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
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