Free at Last - A poem written to
coincide with the State of Nation Address South African State President Mr. by
Thabo Mbeki.
Normal! From whose eyes?
- A poem written for a project on disabilitties.
Craig D
Smith (c) 9 February 2005
Rising steam, from the ground
Burning grass, all around
Cannot see, bloodshot eyes
Cannot speak, only cries
Ten years on, celebrate
Raising hands, they gyrate
Fireworks, what a sight
Going on, `til midnight
Squatter camp, is on fire
The whole place, is a pyre
Seven dead, injured more
You can’t see, heart that’s sore
There, across the road, you see electric poles
In the squatter camp, you smell the burning
coals
Water, fetched with buckets from a distant place
Used for drinking, cooking and to wash her face
Fire hydrants, many, on a suburb street
Many spots along the road where dogs can meet
In the squatter camp portable toilets shared
If you want to go you should be very scared
You may want to ask: Why does she still live there?
Electricity, none; a toilet to share?
New South Africa: opportunity land
You see truckloads of bricks of cement and sand.
It was just that morning, she was so happy
Letters came from the municipality.
Here’s the sad story, she will ever tell
Baby cried that night, wasn’t feeling well.
She had medicine in a box for her baby
Then she lit the candle so that she could see
Can’t believe that yesterday she bought a sheet
And a big brown bowl with which to wash her feet
She placed the candle on a shaky table
Brightened her house, just larger than a stable
She checked the water bottle, it was empty
Put baby down, and ran to fill it quickly.
Two minutes later heard a loud explosion
She ran back, but was caught in the commotion
The sudden crowd was not enough to hold her
She forced her way, was what the neighbour told her.
So early in the morning on the cold ground
Oblivious to the drama all around
The firemen, the police and the doctor
Told her, but she still wants to get her daughter.
Craig D Smith (31 May 2005)
Hey there, come closer, I
want to ask:
Who is that guy who cannot
lift his head
Why does his arm seem so
straight and stiff
Is that guy in the
wheelchair dead?
Why does she walk with one
leg so much shorter
Doesn't she know that she
cannot play
How will she jump to catch
the ball when thrown?
Well if she only watches,
then she can stay.
Why do we always ask such
questions?
Why must we whisper when we
see-
Somebody who is different to
us?
Who sets the benchmark for
ability?
Enabled, disabled; deaf and
hearing
Don't discriminate against
anyone
The girl with the short leg
won't win the game
All she wants is to have
some fun.
She may not be able to jump
"so high"
She may not be able to kick
"so hard".
She can referee; she knows
the rules of the game
Why treat her like "a
retard"?
He may not have rippling
muscles
He may not be able to lift
his head
He may not be like the guys
in GQ
But he hears everything that
is said.
How would he be, given half
a chance
Yes, I agree: he will never
dance
Given a gun, he can never
shoot.
Yet he may talk by typing
with his left foot.
If you have not read the book My Left Foot, by Christy Brown, please do, as this will help you understand the last line of this poem. The book was first published in Great Britain in 1954 and is the story of Christy Brown who was referred to as a “imbecile” by the doctors after he was born in 1932.
Craig believes that as with morals and high social
values declining over time, so has the definition of poetry declined to
sentences that have no rhythm and often no rhyme. If you are a purist then this is the page for you.