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.


Love poems at Love Books

Well, not exactly love poems. To be sure, the poetry of Kerry Hammerton deals with the emotion that has fuelled thousands of poems, but it’s earthier than that, locating emotion in the body that is the site of lust and other longing as we age. Her verse has been called brave, but while she eschews coyness about sexual desire, it does not fall into sensationalism, because it displays a matter-of-fact authenticity. ‘I’m human, with all that entails physically and spiritually. Deal with it,” the verse says to me.

Hammerton’s gaze at the mundane realities of life is unflinching.

More than half

I have lived more than half my life.

More than half. Now a constraining sleeplessness

Threatens me at night. No more ‘long haul’

For me, no more ‘let’s see if this works out’.

Authenticity is the elusive but essential quality that characterises poetry and differentiates it from verse. We turn to poetry, not for the glossy official version, but the unflinching reality, or as near as damn, of living as expressed in Hammerton’s verse. This is honest poetry, and because she writes in plain English, for the most part ditching metaphor in favour of structure for impact, I think Hammerton should have a wider audience than is usual for poetry in South Africa.

So it was perhaps disappointing that the launch of Secret Keeper, Hammerton’s third collection, at Love Books in Melville was so sparsely attended Monday night. Then again, the start of the week is not auspicious for having a glass of wine and listening to poetry, which in any case, as Love Books owner Kate Rogan notes, does not exactly fly off the shelves.

Anyway, those who pitched up were treated not only to readings of remarkable poetry, but also to an illuminating discussion between Hammerton and fellow poet Arja Salafranca about the process of writing itself. Hammerton revealed she sets aside time each week with a writing partner. They meet and spend an afternoon writing, each engaged fully in their own composition. It’s a good form of mutual discipline.

Salafranca asked Hammerton, among other things, about poetry as catharsis, as therapy, but she rejected this, saying that her writing helped her work through things but was very much part of her identity.

Identity is for me wrapped up with place, and I find it intriguing that the poetry could literally have been written anywhere in the developed world; many of my own attempts at poetry have been inspired by precise location, in the city I grew up in, in the suburbs I lived in.

It’s also thought-provoking that politics, so much part of us that Roy Campbell wrote that South Africa was famous for politics and “little else beside”, is only evident here in the politics of human relationships. It doesn’t detract from the power of the verse, but again as part of a generation who could not avoid writing about the politics of place, I find myself asking the question: Has the end of formal Apartheid freed us from the accusation that by focusing our writing on our feelings about ourselves, our friends, lovers and our family, we are being indulgently apolitical?

Never mind. If you have any interest in poetry, go out and buy this book.

Finally, a big thanks to Kate for her small but impressive bookshop and for bringing us launches such as these.




Poetry translation

What can would-be poets do while waiting for inspiration to keep from getting rusty?

One tactic is translation. To translate properly entails getting to grips with the fine grain of language as well as tapping into creativity to capture the actual rather than the literal meaning of words and idioms. This exercises the poet’s imagination and ability to shape words into her or his own meaning.

Translation may seem easy, especially if you understand two or more languages well. It is harder than it looks, and some may argue that completely accurate translation is almost impossible. The problem is navigating between being clumsily literal and creatively taking over the poem. Too free a translation starts to look like a new poem that is simply inspired by the original. The result of translation can be envisaged as a sliding scale.Translation sliding scale.png

You may think that poets themselves can be trusted with translation, but this is not always so. Take the examples below, of a Cavafy poem, An Old Man, from the official Cavafy website. The first is a straightforward translation by two translators, the second is a translation by the poet himself. Note that Cavafy for some reason uses the word “print” where “paper” is more natural. Note too that the first example is more compact and seems to flow better. Also note that where the translators have translated the original Greek as “impulses bridled” Cavafy chooses the words “lusts curbed”, which I prefer as being less polite, but I cannot decide which is more correct because I can’t read the poem in its original Greek.

An Old Man (First version, by two translators)

At the noisy end of the café, head bent

over the table, an old man sits alone,

a newspaper in front of him.


And in the miserable banality of old age

he thinks how little he enjoyed the years

when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.


He knows he’s aged a lot: he sees it, feels it.

Yet it seems he was young just yesterday.

So brief an interval, so very brief.


And he thinks of Prudence, how it fooled him,

how he always believed—what madness—

that cheat who said: “Tomorrow. You have plenty of time.”


He remembers impulses bridled, the joy

he sacrificed. Every chance he lost

now mocks his senseless caution.


But so much thinking, so much remembering

makes the old man dizzy. He falls asleep,

his head resting on the café table. 

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

(C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. Princeton University Press, 1992)


An Old Man (Cavafy’s own translation)

Here in the noisy café, in the inner part of its

unrest, an old man, bending over a table, sits,

with the day’s print before him, and companionless.


And in the misery of old age, — with its deep void

around him, he reflects how little he enjoyed

the years when he had strength, and speech, and comeliness.


He is aware of his great age: the days are gray

and cheerless. Still it seems as though it were yesterday

that he was young. So fast have gone the years, so fast.


And he considers how he used to be deceived

by Prudence: how, alack! she lied and he believed

her lie: “Tomorrow. Ample time ere time be past.”


He thinks of lusts curbed, and of joys that he denied

himself. All the lost opportunities now deride

his witless wisdom …. But the old man cannot keep


his thoughts together; they disquiet and bedim

his brain; these memories ever vex and weary him:

and at the table where he sits he falls asleep. 

Translated by John Cavafy

(Poems by C. P. Cavafy. Translated, from the Greek, by J. C. Cavafy. Ikaros, 2003)

I mentioned that completely accurate translation is almost impossible. This is true even when the translation is close, as in Diep Rivier, by the Afrikaans poet Eugene Marais.

The first two lines translate so well into English, as does most of the poem, that the rhyme is preserved without much contortion of language, though the metre is not.

O diep rivier, o donker stroom

Hoe lank het ek gewag, how lank gedroom

could be translated as:

O deep river, o dark stream

How long did I wait, how long did I dream

The translation is close, but not exactly the same.

When I encounter a fine translated poem, I strive where possible to read the original, provided it is in Latin or one of the Romance languages I have some little knowledge of, to check how accurate is appears to be.

Where my knowledge of the language is limited or non-existent I rely entirely on the translator, underlining the responsibility translators have to produce work that reflects the original as closely as possible.











Two poetry readings, one country

The David Krut bookstore on Jan Smuts is an intimate setting, and the venue was full to overflowing when I attended on Saturday afternoon September 30 one of the bookstore’s Word Art at 151 events.

This was the launch of Phillipa Yaa de Villiers’ volume “ice cream headache in my bone”.

Keorapetse Kgositsile, Myesha Jenkins and other poets that had inspired Philippa had come at her invitation to read their poems. To quote her Facebook page, the event featured “the poems that made me want to write: (Red Song Keorapetse Kgositsile), the poems that hold my hand and remind me to fight (Memorial Myesha Jenkins) the poems that keep me company on dark and lonely nights (Heritage Day and Inside these Walls by Sarah Godsell and Vangi Gantsho), the poems that remind me of the wealth of life (My Grandmother’s Hymn by Mthunzikazi Mbungwana).

I had never heard either Kgositsile or Jenkins or any of the other, young, poets mentioned read before, and I was impressed, as I was too by some of the verse of the other poets, but I had come specifically to hear Philippa because I had (and still have) her book to review. I made no notes, and this is unfortunate, not least because she is eloquent on the subject of verse.

At the second event, Verse/Vers, the venue wasn’t quite as full, which is a pity. Featured was a tribute to Uys Krige, with poems read in Spanish and Portuguese by Jose Domingos, and French, Afrikaans and English, by actor Grethe Fox. Grethe also conducted, as it were the readings and guitar accompaniment, and ensured the whole thing went off smoothly. After this, three Afrikaans poets read their own work, with Grethe again performing the English translations.

A striking difference between the two events was that in the Yaa de Villiers Word Art event, most of the poetry was in English, whether the poets were mother-tongue speakers of an indigenous language or not. The choice of English for poetry, a language encrusted with the spoils of conquest, still squeezing out small languages, and itself threatened with deracination by its role as international medium of communication, intrigues me. Granted, writers such as Nabokov and Conrad both used English to good effect, and Nabokov’s use of language is poetic in a sense. But I know of no major poet who has not chosen the intimacy of the mother-tongue, though writers of an earlier time like Milton did write some poems in Latin, the literary and academic language for hundreds of years.

Perhaps English is like Latin, destined to undergo radical geographic change that renders the English we now speak archaic. Anyway, it our great privilege in this modern, globalised era to be exposed to literature in foreign languages, translated or understood through formal teaching. For me, closer to home, discovering Afrikaans poetry was both daunting, because I am not fluent and have to fight sometimes to understand fully, and a revelation of the energy, fluidity and creativity a young language grants its users.

Such creativity was displayed by the four poets who read, Johan Myburg, De Waal Venter, Rene´ Bohnen, and Corne´ Coetzee.

During her reading, Corne´ Coetzee was overcome by emotion and couldn’t finish reading her own poem on the murder-rape of two young children. This is the first time I have witnessed such emotion: the writing of the poem usually establishes some distance between the poet and the subject matter. Here the poet reprised the feelings about this almost unspeakable event that had led her to write the poem in the first place. And as I write, “Almost unspeakable,” it strikes me that the poet must speak it, that the burden must be borne.

While language differentiated the two events at David Krut, what was common to both is the poets’ modernity and focus on the local. In English or in Afrikaans, South Africa of the here and now gave birth to this verse. In the Afrikaans poetry, South Africa is a place both beautiful and repulsive, urban, gritty, and inescapable. There is no longing for an imagined pastoral past.

For example, here is a small taste of the Afrikaans poetry, from Rene´ Bohnen:

hierdie hoer is my bruid, my blydskap en my babel sy is
‘n roggelrooi gedig op ‘n sebra se lyntjiesrug in haar
innige hande hou sy bosse staalpapawers en haar dye
glinster goud by elke skemer snelwegbrug


this whore is my bride, my blessing and my babel she is
a rattle-red rhyme on zebras’ black and white lines in her
intimate hands she holds posies of steel poppies and her
thighs glisten golden at the freeway crossings


I have received a volume of poems from my friend in Grahamstown, Harry Owen. It’s called The Cull and I am frustrated that I cannot yet read it. I want to devote all my attention to it, and that is my excuse for not having reviewed it. I owe reviews to other poets as well, and the excuse remains the same.

I promise that I have not lost interest in the blog. The problem is, as Wordsworth wrote:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

But then he probably had a trust fund.





New Poetry from Modjaji

Sharing the thrill of chancing on a new poem that immediately and directly strikes home is one of the reasons I started this blog. So it is with a new slim volume of verse by Grahamstown poet Marike Beyers. I opened up the book at random and came across this:


she admired


people who lived

outside of words


the way they were

alive in ways

she could not be


Some of us will recognise the rueful honesty.

I will review the rest of the volume in more depth, probably in the coming week.

Marike’s book is titled “how to open the door”, and is one of three volumes of poetry by Modjaji Books that have been received for review. Watch this space


A little love verse from the Middle Ages

Okay, so I promised to review South African poetry on this site. This is a tangent. I apologize. I fell in love with this verse from the Carmina Burana when I first read it many years ago. The Latin rhymes, the English version doesn’t and is something of a transliteration, though it preserves the meaning well.

Ama me fideliter,

fidem meam nota:

de corde totaliter

et ex mente tota,

sum presentialiter

absens in remota.

Quisquis amat taliter

volvitur in rota.


Love me faithfully,

Mark how I trust you:

with all my heart

and with all my mind.

I am with you

even when I am far away.

Whoever loves as I do

Is turned on the wheel.

(Translation from Liner Notes to EMI Record, William Mann, 1965)

The verse is one of three from the second poem of the three Primo Vere (In Springtime) poems of the Carmina Burana that were set to music by Carl Orff in the 1930s. The 24 poems Orff set to music were written anonymously in the Middle Ages, probably by members of the clergy. The musical treatment is beautiful, so much so that I think that the meaning of the lyrics may be overlooked.

Take this verse, which could be the standard, generic love poem of any age. Except for the last line. The first seven lines speak of ardour. The eighth reveals the obsessiveness of the poet’s love, and the anguish of true passion, which we have come to identify as Romantic love. Passionate love is not gentle, as many singers and poets have observed in the intervening centuries, it has an element of torture. The surprise of the sudden turn in sentiment at the end makes it feel marvelously modern.