Tuesday 26 January 2016
ABOUT AUTHOR
He is known as
Tlhookomelo Survival Mashile, born 1993/11/03 in a small town called Sabie, Mpumalanga,
raised in a township called Leroro. His interest for literature started off at
age 11, started off by compiling lyrical content into poetry, until he was able
to write on his own. In 2013 he relocated to Johannesburg in pursuit to study
Law in the Vaal University of Technology. Exposed to poetry, he started
performing on various stages, such as Jerry K poetry session in Newtown,
creating a name for himself. His stage name later formed to “Survival The-Poet”,
working alongside Taelo Motholo, and Jerry Kaposa, a film director.
His work has been
published on various publications such as Joy
Magazine, Coinage Books, Contè Magazine, to name a few. He owns a
poetry App on Google Play Store named after this book, The Poet’s Dream.
Contact details:
Postal Address: P.O
Box 84
: Leroro
: 1273
Cell: 071 274 7486
Twitter: @Survy_mash
Facebook: Survival The-Poet Mashile
We Rhythm
Pounds of flesh beat rock,
Beat rocking to soothing melodies,
Vocalists,
Cubase keys,
And silent notes, fixed on symphonic combustions,
Exhilarating on mixed sound waves colliding with heat
patterns,
Cultivating pleasant rhythmic elements for kind ears
to mingle with,
We have dug past serenades,
Granites,
Just to find the comfort layers our hearts could
conform to,
We stumble our feet,
Tiptoeing to tempos,
Drumming,
Flutes our late great drummers left for our hearts to
pace with;
Now the present is clicking,
Tripping,
Snapping,
Beat boxing,
Composing,
Dancing to sequences that simultaneously transcend
with our pulses,
To every house beat our hearts elope,
To every soul our hearts bleed out,
To every jazz rhythm our hearts startles,
Happiness liberates generously in our chests humming
sorrows absent,
Thus we chant,
Ululate to every beat boxer,
Music composure,
Producer,
Ghost writer,
For this is the rhythm,
We are the rhythm,
And we rhythm
By: Ts Mashile
Flashbacks
We were entities
once,
The spheres in both
eyes carried the world in its core,
Our future looked
less of dynamites.
We walked through
rocked edges,
With our toes
pinpointed to crystals.
We have dug past
diamonds,
Exploited minerals,
To hold still the
future,
Carried our sun
past havoc,
Confusion, mayhems,
Yet remained
stationary as the wind blew along with the hail,
We reflected one
another past each other’s walls,
We were
humanitarians back then,
Possessed peace in
our sleep,
Brought nature to a
halt,
Reviewed to find a
purpose for our heavy breathing;
Now I walk into
retail,
Everything has
become of your nature.
The teddy bear owns
your eyes,
The cashiers carry
your smile,
Soundtrack
overflows with your joy,
The nest of roses
dwells in your fragrance,
I reminisce on
irreplaceable moments spent on back scrubs, and foam play,
The bottle of pain
killers reminds me of the midnight run to the filling station,
The pillow cases
held memories of all the tears I tumble-dried;
I live in
presentiments now,
How I thought there
was a missing Bishop on my board,
When it was
essentially her,
My Queen;
I have lost myself
in the eclipse of her true skies.
By: Ts Mashile
No Pun Intended
I cannot see beyond this page,
My words have become inferior to those who conduct
tyranny in their strides,
I have walked through dark shadows,
Green pastures,
Shallow streams,
Open graves,
But never looked down on any path,
My struggles could only remind me of ancient days,
When kingdoms fell in each other’s dens,
When inked feathers collided with hessians,
Galvanized swords with corroded flesh,
Iron rods with bow-and-arrows,
And entities with entities;
It reminded me of my mother’s days,
When her tears could puzzle up the hail teenage
activists necessitated to retaliate,
When her blood profoundly splattered visible the
emblem engraved under our pigment,
When her scowls and brows stood still to raise the
retention banner of our forefathers land,
Into our conquest,
Apartheid fell,
Our old flag fell,
Human trafficking fell,
Xenophobia fell,
Rhodes fell,
Tyrant monuments fell,
Now fees must fall,
Nyoape must fall,
Corruption must fall,
France must fall moreover.
They colonized, and tortured,
Ridiculed our African raw skin while disguised in
black robes,
Bibs,
Glittering shoes and wigs;
People run from their reality because it’s dull,
No spill glimmer in it,
And face the light.
By: Ts Mashile
The Other End of Time
I am swimming in a
cloud cubed with emotions,
Scurried scars
recall my heartaches,
Once cared for
galaxies picked in a million eyes,
But erected a home
in yours,
I wounded death,
Lived with no
regrets,
For your once pure
heart held the light of eternity;
It made me realize
the earth spun in orbits,
And we were the
only constant treasures living in equilibrium,
That although sin
lived through women,
I could still avert
nature, and stare the world in innocent eyes,
Breathe hope, and
sincerity,
For our forever
rose with the showers of infinity;
I remembered when you nursed humanity under
your spotless skin,
Giggled our flaws
into extinction,
Resemble Ubuntu,
and brought peace into existence,
Our spirits linked,
Hearts consumed,
Sons bred fire,
But fatal wounds
gave birth to reservoirs,
Eyelids signified
hatred in every blink,
Our hearts ceased
to speaking colloquial tongues,
But now bare
tantrums, and panic attacks on every toss,
We have
acknowledged adversity,
Mastered the
principles of gravity,
Now utensils have
become our forces of attraction,
Magnetic globes
panel from morning to sunsets,
Our magnitude is
mistaken by servants of love who hold nothing but critical thoughts that
forever might resurface.
By: Ts Mashile
House Ten
Enormous clouds pierced down my soul,
Light eyes sparkled back my heavens,
Dent knees shoved crowded skies open,
Old recurring prayers met its decimal;
You my angel had finally touched my Heavens.
I remembered how we first met,
How our eyes discretely locked for no one to decrypt,
How back and forth our hearts paced through the
bookshelves,
How words were brought meaning through us;
You taught me how to master the art of handling a
woman,
How to seize her body,
Weak point and flaws,
I remembered the four corners,
How shallow they were before your presence was true,
How my echoes carried me through sleepless nights,
How victimized tears flooded its roots, and pillow
cases,
How the melancholy of quiet streams, seagulls would
set me awake.
I remembered the end of us,
How words became meaningless,
How hate became binding, and consuming,
How broken mirrors, a missing Chess piece,
Lingered with our existence,
How a white Bishop was the only witness to what we
had;
Because when our tears engaged,
Tongues lost strength.
By: Ts Mashile
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