beyond touch, by Arja Salafranca

Beyond touch – Poems by Arja Salafranca

I can think of no greater compliment to a poet than to say that you have read all the poems in a volume. Often, I dip into poetry books, reading some poems that look promising, or which particularly resonate, and pass over the rest. I read all of the poems in ‘beyond touch’ by Arja Salafranca.

One reason for this is that their form, characterized by narrative, with closely observed details, sometimes journalistic, allows for easy access, superficially at least. Meaning, however, is just out reach of the lens (a metaphor the poet employs) and left to the reader to divine.

A lot of modern verse is difficult, sometimes difficult because of the profundity of the poet’s thought, sometimes difficult because the poet hasn’t thought through her ideas. Modern poets contort language in trying to make meaning of the world, sometimes using tortuous metaphors and tortured sentences. An opposite phenomenon, famously evident in the works of Cavafy, is to use deliberately ordinary and unornamented language.

Another phenomenon is the absence of context, a style that allows for powerful condensation but can leave readers in the dark questioning “where, what, when”.

‘beyond touch’ tends to rely on plain statement, enlivened by only occasional imaginative figures of speech, and context is clear. So, the idea of being a tourist, an outsider to other’s happiness occurs at the end of a poem that starts with a mundane list of names:

I scurry on, join a group of Spanish women
Excitedly exploring the bullring.
I look at them a tourist to their joy.

– The English cemetery

All the verse is, for me, at the very least interesting, and at best, moving. Part of my fascination lies in the way the poems keep their distance, actual and emotional, from their subjects. Passion is evident but kept in check.

In the poem, Dachau, for example, the poet adopts a professional stance in contemplating the horror the concentration camp represents but struggles to keep the horror from breaking through her defences.

Days later, and I can’t look.
I thought it had not affected me.
Walking around, taking notes for a story,
taking photos of a place that is not beautiful,
listening to a guide tell us of the horrors.
Only once, alone in the cement corridor
of the VIP prison unit did I feel it,
what went on there.
And I almost ran towards the light
coming from the door ajar at the end of the corridor.
– Dachau

Some of the poems in the book are about photographs or paintings, and I couldn’t help thinking that some of the poems are verbal photographs, slices of time, decisive moments, or realistic paintings. In the way that expert photographers do, the poems present the external face of things hinting at the internal life in the light of the eternal.

A man, having his head shaved,
Highlighted by the dusk of early evening.
All around him, gathering darkness, except his head,
This small stall, lit by phosphorescence,
Haloed by a weird greenish purple light.
A flash of colour.
I drive on.
– Joburg pix, not taken

The poet is compelled to observe, to seek illumination, whether the subject is anonymous or deeply personal:

Later I turn over,
To look at your face in
The darkness, lit up by the light
Falling from your skylight,
There’s the soft curl of a smile
Around your mouth.
My eyes probe yours,
But we say nothing.
– The Way

I have only quoted snippets, because the power of the poems lies in the cohesive stories they tell – or photographs they take – whether they deal with the pain and pleasure of love, or the alienation of not quite belonging, especially in traversing nationalities.

I look forward to Arja’s next volume.

No more poetry?

I was always surprised at the number of people Harry Owen managed to entice to his open mike Reddits’ poetry readings in Grahamstown. It may partly be the nature of the residents of Grahamstown. It’s also that Harry’s Reddits’ events made poetry accessible and fun.

Poetry or more accurately verse is not exactly, let’s say “popular”. We accept this somehow, but do not question why enough. Few read poetry, and fewer are prepared to say why.

Some people think poetry is like a crossword, or a dead language like Latin, that has to be puzzled through.

Many people seem to think poetry is just notes about your life, sometimes obscure notes, made instantly into poetry by being expressed as lines scattered across a page. Free verse has encouraged this.

Mind you the past produced reams of properly rhyming and scanning verse that differed little in pretentiousness and banality.

Anyway, in the light of our silence about poetry denialism, I was pleased to see that someone called derek beaulieu (pretentiously lower case by design) has written something (a book of verse?) called “Please, No More Poetry“. It contains these, and other, provocative lines:

Poetry is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
Poetry has little to offer outside of poetry itself.
Poetry, sadly, knows it’s poetry, while writing doesn’t always know it’s writing.

As the old Nedbank ad used to say, “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”


Gained in translation

Again, it has struck me that translation surfaces the issue of meaning in verse. When I was studying English literature, the assumption seemed to be that there was only one true reading of a literary work. Poems could, as it were, be unlocked by sufficient effort and intelligence. Our ideas of the reality of communication have changed: we think now of various ways any communication can be reacted to, and of how we create meaning when we read, or listen or view, rather than simply receiving transmitted meanings.

What occasions my thinking about translation are poems in the White Hail in the Orchard, a slim volume written by the late Patrick Cullinan and published in 1984.

A good part of this fine volume is taken up with translation of verse by the Italian poet Eugenio Montale – or rather to use Cullinan’s words, Versions:

The poems that follow are all based on original work by Eugenio Montale. Though not trying to alter meanings or force intentions, I have tried to make a poem in English, using Montale’s Italian as a model. I have therefore called these ‘versions’ rather than translations.

Would that translators in general were this honest. In this statement Cullinan is acutely aware of the transformation not to say mutation of intended meaning inherent in all translation. However careful our translation, can we be sure we have captured the poet’s preferred understanding of the poem? I don’t think so, but if we are completely cavalier in translation the result is a new poem, as I have pointed out. Yet clinging too closely to the words and rhythms of the original can have a clunky result.

Even the best-intentioned of translators can do mortal hurt to the literature they translate. Take the King James Version, beautiful work of poetry that it is. I don’t know what God meant, but sometimes I suspect he didn’t mean what the King James version sometimes puts in the mouths of the persona that people this Bible. For meaning I at times prefer more modern translations – or versions. But I return to the majestic, and sometimes crazy, phrasing of the King James Bible.

Are Cullinan’s versions more or less true to the original? Thanks to the Internet we can judge for ourselves. The New Criterion website has the original Italian and Jonathan Galassi’s translation

This is the original Italian version:

Per album
by Eugenio Montale

che il cuore non invecchia
il pentalaureato
si guarda nello specchio
con orrore.

Here is one of the short Montale versions in Cullinan’s book:

One for the Album
[Cullinan’s version

Assured that the heart
never grows old,
the graduate with five degrees
stares at himself in the mirror,

This is the Galassi translation:

For an album
that the heart never ages
the man weighed down with honors
looks at himself in the mirror
with horror.

I prefer Cullinan’s version, which substitutes for the “man weighed down with honors” the more specific “the graduate with five degrees”. I can see how some might say Cullinan was taking liberties. Montale deliberately uses one word on the first line, “Assured”, to give it weight.

Anyway, while we blithely invent new poems from other’s work, let’s try to imagine what we would feel if it happened to us that some poet somewhere else took our fine verse and turned it into something strange – assuming we could understand the translator’s language.

I offer my own brief verse:

Mors ultima lingua
Death is the final audit, eh?
The poet finds to his consternation
When dawns that sad and final day,
It's not audit but translation.

The birth of a new poetry book

Megan Ross in conversation with Sibongile Fisher, at Love Books

Once again, I was surprised, and more than pleasantly, by the launch of a book of poems by a poet whose work I had not yet encountered. As is my habit, I flipped open Milk Fever and chose a short poem at random and found this.


Our bodies
all the time

It’s okay
I love you
Please don’t

Megan Ross exudes energy and self-confidence and it emerges in this, her debut volume, along with empathy and enthusiasm for the kind of playfulness of poetry that Harry Owen has talked about.

It isn’t easy to pin down what the poems are about – this is poetry after all – though their topics are identifiable, and as you can guess from the book’s title, a central concern is the aftermath of childbirth. Intensely personal, honest, the memories, dreams and insights are embedded in imaginative and exuberant skeins of words, some easier to penetrate than others.

D. How do I mourn myself?
In a bathroom I wash without the light
Cannot bear the hanging jacket of flesh /
This unborn death hollows me like a gem squash:
Dark’s green shell, sunlight’s yellow seeds
Somewhere else / now

The imagery is often vivid, with a spontaneity that stretches out towards finding meaning in the mundane.

There’s a lot of adventure in Milk Fever. If you are going to depart from the conventions of metre and rhyme, why not make your verse truly free? Experiment with emphasising pauses and absences, caesuras; use white space; use the page in landscape. Some of the experiments will work, some will fail. What’s important is that they are backed by a love of what words can achieve and a knowledge of their limits.

At the launch, at Love Books in Melville, one of the members of the largely women audience asked Megan if men could appreciate this book. She answered along the lines that common humanity should enable them to. She might well have answered that poetry that doesn’t transcend boundaries isn’t poetry.

James Phillips, poet of the East Rand

Why does some art never leap the boundaries and time of its origins? Why does art that is locally and timeously powerful sometimes only appeal to a limited audience?

These were my questions after the screening, at the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown/Makhanda, of The Fun’s Not Over, a film about the life and work of singer-songwriter James Phillips. The answers are not simple.

Firstly, one of the Phillips’ main contributions to popular resistance music was the album Wie is Bernoldus Niemand? Little Afrikaans literature, let alone popular music, has travelled beyond South Africa’s borders, even in translation. And English-speakers in South Africa, black or white, appear to have slight interest in Afrikaans literature or culture in the 21st Century. Demographics and language present real barriers, barriers that time builds higher. The zenith of Philips career – he died too soon for there to be a second act – was in the 1980s when he gave voice to disaffected younger white South Africans, particularly young men, whether they subscribed to philosophy of the liberation movements or not.

Some lines of probably the most popular song Phillips wrote and played with his band The Cherry-Faced Lurchers summed it up for a small group of whites:

Nowhere else in the world can you see so many monsters and mutations that creep out so

And leave you wondering what happened to all those sacred things
They got shot down in the street
New morning, new morning
Old ways get away
But here in my cradle
I lie incapable
I’m a white boy who looked at his life gathered in his hands
And saw it was all due to the sweat of some other man
That one who got shot down in the street

This was the 1980s. Black people were fighting, openly and sometimes violently or simply by disobedience, a system that deprived them of their basic human rights and their dignity, a system that was intensifying repression even as it faced increasing global opprobrium and isolation. Most white people could ignore that and indulge in all the hedonistic freedom the State had to offer – with one Faustian proviso: young South Africans had to serve longer and longer dangerous terms in the military as part of the repressive regime. And even when they could avoid that burden, those with any sensitivity or moral intelligence could only temporarily ignore the bleak reality of the lives of their black countrymen.

Most conscripts found themselves in military browns and holding rifles before they became politically conscious enough to resist or elude conscription. Conscientious objectors, those who openly defied taking part in military service on political grounds, paid the heavy price of imprisonment.

Young white South African men suffered the unpleasant reality of conscription, many willingly. The unwilling and disaffected not only opposed Apartheid and the brutality it stood for but were also rebelling against the pinched, ungenerosity and hypocrisy of those in power and the warped obedience to State supposedly inculcated in them by the dour and unimaginative face of what was called Christian Nationalist Education. Only a few were drawn into the underground liberation movement. One alternative route of rebellion was rock, and then punk, music. This was a time when the memory of the public broadcaster banning the Beatles for being, in jest, compared in popularity to Jesus, was fresh and officialdom, strenuously European in pretensions, preferred classical or anodyne pop music.

The official music of Afrikanerdom was what English-speakers disparaged as “sakkie-sakkie” music, a genre invented to aid the growth of Afrikaner nationalism, featuring folksy instrumentals often dominated by the accordion, meant to be danced to in folk outfits harking back to the Great Trek of Afrikaners to freedom from English colonial rule in the Cape. Also popular was a type of country and western music represented by Jim Reeves, simple, repetitive tunes and simpler stories, beloved of rough, conservative working class whites.

Into this vacuum, and against this musical background, came the Bernoldus Niemand album.

The Niemand album is a curiosity for South Africans of newer generations, black and white, especially those thankfully never exposed to South African military call-up and national service of up to two years under the command of nationalist, racist and mostly Afrikaans-speaking Permanent Force soldiers. Permanent Force soldiers in the lower ranks such as the corporals also tended to be drawn from a class lower than that of the conscripts, particularly the English-speaking conscripts. They were what used to be known as “poor whites”, uneducated and unskilled and not fit for the world outside the military.

It must be stressed that a class difference exists even now between Afrikaans-speakers and English-speakers, with English-speakers still unconsciously willing to mock the accents and what they may consider, without knowing it, the relative lack of sophistication of their fellow white countrymen. English speakers’ opposition to Apartheid in the past seemed sometimes to be based on the fact that Afrikaners had come up with the concept, rather than that it was an extension of colonialism and global racism. It was also convenient to blame the Afrikaners.

Until after the Second World War in South Africa, racism meant the conflict between English-speaking and Afrikaans-speaking South Africans, not the subjugation and denigration of black people. A headline on a newspaper produced for the South African army operating in North Africa during World War 2 reads: “Racism in UDF (Union Defence Force)” and the article is about that conflict between Afrikaans-speaking and English-speaking South Africans.

The key song on the Bernoldus album was Hou My Vas, Korporaal, with its marching beat, reinforced by James’ mimicking of the Afrikaans marching order, Links-Regs, Links-Regs, Links-Regs, Links,” or “Left-Right, Left-Right, Left-Right, Left” in its peculiar Afrikaans army pronunciation, becoming “Lik-Jak, Lik-Jak, Looinks”.

The Korporaal in question was unlikely to hold you close, or “hou my vas”. He was probably a working class Afrikaans career soldier whose rank as corporal told you his lack of intelligence or class held him back from climbing to a rank higher than that of corporal, two ranks above private. He was rough, abusive, intolerant, often hung over, racist, and reveled in his petty power over you and black people, the only power he had. He was more likely to order you to do 20 push-ups or penalize you with guard duty or – as in the song send you running to a far landmark and back as exercise. This was usually done to a formula. He would point to a tree in the distance and say, “Sien jy daaie boom?” or “Do you see that tree?” The response had to be, “Ja, Korporaal”. He would then bark out orders to bring back a leaf from the tree, and you, the “troep” would have to run to the tree and back, often several times, depending on his whim.

Philips makes a joke about this in the song, making the Korporaal say in addition to, “Sien jy daaie boom?”, “Bring hom hier, ek will hom rook,” or “Bring it here I want to smoke it,” a pun on the word “boom” which means both tree and marijuana. Smoking marijuana or dagga was another act of defiance, indulging in the drug of the black man and the foreign, liberal hippies, and thereby thumbing one’s nose at the Calvinist morality of the Afrikaans and therefore dominant State church. The Korporaal probably drank copious amounts of cheap brandy instead of smoking dagga, and if he did smoke dagga he would have had to keep it secret. These things anyone who did national service would know.

The song itself repeats words and phrases common to the conscript experience, such as “Sal ek weer my Tjerrie sien, as ek van die trein afklim,” referring to the experience of having your girlfriend leave you while you completed your term of one to two years.

In the middle of the army nostalgia these lines hit home:

Oogklappe bring nie skoon gewete
Dis my plig, dis nie my keuse
Hier sit ek, ek sit en vrek
Dis nie my skuld maar ek hou my bek.

Wearing blinkers doesn’t clear the conscience
It’s my duty not my choice
Here I sit, I sit and perish like an animal
It’s not my fault but I just shut up
(The Korporaal is heard shouting a phrase familiar to conscripts and so characteristic of that particular form of authoritarian bullying, “Hou jou bek!”)

It was odd but fitting his eccentricity that Philips, an English-speaker, released an album in Afrikaans. The language of the South African Defence Force was Afrikaans, so Hou May Vas Korporaal, half protest song, half jest, had to be in that language. Yet other songs on the album are also in Afrikaans, and Philips had a greater grasp of the language than most English speakers to be able to write those songs. It would be better to say that he was bilingual, and that his identity was white South African, not English or Afrikaans. These categories were blurring in the 1980s, anyway, though they may have been resurrected after the arrival of democracy and renewed globalization. Perhaps they were merely submerged.

The other songs on the album have an ironic aspect, a humorous undertone, part of a detached observant personality which Philips could not suppress even when he briefly in his earlier life spurned his rebellious drink-and-drugs lifestyle and turned to an outward embrace of religion. He called himself “James the Boptist”.

Irony is often misperceived. James’ song My Broken Heart, for example, satirizes a certain kind of sentimental love song popular in the 60s. Boksburg Bommer, a catchy praise poem to one of our best white boxers – and one whom black South Africans also cheered, coincidentally – could also be a send-up. East Rand blues, an elaborate spoken duet between an Afrikaans speaker and an English speaker, both voiced by James, is pure satire, an elaborate and wonderful capture of a kind of sleaziness. James was an observer of zef before Die Antwoord made it fashionable. Snor City, in Afrikaans, homing in on the spooky conformism that was symbolized in the 1980s by a certain look that included moustaches and was prevalent in the capital, has many hilarious lines that satirise the paranoid policy of total onslaught. “If I was a terrorist I would have invented a moustache bomb.”

There’s an idea that James was making fun of Afrikaners with the Bernoldus album. While he was obviously contemptuous of the monsters bred by Apartheid, he shows too much affection for the subject matter, too much empathy for human beings, too much identification with South Africanness, especially for the kind of South Africans stranded in the cultural no-man’s land of the East Rand.

Poetry, I believe, lies in finding the universal in the specific, really looking at the details of life to identify meaning. Phillips’ songwriting puts a particular time-bound, geographically and demographically narrow, South African experience, and its music, under the microscope and sings the sorrow and the comedy of the absurdly cruel system in which we all lived, a system that imprisoned white people too, though with invisible, soul-draining chains of mediocre materialism.

The Playfulness of Poetry

In Makhanya/Grahamstown for the National Arts Festival, I attended on Tuesday a Poetryfest event, this being two hours focusing on a poetic theme. Poetryfest is new, the initiative of the multi-talented Tsitsi Sachikonye.

I had expected poet Harry Owen to be focusing, in his talk about  the “Playfulness of Poetry,” on what might be called light or humorous verse, and so I brought along a copy of Gus Ferguson’s Arse Poetica, as did another member of the audience. Gus is certainly playful in this astringent volume of mostly short poems, wittily dissecting the pretensions that thrive in South African poetry circles. This was not specifically the thrust of Harry’s presentation, however.

Harry talked about a playfulness that is not to be confused with humor or light-heartedness but rather the capacity for understanding that children demonstrate, being childlike rather than childish. He quoted various poems, from the Jabberwocky through to Finuala Dowling’s “To the doctor who treated the raped baby and who felt such despair” to illustrate what he meant: poetry’s playing with words can be used to make sophisticated jokes but also to snatch some meaning from the meaningless of human evil.

One of the poems that Harry cited I had not come across, “Poetry is the Art of Not Succeeding”, by Joe Salerno, whose second verse reads, 

It’s the art of those who didn’t make it

after all, who were lucky enough to be

left behind, while the winners ran on ahead

to wherever it is winners 

go running to.

Only after the event did it strike me that it would have been appropriate to quote Blake, one of the trippiest* and most playful poets ever: 

To see a World in a Grain of Sand 

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

*An archaic term evoking the hallucinatory effects of psychedelic drugs.

Harry Owen, a poet of the natural world and more

The Cull, new and resurrected poems by Harry Owen

I received The Cull, a book of new and previously published poems, from Harry Owen some time ago and have put off reading it because work had taken my mind in other demanding, non-literary directions. In my experience, Harry’s poetry – and let’s dispense with artificial formality straight away by acknowledging that Harry is a friend  – deserves the reader’s full attention.

The simplicity of the language is deceptive. The verse stretches beyond the observed and mundane particulars of moments in time, often domestic moments, to try to capture some much larger universal meaning, tantalizing, almost out of reach and in the grand scheme of things for us, evanescent. As the concluding two stanzas of the poem Tending sum up:


… Or snores that broach sleep, dream, shared breath

Of dog and man. Alive. All so present,

So rich. And when it fades at last, so ended.


The gentle shared movements of our living,

Constrained, ferocious, here. Everything

So long continuing, and yet, quite soon, gone.


If there is an elegiac tone it is because the poet, like other poets before him, is keenly aware of mortality against the backdrop of the earth that rolls on without us, and the need to acknowledge that reality to live fully. Death is part of life, but this fact not an easy thing to bear. In the poem Life is a cannibal, Harry writes:


Life is a cannibal: it must eat itself

To survive.


Harry can be described as a nature poet. He edited the international anthology of eco-poetry For Rhino in a Shrinking World and many of the poems have as their subject matter the natural, non-human world and humanity’s troubled relationship with it. The observation in the verse is detailed and precise, and where Shakespeare saw “a special providence in the fall of a sparrowHarry sees meaning in the death of a gecko.


Must things ever matter? Do they count?

You’re gone now; the ants have carried you off.

The sea keeps rolling in, its breakers

Crooning as they always have. I’m here

And straining for your snatches of song,


So yes, we matter, ever and never again.


Living fully in the world and part of the world is surely an underlying theme of Harry’s poetry, and this encompasses acknowledging the many shapes of injustice, including the political. One of the moving poems in this collection is based on a temporary memorial at Rhodes University listing the names and ages of the children killed by Israeli bombing of Gaza.

Most interesting for me, because of my detestation of officialese and how it cuts us off from lived experience, is the title poem, The Cull, in essence a found poem, based on euphemisms for organized, systematic slaughter. The word “Cull” in the title of the collection also refers to republishing or “resurrecting” Harry’s older verse that has already seen the light of day, but its main meaning is found in the title poem:


The commercial quota is just under

Four million, a pity because

The sheer terror of the slaughter

Can causeinfants to vomit their mother’s

Milk in fear. Regrettable of course. Sad

For those of nervous disposition.

But it’s a long way from here, isn’t it.


Harry writes in the Introduction, “The English language lends itself superbly to euphemisms – the hiding of unpleasant or unwelcome truths behind gentle words. While this can be useful in softening the impact of what might otherwise be insufferably painful to the listener, it can also be a thoroughly dishonest trick, a deception.

“I contend that the word ‘cull’ is often precisely that: a deception to hide from ourselves the dreadfulness of our deliberate, cold-blooded slaughter of animals, both wild and domesticated, that have done no wrong.”

If there is a message in the poetry, other than that we should behave less like barbarous idiots towards our environment, it is, ‘pay attention,’ the title of one of the poems:


To yourself: body, breath, blood : and listen :

Vibrations in air, flesh, in bone : permit

Slow atoms to rebound, sound yourself …


I met Harry in Grahamstown, at the wonderfully engaging monthly Reddits open-floor poetry reading he has run for more than 10 years now. He hails from Liverpool, and arrived in Grahamstown in 2008. Generous of spirit, with a quick wit and gentle sense of humour, Harry is incredibly knowledgeable about poetry, knowledge which he displays when he writes, for the local Grahamstown newspaper Grocott’s Mail, a column on poetry that should be read nationally. This is his seventh collection of poems.