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Summary ENG2603 Poetry

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Summary of 37 pages for the course ENG2603 - Colonial And Postcolonial African Literatures at Unisa (ENG2603 Poetry)

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  • June 22, 2023
  • 37
  • 2022/2023
  • Summary
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DML
A Red Blanket Addresses Christians- Nontsizi Mgqwetho



Where are your daughters? Cat got your tongue?

They roamed the countryside searching for marriage,

Shamelessly shacked up with live-in lovers,

Cut capers in Newclare till all hours of the night.



With rheumy eyes their mothers bewail

Their absent family, who left them standing,

Advising the air and pleading in vain

With sons and daughters who’ve all been to school.



Gaols crammed to capacity, courts jam-packed

With the learned products of school education;

The judges in charge just hoot in derision

At college certificates brandished by bums.



Our every crook can be found in the schools,

Our every thief can be found in the schools,

Our every rogue can be found in the schools:

I swear by Nontsizi, I swear you should all be kicked out!



You still wear red blankets in God’s very house,

You’re Christians by day, hyenas by night;

The pastor’s the shepherd of God’s own flock,

yet scurries by without a nod.

,What do we make of this curious behaviour?

Which voice do we choose from their babble?

You Christians harbour pride in your midst,

Cloaking God in crocodile hide.



You Christians are suckers for every fad,

You discard skin garments and dressed up like whites,

Your ears ring for white man’s booze,

But whites won’t touch a drop of yours.



Every Sunday you romp on the veld,

Kicking a football, whacking a racquet,

Clothing your shame in the name of God:

Satan’s jaw drops in amazement.



You’re have no love, you’re nothing at all,

And yet you proclaim a God of love:

That faith of yours stands just as tall

As I do down on my knees.



If you should ever approach us again,

We red blankets will roast you like meat.

But of course I don’t wish to imply

That God’s words are devoid of truth.

Mercy!

, The Zulu Girl - Roy Campbell



When in the sun the hot red acres smoulder

Down where the sweating gang its labour plies

A girl flings down her hoe, and from her shoulder

Unslings her child tormented by flies.



She takes him to a ring of shadow pooled

By the thorn-tree: purpled with the blood of ticks,

While her sharp nails, in slow caresses ruled

Prowl through his hair with sharp electric clicks.



His sleepy mouth, plugged by the heavy nipple,

Tugs like a puppy, grunting as he feels;

Through his frail nerves her own deep languor's ripple

Like a broad river sighing through the reeds.



Yet in that drowsy stream his flesh imbibes

And old unquenched, unsmotherable heat-

The curbed ferocity of beaten tribes,

The sullen dignity of their defeat.



Her body looms above him like a hill

Within whose shade a village lies at rest,

Or the first cloud so terrible and still

That bears the coming harvest in its breast.

, The Slave Dealer - Thomas Pringle


From ocean's wave a Wanderer came,

With visage tanned and dun:

His Mother, when he told his name,

Scarce knew her long-lost son;

So altered was his face and frame

By the ill course he had run.



There was hot fever in his blood,

And dark thoughts in his brain;

And oh! to turn his heart to good

That Mother strove in vain,

For fierce and fearful was his mood,

Racked by remorse and pain.



And if, at times, a gleam more mild

Would o'er his features stray,

When knelt the Widow near her Child,

And he tried with her to pray,

It lasted not for visions wild

Still scared good thoughts away.



"There's blood upon my hands!" he said,

"Which water cannot wash;

It was not shed where warriors bled

It dropped from the gory lash,

As I whirled it o'er and o'er my head,

And with each stroke left a gash.

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