I'm reading through some South African poetry, a poet recommended by my Professor, Laura Chrisman. She did not recommend it as a delightful read, in fact her exact words were "It is very painful to read." She did not mean it is poor writing, she suggested it to me because the content is graphic and it most closely reaches into the literary trends I am examining in times of political crisis. Thus far though, I have been amazed. I might even be a fan. His poetry is indeed painful, but it also carries some hope. It carries a memory of paradise, and a desire to return. It doesn't shy from the truth, it hangs the decrepit, rotting nature of things right in your face. Here is one of his poems, entitled Rap 3:

On the walls of present memory 

hang hand-faded portraits of harmony

when ar another man could still smile

not shy away as from bile

when man's growth was vertical

the abundance of life was radical

when streams still ran cool

& the devil could only drool

when rivers still sustained

before they turned bloodstained

before the crimson downpour

had vampires in drunken stupor

when man had calabashesful of joy-drink

& the land was pure of corpses' stink

when mothers' hearts still sand

as over hill & valley children's laughter rang

when man was man

& morality was not under ban

when life was dear

& each word was clear

before law meant crook

& justice was an open book

before home meant prison

& reason means treason

before some slept in beds of clover

while others trampled the world over

searching for compassion in distant lands

they couldn't find at their own countrymen's hands

before from a tree man started to dangle

as nothing more than a bangle

this world's sorry decoration

long gone out of fashion

god if I partook of Jesus' flesh-bread

could I too raise the dead

-Lesego Rampolokeng, Horns for Hondo