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Muse

@ Sunday Times Books LIVE

BOOKED @ Muse: Percy Mabandu

Percy Mabandu

Percy Mabandu is an “all rounded” artist who paints, writes, speaks and dreams… Born and raised in Tshwane’s Ga-Rankuwa, Percy has been instrumental within community radio broadcasting. His presence is marked, on among others, a weekly art program called the BLK-Star Line on 93.6fm in Gauteng, where he also worked as deputy station manager.

Percy has recently joined the acclaimed weekly, the Mail & Guardian, where his passion for art history tells in his articles. He has also written for magazines such as Rootz and A Look Away. Percy’s poetry has appeared on a number of print and online journals as well as anthologies, including We Are… A poetry anthology.

His penchant for Black Consciousness art history and thought is currently focused on the life and work of Fikile Magadlela.

Percy is currently reading Seitlhamo Motsapi’s Earthstepper/The Ocean is Very Shallow, as well Focus: Music of South Africa by Carol A Muller, plus a whole lot of newspapers and magazines from everywhere.

Poems

A poem for lesedi (Four seasons’ trumpeter)

Rhythm child of my day
Surfing brass lyric into a hip swagger
The proud sound of our rested fathers
You dance us into a multicolor scamper
The sound swirl of singing sages
You are the soil’s son of our ages

Wail us a willing song into the wind
Be my willing wizard with a metallic limb
Slaying us a demon for love’s reason
With a slithering sermon of the 5th season
Because ‘Four’ can be a lousy prison
To pilgrims in search of an extra auditory prism

Here we are jazzed into a bouquet of song
Because dreams are a lovely throng
When the night is long

Who’s to say whats the meaning of jive
When even the bereaved hum their cry
And convulsions give us rhythm when we die

Percy Mabandu

*

Untitled 2

And when all the mothers were holding up
Our part of the somber sky
Purple drops dripped from their hoisting fingers
Creasing their faces starting at the eyes, And –
A blue mood perforated our dreams
With the hunger in my niece’s screams
For recourse to be found through the seams

The soil lost its crimson hue
Beyond the insistence of our churning steps
And the milk of our labor is turned indigo sweet
By the sincerity of our stagger

Now that our she-story is a permitting flood
And our future repels the color of blood

Percy Mabandu

 

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