A poem called,The cost of revolution, by Afzal Moolla






The Cost of Revolution …Afzal 

(in memory of the June 16th 1976 student uprising in South Africa)

You hurled rocks, stones,
Molotov Cocktails,
Sling-shots against the brutality of racial oppression.

You fell on the streets of Soweto,
So many more I cannot begin to mention.

Tasting the acrid stench of tear-gas,

Feeling the flesh ripped off your bones by their dogs,

Drenched by water-cannons,
Stung by rubber-bullets,
Whipped by sjamboks,
Shot in the head by bullets,
Paid for by your country’s gold.

You stood trial for Treason,
Facing the hangman’s noose,

You stood firm, you did not break,
Even though,
You had wives, sons, daughters, lovers, brothers, sisters, and friends to lose.

The revolutionary dream burned bright,
In all your hearts,

Even as the jackboot of Apartheid,

Fractured your bones and tore your families into broken and splintered parts.

You left your brothers,
Comrades and friends,

Seeking out foreign lands,
With only the ammunition that you held in your hearts, your minds and in your never-wavering hands.

The enemy did not waver either,

Tyranny didn’t cease.

2 AM knocks on doors around this land,
Meant to stifle, to intimidate,

You took a stand.

lost far away from home, pining for freedom and your loved ones,

You stood firm,
You fought on,

“Release Mandela and all Political Prisoners” was your cry,
In capitals of far-off lands,

You feared not the bayonet in the enemy’s hands,

The revolution was burning bright,

Even as the dawn of Freedom was in sight.

Finally on a February day,
They released him and the joy was palpable, nothing stood now in the revolution’s way.

All the while,
The enemy consolidated its power,

Paying off traitors,

Seeding violence,

Orchestrating mayhem to taint the noble cause,

And still you took the tyrant’s rifles and clenched their muzzles in-between your brave jaws.

Never standing down,
Backing away,
Retreating to safe space,
The fire of revolution burned,
Spreading through the plateaus and valleys and townships and cities and villages in this pained land,

And still,

You held that Kalashnikov in your hand.

And when that day of freedom came,

You felt the stirrings of joy and pain and yes,
Of shame.

You felt the shame of leaving those you left behind,

You tasted again the pain,
Of economic hardships,
Of capitalism and its illusory promise,
Of a revolution left incomplete,

Every man, woman and child has enough to eat.

A revolution still incomplete,
Where hunger stalks the night,
Where mercy,
And comradely solidarity,
Left last night on a first-class flight.

You stand tall still,
Working as you always have,

Polishing the metal chariots of those you once bled for,

Still feeling the injustice,
Of not having the two cents more,

That deprives you of your daily bread,

And you try hard to remember,

Whether this is the revolution,

For which so many died,

The countless whose names remain unsaid,

The brothers and sister,
Mothers and fathers,
Lovers and friends,

Who lie cold and dead.

(dedicated to all South Africans who sacrificed their lives, their families, in pursuit of the revolutionary dream. A dream that remains a dream to many, and a dream that will continue to be dreamed)


My first drawing

2011-09-05 12.37.42.jpgI sat afraid to make a pencil mark
While round me all the others made a start
I felt like  a new baby in the dark
As worry stabbed me in my artless heart

Then I gripped  my pencil  in my hand
I’d bitten it so hard I’d made two   holes
Then like a  lost soul in a foreign land
I took  a step in  as I  had been told

The science of art is  rarely talked about
Measuring, proportion,volume,size
We hear of drama and of anxious doubt
But not that we should set free our own eyes

It’s simple but not easy, I should know
Every  drawing  pains me  like a blow

As communal sinners we desire

Would you choose  purgatorial fires,
Or would you rather  freeze to pay sins’ debt?
As communal sinners we desire
That every human being should be a liar
Of course the thoughts of suffering  upset
The    positivity we are told we must embrace
We are struggling in this  mad world  yet
Where men of power  are blind  and have no grace.
We walk on  with good will though so beset.
Is God for hire?

Take your love and in your arms enfold.

Did anyone believe blind rage expressed
Could benefit the agent without harm?
Did anyone read Freud and then digest?

Feelings need the heat of blacksmith’s fires
Held inside until they find their form
An image worthy of our right desire

As well as rage, we should mistrust love too
Be backward in expression till more’s known
Or risk an avalanche of cruelty.

Take care of others, they are not our fools
From sacred meetings all mankind has grown
We misuse folk to test our worth and tools

Holding in the inner fires our wish
The blackness of the heart can turn to gold
No contradiction hides such sacredness

Take your love and in your arms enfold.
The future of the world is growing cold
We liked to have the choice for rage and death
Until we found the charred remains of bliss

Meeting a mountain lion




“I took a step back. Pulled my Pulaski from my back and held it above my head like a sword. I kept my eyes tilted away. I had to see without appearing to see, assess without aggressively observing. I needed to see with my other eyes; to hear with my other ears. I had to feel his movements with my skin. And in my feet.

(It’s how we build stories. Do you see?)

The cat made a sound. I don’t have a word for it. It wasn’t a roar or a bark or a growl or a snort or a snarl. It was something bigger. He didn’t make the sound with his mouth — or, at least it wasn’t only his mouth. He made it with his feet, his tail, each muscle, each bone. It rattled the ground and smacked the air. I could feel it vibrating in my molars. I swung the Pulaski over my head, and brought it down to the earth with a crash. I opened my mouth and I made the sound that the big cat made. That exact same sound. My feet, my muscles, my bones, my throat, my tongue, my teeth. They had never spoken that way before, and they never will again. Not a growl. Not a roar. Not a snarl or a bark. Something else. I didn’t look directly at the mountain lion. I knew better. I saw him with my skin instead. I felt him start. Startle. Rear. And then he bounded away.

(You see it, don’t you?)”

At least not my favourite programme

12088512_623842947755587_1867855551768367355_n.jpgMy washing machine wouldn’t work
[I thought this was a  poem?]
At least not my favourite programme
[Sounds like a TV!]
Then  after 6 months you came and fixed for me
[I don’t recall that]
You said, change the spin speed
[No, I said, do you like seaweed.actually]
And now my programme is working
I am very grateful  to you
[ Deafness has advantages!]
So, would you like to come round for a meal one evening
[Do you cook food in the washing machine,then?]
Well, what do you feel?
Yeah,I’d love to.
You love me!
I suppose I must.

It’s not compulsory
No, of my own free will,I would love to eat with you
We can talk about my Will later.
Am I in it?
What did you say?
“You must begin it.”
Start with dinner.Do you eat meat?
I like Roast Beef
How wonderful.I have this recipe:Topside with green peas by Harold Wilshaw
How about blue peas?
Yes, green is redundant
Like some men feel
I know men like a feel
May I feel you?
That’s a funny way of asking
Would you enjoy it?
I have no idea but you do smell nice.
I’m in luck.I got some Homme Soap
Om soap, sounds like a mantra![ She’s a  Buddhist!
What about puddings.Do you like Ginger Mould?
It depends where the mould is
I use a white china souffle dish
No mould on that
I  make the mould in a pan.It’s like a custard and cream mixture with ginger in it and then I set it with gelatine
[Jelly beans, do you have beans in a pudding ?]
I have a huge pot of gelatine. I bought it online
Can’t you buy it in a shop?
No,people don’t make their  own jelly now.
Well, that is interesting.Is it a metaphor?
Stop talking about abstractions.I’d like to sit by you and watch TV.
Because I like you.And I like TV.I like rubbish.”Rubbish” is the in word now
You’re in luck.It’s mainly rubbish now
It’s relaxing after studying 5 dimensional geometry
Just stop studying
I never thought of that.You are so kind  to me.
I don’t see it as kindness
You think about me.
I dream about you!
You seem like Father Xmas’s younger brother
An original idea!
So Sunday 7 pm
I will be there,God willing.
Great.I  can’t wait to talk to you for longer.
Then we’ll see Leonard Cohen.
Is that because mould causes hallucinations?
Surely even LSD can’t work that fast!
Jews do fast, you know
That’s tangential.
I give in

Pretend to us  false prophets don’t degrade

The dead brown leaves crunch, dry beneath  the trees
Blackbirds dance and doves coo far away
There’s strong clear sun but watery pools still freeze

Nature is unchanged by  our unease
As leaders’ words lead voters minds astray
The dead brown leaves crunch, dry beneath  the trees

A few bulbs flower, as if to tease;
Pretend to us  false prophets don’t degrade
There’s strong clear sun but shadows dark  make frieze

Who has got the power to make believe?
Do the Veterans want a new Parade?
The dead brown  coffins burn beneath  the trees

What is wrong, why do I feel unease
Fearful how our leaders power degrade?
There’s strong clear sun but darkness my heart feels


When evil is admired and lies are paid
Then Satan rules .as from our hearts he’s made
The dead brown leaves   have come to their demise
There’s strong clear sunshine,  ice and fire bite  trees.



Does it matter how many people read your post?


SwalloFalls2007.jpgIf we write a perceptive post or a humorous post  we will  feel happy  if a lot of people read it.But,if   it helps just one person or amuses just one person then that is enough.We don’t know how far the ripples will spread.

If a butterfly in the South ~America flapping its wings can cause a storm in Europe…a few good words or  one perceptive photo might have a strong influence.We will never know.