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lunes, 1 de septiembre de 2014

DON MATTERA [11.045]


Don Mattera

Donato Francisco Mattera (nacido en 1935), más conocido como Don Mattera, es un poeta y autor sudafricano.
Nacido en Western Native Township (ahora Westbury), Johannesburgo, Sudáfrica, Mattera creció en Sophiatown, en ese momento un centro vibrante de la cultura sudafricana.


Bibliografía:

Memory is the Weapon , Ravan Press, 1987, ISBN 0-86975-325-8
Gone with the Twilight: A Story of Sophiatown , Zed Books (1987), ISBN 0-86232-747-4 (published in the USA as Sophiatown: Coming of Age in South Africa )
The Storyteller , Justified Press, 1989, ISBN 0-947451-16-1
The Five Magic Pebbles (illustrated by Erica & Andries Maritz), Skotaville, 1992 ISBN 0-947479-71-6

Plays:

Streetkids , Apartheid in the Court of History , and One Time Brother , which was banned in 1984.

Poemas:

Azanian Love Song , Justified Press 1994 ISBN 0-947451-29-3 .
(Originally published: Skotaville Publishers, 1983 ISBN 0-620-06628-8 )
Mattera has also written a short story called "Afrika Road".

Premios:

PEN Award (1983) for Azanian Love Song
Noma Children's Book Award (1993) for The Five Magic Pebbles
Steve Biko Prize for his autobiography, Memory is the Weapon
Honorary PhD in Literature from the University of Natal , Durban
World Health Organization 's Peace Award from the Centre of Violence and Injury Prevention (1997).
South African Order of the Baobab in Gold for "Excellent contribution to literature, achievement in the field of journalism and striving for democracy and justice in South Africa."







PROTEA

La protea no es una flor
 es cabeza de ondulantes banderas
 sepulcros de reliquias afrikaner
 y monumentos de carretas de bueyes
 sumergidas en sangre

Es el vuelo de la lanza del hombre negro
 arrojada en el miedo hostil
 del tiempo perdido
 hombría conquistada y orgullo roto

Es lágrimas
 de mi pueblo unido
 cayendo sobre los escalones de mármol de Pretoria
 víctimas del sometimiento

La protea nunca puede ser una flor
 no mientras el alma
 de Suráfrica luche por ser libre...





I feel a poem

Thumping deep, deep
I feel a poem inside
wriggling within the membrane 
of my soul;
            tiny fists beating,
            beating against my being
            trying to break the navel cord,
                                    crying, crying out
                                    to be born on paper

                                    Thumping 
                                    deep, so deeply 
                                    I feel a poem,
                                                inside





The poet must die

For James Matthews and Gladys Thomas after their poems were executed

The poet must die
her murmuring threatens their survival 
her breath could start the revolution; 
she must be destroyed

Ban her
Send her to the Island 
Call the firing-squad
But remember to wipe her blood 
From the wall,
Then destroy the wall 
Crush the house 
Kill the neighbours

If their lies are to survive 
The poet must die







Sobukwe

On his death

It was our suffering
and our tears
that nourished and kept him alive 
their law that killed him

Let no dirges be sung 
no shrines be raised
to burden his memory 
sages such as he 
need no tombstones 
to speak their fame

Lay him down on a high mountain 
that he may look
on the land he loved 
the nation for which he died

Men feared the fire of his soul







Zimbabwean love song

Sing and dance 
Sons, daughters of Zimbabwe

It is the call of a timeless glory
And the beat of the native song 
That beckoned you to struggle on

Nana Zimbabwe 
It was your dance of daring feet
Which set the bush ablaze, 
Made the dying sweet

Sing and dance 
Daughters and sons of Zimbabwe
It is the rooster that sings of children
Marching against the wind

The white night is dead 
Freedom walks in the sunrise 
And in the glow of an eternal love song







Let the children decide 

Let us halt our quibbling 
of reform and racial preservation 
saying who belongs to what 
nation 
let the children decide 
for it is their world 
Let us burn our uniforms 
of old scars and grievances 
recede our spent and battered 
dreams 
and remove the relics of crass 
tradition 
that hang on our malignant 
hearts 
and give the children a better 
start 
to decide for it is their world 
we are destroying 
Let us halt our quibbling