We Write What We Like Poem by Frank Meintjies

We write what we like
because
when some of us die
or disappear, like jensma
who will find the body?
who will stalk the grains of truth?
will the ones to come
find the spoor?

we write what we like
because when the black bird
stands over the child
poised for its entrails
the earth has died
as much
as if hit
by a thermonuclear wave

we write as we like, because
the millions
who were loaded into holds, some decanted
into landfills, others dying
water-deaths
listen! the sighs
ride the seas
the bones call out through our pens

we write as we like
because smoke was rising, grey columns
cigar smoke, when the generals
peered down
as crowds ran
first in, then out, of stadiums
where the gunshots rang

we write, unfettered
because
when a little boy died, in alexandra township
hit by a car,
the mortuary vehicle, for ‘technical reasons'
arrived three hours later

we write what we like, also
because love (like anger
or, with the force of anger)
breaks through
cracks
in the old buildings
& small weeds squeeze forth
between
pavement slabs
where the bad boys
once fought

& because
the rows of little houses
sprout patterns & braided heads & vendor-stalls & rap songs & graffiti
& because curry smells
brew & ripen
as the day unravels

our pens won't self-muzzle or stay put
because at tonkwane, in magaliesburg
the immense gorges gape
& the kranse
scratch at the sky, the itching
causing storms

unconsoled
(our pens weep)because
as the blesbok's shin
caught in the trap
leaks blood
the calf must move on
in search of the brook

we write
words we choose, words that choose us
words that lasso & grip us
because … under a tree
children read a book
& the story flits
from branch to branch
from artery to artery
& back to protruding roots
of the gnarled tree

we write what we like
since
on fridays, (even in darker times, days of tanks & curfews
when bullets punched holes in school uniforms)
the taxis hoot
coolly clustering
in the clutter of downtown life
waiting, lurking … for the homeward push; salesmen call
& brenda's voice spits & steams
from giant speakers
& the next day
the wedding convoy slithers
to the city gardens, where
cameras click & pleasure bubbles forth
from stiff suits
& tight dresses

i spade words, spoon commas, similes & metaphors;
like a tube, i excrete
pastes of hard or soft colours;
blue green yellow black purple orange mustard
in ranging texts, filled with widows & orphans or peppered
with spaces that count as full stops
in lines that huddle
by cramped margins
i play
close to the edge
… i write what i like