of poetry was fertile. The seeds he sow were the seeds of life"
Blessings and enough thanks to Buyile Mambo Ntema, always is a stem and I just a bud... but a bud of a promising sweet scented grey rose! His love and mine in the borders of Botswana and South Africa meet and surprisingly beat in tune to a djembe beat that awakens the spirit of poetry! We scribble and exchange words for they need no passport to cross borders...

Mambo OPB Ntema
01 July, 2015 at 10:50 via Facebook
Yes, I recall the first verses we exchanged when we started word-share. It comes from a not so long ago but some few years back. And when ‘SOUL SEEDS: Reality and Mental Inspiration Poetry’ conceived its physical sense, we had co-written two to three pieces thereon. And the inspiration has heightened to its writer’s need, for the reader’s feed. I have featured Sanelisiwe on 5 or so pieces in the next poetry project (The Voice of a Shadow) and collaborated on different poetry exchange platforms such as The Sunday Mail Bridge newspaper (Zimbabwe) on Trans-national poetry collaborations: ‘NO TO XENOPHOBIA: a Humanitarian and Social Justice Poetry collaboration’ and ‘WHEN WE WERE BLACK: Day of the African Child’. Art is culture, a universal language and I believe we still have a lot to gather and share, so long as life still grant(s) us more days alive. Thanks for being my Poetry fellow. oneBlood