Goran Bregovic

A howling wind is whistling in the night
My dog is growling in the dark
Something's pulling me outside
To ride around in circles
I know that you have got the time
'coz anything I want, you do
You'll take a ride through the strangers
Who don't understand how to feel
In the death car, we're alive
In the death car, we're alive

I'll let some air come in the window
Kind of wakes me up a little
I don't turn on the radio
'coz they play sh*t, like... you know
When your hand was down on my dick
It felt quite amazing
And now that, that is all over
All we've got is the silence
In the death car, we're alive
In the death car, we're alive
So come on mandolins, play

When I touched you
I felt that you still had your baby fat
And a little taste of baby's breath
Makes me forget about death
At your age you're still joking
It ain't time yet for the choking
So now we can see the movie, and know each other truly
In the death car, we're alive
In the death car, we're alive
I want to hear some mandolins

Listen to Goran Bregovic singing, In the death car, We are alive

Pen Drawing by Amitabh Mitra

Poetry of Chris Mann

Where is the freedom for which we died?

Whenever I dream during these violent times
I meet up with the martyrs for freedom.

I see Steve Biko again,
And Achmad Timol,
And David Webster,
all, all of them murdered by deeds of hatred.

I also see Nelson Mandela again,
A man buried alive in prison
who stepped from the tomb still living
and is the Lazarus of our times.

These are the heroes I think of often,
who knock at the doors of our memory,
who travel around our country
talking together as they look about them
like ancestral spirits of the new South Africa.

Going into the home of a drunkard
they see him beating his wife and children.
“Look at that!” says one of the heroes,
“Is this the freedom for which we died?”

Entering the township
they find the skies full of flames
and people running confusedly round the streets
like termites whose home has been kicked over.
“And look at that!” says another of the heroes,
“Is this the freedom for which we died?”

Going into a school
they see pupils bickering with the teachers
and two boys stabbing each other.
“And look at that!” says another of the heroes,
“Is this the freedom for which we died?”

Walking the streets at night
they find the homes locked and barred
as if the people had built their own prisons
and lived inside them huddled in fear.
“I can’t believe it!” another of them says,
“Is this the freedom for which we died?”

These are the heroes I think of often,
these are the shades of the new South Africa,
and this is the question they ask of the living,
“Where is the freedom for which we died?”

Chris Mann's formal education includes a BA from Wits majoring in English and Philosophy, an MA from the School of Oriental and African Languages (London) in African Oral Literature and an MA from Oxford in English Language and Literature. Now based at the Institute for the Study of English in Africa at Rhodes University in Grahamstown, he is the founder and convenor of Wordfest, a national multilingual festival of South African languages and literatures with a developmental emphasis. We are grateful to him for assisting South African Poets in showcasing their work at the Grahamstown International Festival.

Pen Drawing by Amitabh Mitra

In Detention - Poetry of Chris Van Wyk

He fell from the ninth floor
He hanged himself
He slipped on a piece of soap while washing
He hanged himself
He slipped on a piece of soap while washing
He fell from the ninth floor
He hanged himself while washing
He slipped from the ninth floor
He hung from the ninth floor
He slipped on the ninth floor while washing
He fell from a piece of soap while slipping
He hung from the ninth floor
He washed from the ninth floor while slipping
He hung from a piece of soap while washing.

Pen Drawing by Amitabh Mitra
This famous poem which brought international attention to apartheid era atrocities appeared again in the recently held matric trial question papers at Eastern Cape

Poetry of Keorapetse Kgositsile

mirror of my pain and purpose
this blood we demand
is the flow of life
we must bleed yes
there is no birth without blood
if they call us insane let them
words will not kill us
if they say we are not poets let them
our poetry will be the simple act
the blood we bleed
moulded by pain and purpose
into a simple
do not fuck with me
your shit is going up in flames
here and now.

Kgositsile has worked in various African National Congress departments and structures both above and underground. This poem is from his collection, If I could Sing. Keorapetse Kgositsile remains one of the most prominent South African poets whose protest poetry has achieved national and international recognition.
Pastel Drawing by Amitabh Mitra

Poetry of Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

i wish you had asked me earlier
the paintings have been bought
by a broken mirror
but i think i can lead you
to a crack in the wall
i have a skeleton too
its full of butterflies
who at dawn will carry away
the crown
i have also a wheelchair to show you
it belonged to my uncle
and one day the hook
that hangs from the sky
touched him. if you open the cupboard
you will see his memory
on the upper shelf and two books
now yours
ruskin's lectures on art
and a short history of english literature by legouis.

From Oxford's Ten Twentieth Century Indian Poets
Pen Drawing by Amitabh Mitra