McGregor Poetry 2016: Die lewende woord in die Damfiteater

Saterdag

Alles was wel

            alles was woes

                        alles was wilder as die wildtuin

                                    alles was warm.

                                                vrekwarm.

Die damfiteater

            die malle maling van mense

                        die son die son die son

                                    intens wakker onder die bloedrooi son

                                                in die rooi kleigat.

Umhlaba. In die skoot van die aarde

spring die seuns van die Mothertongue Project

en open die dag met twee Afrika tromme.

Toe kom Gaireyah Fredericks met Slamse verse uit die hart vannie Kaap

die Kaap wat Hollands is

waar sy ons vra om vrede in os vyste te vind

en haar ma se naaldwerkboksie te ruik

Die wildste van almal was op die hittigste van die dag

Kaalvoet op die perskepitte stroop sy haar klere af

haar lyf beskryf met haar skryfsels wat sy grawe uit die klei

Lara Kirsten drink ink

sy word sienderoë kleiner soos sy wegsmelt in die hitte

ek sien haar deur ‘n waas

my wange en knieë aan die brand.

Sondag

Net een item in die dam. Diana Ferris

Mengelmoes kardoes moes toe koelte toe. Die Dam was te warm. Vroeg al net na tien reeds veels te warm. Diana die Diva was al vroeg benoud. “Kan ons nie maar dabo inni koelte sit nie?”

Suenel en ek kyk na mekaar. Stoele? Sitplek?

Ja. kom ons doenit. Almal help banke en stoele opdra. Kussings en komberse. Ons vorm ‘n lang sirkel en settel. Lieflik koel oppi klam grond tussen peule en grassies. 

Gaireyah sommer kaalvoet Kaaps want haar skoene en outfit pas nie by haar verse nie. Sy het diep in my hart gekruip met haar eerlikheid. 

Mengelmoes het hystoe gekom onner die boom. Daar was selfs iewers ‘n vers oor boem in al sy vorms! 

Elke digter het hulle tyd gevat. En toe kom die cherry on top. Diana. Ontroerend met verse oor haar pa wat krygsgevangene was in Poland/ Duitsland in die 2de Wereldoorlog. Haar verse oor hom en sy latere stryd met drank en siekte het my so herinner dat ek nog oor my Pa moet skryf. Terwyl sy lees rol my trane ongehinderd. Teen die tyd sit ek op ‘n draadstoel nadat Mr Mengelmoes my opgehelp het van die nat gras, amper te styf om orent te kom. So toe rol die trane net. Ek sien Suenel sit ook en snik onder haar donkerblou hoedrand.. ‘n Katarsis. Ons luister. Vasgevang in die web van swaarkry en lag. Die krag van klank. Eerlike goed. Seer goed. Die oom van Robertson sit later met sy gesig in sy hande. Eina goed. Opstaan en aangaan goed, want so se Gaireyah, die toekoms, os toekoms is bright.

Later wil niemand loop nie. Bamboesina, ‘n kind-vrou met Frida Kalo oë raak begeesterd aan die praat oor ons wortels wat almal verstrengeld is. Hier rond, hou sy aan. Op hierdie plek. Wie is ek en ek is jy en jy is ek soort van goed. Diana en die digters knik haar toe. Ja kind, jy’s reg. Hou aan grawe en soek. jy’s op die regte spoor. Na twaalf, dubbeld die amptelike tyd, loop die laaste mense drentelend weg. Almal traag om te gaan. Boeke word geteken, adresse geruil. Sal ons mekaar weer sien? Waarskynlik nie. Maar die wortels sal bly groei.

Hester van der Walt

Some lines at Temenos 26-28 August 2016

The pond reflects its

opinion of the poet who

dreams like a collie.

Unlock those gates, throw

open these, drink deeply, airs,

the mountainous blues.

The chapel bell, still,

thoughtful, light pending to day –

embrace, kiss noses.

Six o’clock – last stars,

brave light – dawn treads, uncovers

her eiderdown smile.

His bass voice distant

as drumming, as surf singing

to its Atlantic.

And which choir, and what

instruments, wear harmonies

to match the weavers.

Soft light warms my eye

as I write to angels, these

miracles of faith.

Sunbird pairs repair

the emerald morning light, jink

to butterfly flags.

The drowning mole fell

in the willow weeping pond –

the old monk frowned too.

Weaver industry

is light music – divine voice

and golden angels.

Hadeda rhyming

slang, Muscovy harmonies,

tarantal applause.

Hugh Hodge

Coming soon... Rustum Kozain

We are dekighted to welcome Rustum back to our village. A child of the Winelands, he grew up in Paarl, before studying English. Aftre travelling to the USA as a Fullbright Scholar, he returned to lecture at UCT. He has won the Ingrid Jonker and Olive Schreiner Prizes for Poetry, and insists that writing poetry is a sincere, necessary matter and no casual affair. His honesty, perceptiveness and clarity, allied to his skilful use of language make for exhilarating reading.

We are looking forward to hearing his words once again!

READING HEANEY’S “NERTHUS”

for S. Ben-Tov

Afternoon sun of Ohio’s August
daubs the classroom with early rust.

Eight of us bristle, apprenticed
to nail the world to its sentence.

Poet’s poet, our teacher hands us
a copy each of Heaney’s ‘Nerthus’.

A chill creeps in me as she reads.
From Heaney-soil, that concrete dark,

an unseen ash-fork staked in bog:
my first portents of winter north.

*

We have all heard the name
but not Heaney’s Great Chain of Verbs.

We stall. And do not fathom
the quiet mesh of kesh and loaning

that lull and push of middle-voice
that verb say

the long-grained never static
of the poem’s non-finite aesthetic

© 2005, Rustum Kozain
From: This Carting Life

Coming soon... Frank Malaba

Poetry in McGregor is delighted to welcome Frank Malaba to our village this year. A native of Zimbabwe, Frank has been a vocal advocate for Gay Rights in Africa. He was formerly a producer of Radio Today Outspoken, the only LGBTI Talk show in Africa. Frank is a courageous voice, and is admirably suited to our theme for 2016, Voices on Fire. We hope his voice will be widely heard this coming weekend!

Nameless… For now

My heart rains in smithereens like red confetti falling

From the crown of cumulonimbus heights.

Its shredded pieces fall in dizzy circles while

Trying to find the perfect landing on uneven ground.

My eyes are ajar like shutters to a vacant, soulless castle.

I’m not dead. I’m not alive. I’m existing.

A solid presence in an otherwise empty space.

But do not be fooled…
I am powerful.

Somewhere deep within this thick dark mass

Is a volcano ticking and awaiting

The perfect moment to exhale new lava.

Waiting to create continents of thought

Populated by change and reason.

I am a heart still beating after it has been cut out from the living.
I am the African Violet leaf that lives on

After being ripped from the mother plant.
I am the singing voice of an orphaned child.

Coming soon... Kobus Moolman

Poetry in McGregor is honoured and privileged to welcome award winning writer Kobus Moolman to this year’s event. Winner of among others The Ingrid Jonker Prize for Poetry, The Sol Plaatje European Union Award for Poetry and the Glenna Luschei Award for African Poetry, Kobus is a much sought after voice at Poetry gatherings around the world. Alonside four volumes of poetry , he has also written a collection of radio plays, and still finds time to lecture creative writing at UKZN. We are so looking forward to your being here!

SURVIVAL                                                                                

We who accept survival as our password

accept incompleteness as our blessing.

We who dress in blindness and in faith

do not know the colour of our palms

nor the weight of our feet upon the water.

We who have dust in our mouths all day

have stones on our tongues instead of songs.

We who quench fire with fire all night

know that wings are not the only ladders

to the dark, that heavy wood swims too

in the tide of the wind.

We who accept survival

accept survival as our curse.

Coming soon... Dan Wylie

Dan Wylie is another making his first visit to our Poetry Weekend. A Professor AT Rhodes University, Dan has published widely on a range of subjects. He is particularly interested in the legendary Zulu leader, Shaka, and is considered a leading figure on the man. He is also interested in African literature, particularly Southern African, spirituality and poetry, and ecological issues in poetry. A published poet, we are delighted to welcome Dan to our little village!

SHALL I AT LEAST PUT MY LANDS IN ORDER?

Forgive me: I am all mange and forgetfulness.
Burrs in the coat of too much thinking, too much pain.
My bony hands have grown rigid with grasping the right.
What is morality if it is not safeguarded by the voracious?
What force would justice have were it not
clawed from the carapace of scorpions?

But unforeseen birdcalls are troubling this anaesthetic age.
Am I to be condemned for holding on to what little I have?
Am I to be overthrown by what I have so long sustained?
Who commands the city that has swarmed up beneath me?
What conspiracies burble in those terracotta cells?

I am certain now of nothing but the persistence of stupidity.
This is the gift of the tall view.
We are drying out in the thin winter sun;
the dry ratchet of the barbet
winds down to some obscure apocalypse.
This is what history is: a throne
from which one cannot descend.
I send my bark echoing amongst the mopanes,
again, and again.
I will entertain no regrets.
Dan Wylie

Coming soon... Elisa Galgut

Dr Elisa Galgut is a senior lecturer in the Department of Philosophy at UCT, and is particularly interested in the philosophy of literature. Her passion for poetry resulted in her completing a masters degree in creative writing and she is also a published poet. Her combination of interests make for thoughtful and well-crafted poetry as evidenced in her debut collection:

 The Attribute of Poetry offers a feast of thought and image. Elisa Galgut’s poetry seems both new and old, fresh in its ingenuity and mature in the wisdom of its deliberations. In these ‘incantations of creation’ (to borrow a line from one of the poems), a quiet yet powerful voice speaks to us; and we cannot but be moved by it. – David Medalie

We welcome Elisa to our special weekend of poetry in our beautiful village and look forward to her sharing her words with us..

Coming soon... Next Step Dance and First Step Ballet

These two groups are the brainchildren of McGregor resident, Mary Corpe. A former professional dancer in the UK, Mary has lived in McGregor for around four years and has nurtured these children as if they were her own. The next Step Company has developed into a highly capable and creative group of young dancers, and have dazzled audiences both locally and nationally with their skills. The Ballet group is a more recent addition, and these local children have grown by leaps and bounds since Mary’s initiative started a few years ago. Both groups deserve all their accolades for their outstanding commitment and hard work. And as for Mary- well she is just a superstar! Come and support local talent at its very best! You will not be disappointed!

Coming soon... Sally-Ann Murray

We are delighted to welcome Sally-Ann back to McGregor for her third visit. Sally is currently a Professor of English at Stellenbosch and is a widely published poet and author. Several of her poetry collections are recipients of awards and her debut novel, Small Moving Parts, won the MNET Literary Award and the Herman Charles Bosman Prize. Her poetry is smart and perceptive, written with care and creativity. She draws heavily on her own experiences, and is honest in all she creates. Humour is a frequent guest in her writing, and her wry observations of the human condition are delivered with- sometimes- brutal honesty. A delightful person with genuine warmth, she is a valued partner of our gathering, and we are delighted to welcome her back after she had to miss the 2015 event because of work pressure. Thanks for your support Sally- we are so looking forward to seeing you again!

Coming soon... Ha Man and Joke Debaere

These two performers bring a welth of skill and talent to this show. South African born Ha Man, Francois Le Roux, is an accomplished cellest, keyboard player, singer, flautist and dancer. Belgian Joke Debaereis an actress and performance poet. 

Their performances together have been described as both memorable and emotive. They are two highly regarded talents combining to capture moments in sounds and words that emanate from and reach the heart and mind in new and often deep, resonant ways. 

Coming soon... Harry Owen

Harry is a born and raised Englishman, who took the plunge and moved to the Eastern Cape in 2008. It is a move he has absolutely no regrets about. He is a widely respected and experienced performer, teacher and workshop facilitator. He host a monthly Open Mic session in Grahamstown called Reddits Poetry. He writes with” honesty, directness and humour about the world. His poetry has been described as “ ..poetry at its finest: luscious, almost tangible imagery, sharpened into perfect form” A handful of small stones for Bromley

I.

The milkwood moults,
melts its crisp brown leaves
into a terracotta husk.

From the thatch eves,
a thousand pearls of rain
string themselves
past the kitchen window.

This evening a huge armoured beetle,
spiky and black,
parks himself like a jeep
on the wall next to my bedside lamp.
I prise him, reluctant, into a glass
and repatriate him gently
to the African night.

Sunrise
and a silver-grey plastic bucket stands,
inverted like a helmet, on the wooden deck,
a Star Wars alien stranded
within the tropical greenery
of a real and natural world.

Surges of swarming ants clot the morning air.
From a high branch and crimson-faced with effort,
a barbet brays his rude challenge to the world.

Bromley is our smiling Ridgeback with a rubber face:
his mouth, when he sees you, draws back
into a broad, ingratiating grin,
his eyebrows sauntering about independently
like a couple of rambling caterpillars.

II.

Here, two branches of the big coral tree,
loosened by high winds while we were away,
hang like swords of Damocles over the rock garden.
Silent and camouflaged as leopards they lurk,
waiting for some unsuspecting prey
to pass beneath.

Equation:

a warm summer evening
four or five half-empty wine bottles
three people
an insistent scrizzling of invisible insects
one angular Ridgeback sprawled out on the stoep =

deepest contentment

Back briefly at Chintsa
and our evening geckoes line up
near the wall light
like the staff of Downton Abbey.

A genuflecting ocean,
shadows of palm fronds on the deck,
a rich sizzle of frying mushrooms

and one leggy hound,
no longer lost,
spread out on the carpet
in a jacuzzi of sunlight.

The ocean is rolling pewter,
the morning a hot cloud compress.

Down the road to the village
a skinny fig sapling begins
its possessive seduction of a coral tree

whose tears already drip
like rain onto the tar.

This is Harry’s second visit to McGregor Poetry- do not miss the chance to hear this wonderful man.