Poetry Potion 2013.04 The Language Issue by Black Letter Media

ISSN 2304-8107

the language issue

2013 | 04 print quarterly number four www.poetrypotion.com

Thanks to Nhamo Rupare, Ntsako Mabunda and Rolland Motangu for the front cover translations.

ISSN 2304-8107 editor & publisher duduzile zamantungwa mabaso zamantungwa@poetrypotion.com graphic design & layout Black Letter Media (Pty) Ltd

Queries www.poetrypotion.com info@poetrypotion.com PO Box 94004 Yeoville, 2143 Johannesburg, South Africa Published by Black Letter Media (Pty) Ltd Tel: +27 11 966 8061 Fax: 086 606 1565 www.blackletterm.com Poetry Potion is a trademark of Black Letter Media (Pty) Ltd ÂŠ Black Letter Media & www.poetrypotion.com. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievable system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopying or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright owners, the poets and Black Letter Media (Pty) Ltd. All poets retain the rights to their own. Any copying or sharing of this work for financial gain is infringement of copyright.

Contents poet muse 8 BW Vilakazi poet profile 10 Bernabe Laye poetry 17 Treasure Mndeni Ngobese 1 Incazelo yokuZazi Moses Mtileni Ntlangu wa Ririmi Raymupats 2 Rungamutauro Motion of Poetry 2 Tsoga q&a 30 Vivek Narayanan poetry 41 Charl Landsberg 4 Words Made Real Vicky Tsiluma 4 This thing called language Chad Brevis 46 Fiction Not For Children Mathapelo Thafeng 48 Breathing Footprints q&a 50 Sabitha TP contributors 62 submission guidelines 64

“Some of us – poets are not exactly poets. We live sometimes – beyond the word.” ~ Wole Soyinka

poet muse Ezinkomponi ngoba ngimamatheka njalo ngikhombisa nokwenama, ngihlabelela nemphimbo, nom’ ungifik’ emgodini ngaphansi kwezinganeko zamatsh’ aluhlaz’ omhlaba sewuthi nginjengnsika Yon’ engezwa nabuhlungu

BW Vilakazi poet (1906 - 1947)

Born in the same year of the Bambatha revolt against poll-taxes, BW’s full name was Bambatha Wallet Vilakazi, until the first name was changed to Benedict while he was a student at the Catholic Mariannhill mission in the 1920s. B.W.’s fist collection of poetry, Inkondlo kaZulu was published by Wits University Press in 1935 where he was Bantu Languages Assistant. It was the first book of Zulu poems to be published. Amal’eZulu was published ten years alter, also by Wits Press. BW was the first African to receive a doctorate in literature. He chose to write in Zulu. He was distinguishd for his innovative use and adaptation of izibongo. He used symbols and images that were culture-specific yet modern. He was highly respected by his contemporaries such as HIE Dhlomo

poet profile

Bernabé Laye “Écrire Une dreniére fois L’état de la blessure Lambeaux de honte et d’opprobre” from Requiem for Murdered Country 10

here’s a Rumi quote that I really like, “The wound is the place where the light enters.”

For many, that light is poetry. When wounded and seeking reprieve, poetry can ease the painful and soothe the festering. Bernabé Laye, a doctor and a poet, is someone who knows something about the potion that is poetry. I had he delight of meeting and talking to him about his poetry at the 17th Poetry Africa festival in Durban. Laye has published numerous poetry books with evocative titles, including his 1981 collection Nostalgie des jours qui passent, Les Sentiers de Liberté which was published in 1986, Requiem pour un pays assassiné (Requiem for a Murdered Country) which was first released in 1999 and later made available in a bilingual edition of both French and English in 2008 and Poèmes à l’Absente published in 2010, among others. In 2010, he received the Emile Nelligan prize for all his poetic work. Born in Porto Novo in Benin in 1941, Laye has juggled poetry and medicine for most of his life. After reading the novel, Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton, “I closed the book, overwhelmed, as if I had just had an epiphany…” he says. “I told to myself- that’s what needs to be done, writing in a simple and uncluttered language, letting the music of the words carry the ardour of the feelings, translating the fragility of the existences and the distress at the heart of the human being.” But there was a bit of a battle with his family because they wanted him to study. “I was fifteen, my father said, ‘Your uncle is a doctor, he changes cars every two years. He’s married to the most beautiful woman in country so I want you to be a doctor.’” His father told him that writing was not a job for a black man. To honour the wishes of his parents, he gave more privilege to the studies. Many of us have dealt with the difficulty of trying to explain the idea of a writing career to our parents. But Laye kept on writing and later, actually, found that medicine influenced his writing. For Laye medicine and poetry became one and the same.

Practicing medicine even had an influence on how he write. He found that his voice started to have more compassion giving his work a certain sound and feel that made his poetry more accessible. He feels that without medicine he wouldn’t become a compassionate poet. “As a doctor, I was working with people. I could see how they were suffering. Every single day people would come in[to the hospital], some would die, some would become healthy again. It wasn’t really far from poetry. I could feel the words because I was [surrounded by] human suffering everyday.”

insert poem A poet is only a poet because she identifies as one, because she writes poems and shares them. But there’s is nothing more affirming that having ones work put in print and sent out into the world for all kinds of different people to enjoy. After years, dedicated to his patients, Laye finally had the chance to share his poetry with the world. The first collection, Nostalgie des jours qui passent, was a reflective set of poems published in 1981. And with his first book, did he hope for fame and fortune? “The first book was like the book of my childhood,” says Laye. “All the emotions, all the dreams, all the illusions... I wanted to write something out of innocence.” The debut collection was something he could show his father to demonstrate that even poets could “change careers and get pretty women too,” Laye laughs. “I never really thought about fame or success but what I wanted was for a lot of people to read it. There wasn’t much of an agenda but just the thought that I was getting the chance to publish my first book.” Towards the end of the book, he showed his intent to publish another collection by stating that his next book would be - Requiem pour un pays assassiné (Requiem for a Murdered Country). “But I hadn’t even written a single line yet. So the first book was an innocent space where I could dream.” It is true that when one finishes their first book they suddenly feel inspired and encouraged. You know for sure that you can write and complete a full book and so you get

ready for the next book. But every so often, one gets struck by that infamous writer’s block. Many writers have different ways of deal and approach that. And for Laye, “It happens but that happens mostly when writing novels because it is a longer process.” Whether or not the writer’s block is in your mind, is real or not, how you choose to deal with it is what will make the difference. Laye takes writer’s block as part of the process and says that the silence, the lack of words could also be a message that the writer needs to hear. “I need to tolerate that moment. I need to sit at this chair as if I’m writing even if I’m quiet without words, just staring at the page. That silence will bring up ideas later. It may take a week or a month. I don’t feel like I’m done because nothing is coming. I feel like this is a prelude of what is about to come.” Found this response to be really telling of the kind of many that Bernabé Laye is. Always a smile on his face, very patient. I don’t know if this is what poetry and medicine does to a person if it’s just aage. Getting wiser. Waited for his interpreter Rene to arrive before the interview, we tried to communicate, him with his broken English tolerated my non-existent French. There’s is a certain deliberateness to his moves, to how he speaks and reads his poems. Each word, every line is caressed and loved. Even if you don’t understand French, his reading pulls you into the poem. Thanks to the work of translation, Requiem for a Murdered Country (Requiem pour un pays assassiné), is a bilingual publication. This collection is described as “a love song, a hymn, a hymn to revive the memory and celebrate a bruised land”.

“I am telling you of a country Small Without scope nor panache And with millions of mouths MIllions of mouths…” “Je vous parle d’un pays Petit Sans envergure et sans panache 13

Avec des millions de bouches Des millions de bouches…” The collection could also be a cry and a longing for a forgotten country. His home country Benin, perhaps?

At the source There was a country under the Tropics A country which lies down An an insult fallen from the sky A country which also spreads out As a skin Breathlessly stretched A country which at times rises up As a fist bursting out of the ocean Perhaps. While translation can bridge gaps, it also brings to the fore that there’s a divide between Franco-phone and Anglophone African poets. Because of the device of colonialism there’s a separation in African between the Latin, Francophone and Anglophone countries within literature. Certainly for me, there is very little of Beninese writers, Cameroonian writers or writers from Senegal, DRC and many other French-speaking countries in Africa. Without translation there’d be no access to these different worlds. But sometimes translation can be a miss, when you read a something and feel like the translator missed something or one word feels awkward. Translation of poetry is a work of trans-creation and isn’t easy. For Laye translation has been a great experience, “I’m very fortunate because the people I work with are very talented. So part of the process isn’t just sending the book. I read the poems to them so the can see how I carry myself, feel the emotion so that they can take all of that with them and then work on the translations. So when I read the English

translation I feel that it’s still me [my voice].” One can definitely hear his voice, even in the English translations, that compassionate, deliberate way of phrasing words is ever present. Laye is now in his sixties. He has had two beautiful careers and after many years, he’s retired as a doctor who consults from time to time. This gives him more time to write, travel, share his work on stages such as Poetry Africa. You’d think he’d be ready to just relax at home but he says he’s not done. “I have two ambitions,” he says. “I’m praying for a long life. I’ve seen so many things I’d like to share with the world. I’m working on new projects, a collection of poems, another novel - I have three unfinished novels because the poetry collection would take over.” He looks at me and smiles, “There’s more to come.”

poetry Language is wine upon the lips. - Virginia Woolf

Treasure Mndeni Ngobese This is a meditative poem, which is more of a prayer. The title can be literally translated as â&#x20AC;?About Finding your Identityâ&#x20AC;?. This poem is about self-realisation and identity and how many of us are searching for identity through various religions.

Incazelo yokuZazi Mina sengizakwenza njengoba zazishilo izazi, Izazi, zona ezathi:â&#x20AC;?Wo, qhubeka ngoNgobeseâ&#x20AC;?. Zona ezathi, angiyosilandela isibongo sami Nangoba yiso sona esingichazayo. Yiso ngaso ngiyakuzifumana, Yiso ngaso ngiyakuzazi.

Moses Mtileni The poem celebrates the Xitsonga language and culture - its idioms, proverbs, folklores, and clan praise songs. It starts off with the lines...”It is the collation of phrases and sentences / the juxtapositioned web of stanzas and verses / a folktale and a riddle, a proverb and an idiom”. And concludes with the lines ‘Xitsonga is no insignificant as a house sheltering Vutsonga” (the culture).

Ntlangu wa Ririmi I mpfangano wa swivulwa ni swivulwana, I mphasano wa tindzima ni tindzimana, Ntsheketo ni ntshayito, xivuriso ni xivulavulelo: Mpfundla wo chava malebvu ya nâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;wanghala, Na vhimbhamkhwana wa bubu-xamkhwamatsheketa, Manyike wo venga vana a rhandza makondlo swilo swa mincila. Tshayi xo gi xo gi: swigingi swa ku kandza ka musi etshurini. Tshayi xo famba vusiku hinkwabyo: nhweti erendzweni hi nguva ya wona. Tshayi xo famba ematini: nhlampfi yi hlambelaka yi khanela mati hi nguva ya mpfula. Milenge ya khongholoti yi tiya hi swingwavila swa dzana, Hambi wo famba enkoveni lundza ri ta vonaka, Ana tingahinkwaseyo a nga na nhloto. I ku khoma nyarhi hi rimhondzo! I ntsheketo wa mintsheketo leyi tsheketekaka, I xivuriso xa swivuriso swa mbulavulo wa vavuri lava vuriseke, Nhlanga leyi tameleke tinhlavutelo ni tinhlamuselo, Ta swihundla ni swikhundla swa tshimbu ra nyimba na tinyimba: Va ka mafula hi xivuri va tshika nyundzu, Va ka ncila-a-va-ololi loko u olola wu ta tshoveka, Va ka masiya yi govile yi govela vurhena, Rixaka ni tinxaka leswi simekiweke ehenhla ka

nkoka wa vuxaka, Nyamatsi, Nâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;wanati, na Nkomati, Mugwena, Dzumba na Humba. Vukalanga, nhlave na nhlengweni misava ya vakokwana, Hi luleka na Save hi kongoma eka Magudunkanyini, Hi ya pfuxa Magigwana Jambane xa Mavone Khoseni. Xitsonga a hi xintsongo loko hi tsongola eka xona swo tsokombela! Xitsonga a hi xintsongo tanihi ntsonga lowu rhurheleke vutsonga! Kutani hi nga pfumeleri Xitsonga xi tswongiwa mongo hi ndhongho ku sala marhambu!

Raymupats Rungamutauro is a mix of Shona sweet words praising the joy of using indigenous languages throughout Africa.

Rungamutauro Ndandandama pandanzwa hurungo wowako mutauro, Kepenenzverwa, kutsetsa semhamba yamambo, Iko kurunga nzeve semunyu weparuware. Taura neni tinzwe ako mashoko ndakateerera Kunyorovera kwezwi sendakateerera rwiyo, Umbori murudzii iwe! Serwako ndaruda, dada nerwako rurimi, Idadiso yewenyu musha Piringisho yamashoko, asi mutauro ndaunzwa Runga wako mutauro, worega kuzevezera Shaura nezwi riri pamusoro, vanzwe mhembedzo yowako mutauro Rungamutaro!

Motion of Poetry The poem reflects on the need for the youth to wake up. It encourages them to realise that it is within themselves to make a better world and building a great generation by beginning to fight inferiority and start believing in their inner strength and truth.

Tsoga Tsoga! Ke neng o ntse, o ntse o boga? Tsoga! Ke neng o didimetse, o palelwa go bua? Nako e fitlhile. Nnake, kgaitsadi, morwarre – kgale re eme. Phuta mabogo e fedile, teme e rarolotswe. Dikgang ntletse – ntletse,tsebe ga e na sekhurumelo. Go kua mosi – mmutla o rotha madi. Tsoga! Ema ka maoto o ntshe kgara. Tsoga!Emisa tlhogo motsamaisa sechaba. Tsoga! Tsoga!

Ikitse! Gore o mang. Se kgope oa wa, oa palelwa ke go ema. Lefatshe la go metsa – Legae le go latlhegetswe. Tsoga! Atlarela ditoro tsa gago. Tsoga! O tsene ka kgoro e yang lefatsheng la katlego. Morwarre – Kgaitsadi – Nnake – Ngwanamme,

Tsoga! Tsoga! Tsoga! Se tshabe, tsela e go letile. Kana Tselane a ka betsa belerutwane, Botsa Dafita le Goliate. Tsoga! O tshwane le basimanyana ba Masarwa ba ile kgotleng, E re ba fitlha, ba ntshe se se mo mafatlheng. Kgosi e tshogile, e ba amogele Moruleng. Tsoga! Wena pitse e mebalabala, Ee otlollang diphuka go ka fofa. Tsoga! Nnake, Tsoga!

q&a

Vivek Narayanan reason: here is your longed-for horizon, let all eat all, let my backside face the sky, head follow the zagging riverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s course: I shall give my throne away. from Life and Times of Mr S 30

ne thing I’ve come to realise about some of the best poets out in the world is that they are well-read and welltravelled. Having lived in more that one country, they have so much more experience to sample from. Vivek Narayanan, is one such poet. He has lived in Zambia, South Africa, India and the United States of America. Vivek studied cultural anthropology and creative writing in the USA at the University of Kwazulu Nat and is currently a fellow at the Radcliffe Institute, Harvard University. While many of us have become comfortable with the obvious, the easy and the recognisable, Vivek experiments with form and language all the time and his next book of poems will demonstrate that spectacularly. I met Vivek, at the 17th Poetry Africa where he read some of his poetry and also performed as part of Insurrections, a muso-poetic collaboration of South African and Indian poets and musicians and includes poets such as Malika Ndlovu, Ari Sitas and musicians such as Neo Muyanga and Pritam Ghoshal. Between sharing great poetry, launching our previous edition and dancing to local Hip Hop and Reggae at Cool Runnings, I found that Vivek, like most of the poets on this year’s Poetry Africa, was a very cool cat. At first he appears reserved but that’s just really because he’s a thoughtful man. Doesn’t need to be the centre of attention or the loudest. When we sat down talk, I didn’t know what to expect and below is a what transpired. Poetry Potion: How has living in four different countries, which, though English-speaking, have very different cultures, textures and ways of being English affected your poetry? Vivek Narayanan: I think what it probably did is make me a bit of a chameleon; in the sense that I’m code-switching all the time. I’ve learnt to do that more naturally. And so I think that it made these different strands in my poetry because I’ve been influenced by poetry from these different traditions. I don’t feel [as if I] belong to any one national tradition. The first anthology of poetry I picked up was when was 14 or so. It was Poems from Black Africa by Wole Soyinka. It was a landmark anthology of poetry that came out in the 70s.

The second one, was a book of contemporary Indian English poetry. Both of these [anthologies] were very influential for me in terms of just making me realise that I could write - which hadn’t occurred to me before. I didn’t feel it as any conflict, I felt myself holding allegiance to both and felt myself included in both books. So I think what you might find, and it’s hard for me to look at my work, but what you might find is that what other people see as double [identity] is just natural for me to be going back and forth between the different styles. PP: Is it ever a conscious decision to move between the identities? Do you decide that you’re going to be a little bit more Zambian today or does it just happen organically. VN: It’s not conscious, I’m not in control of it but I’m aware of it when it happens... Usually I’m aware of it when it happens. PP: Mr S (Life and Times of Mr S) is a very interesting collection because it has a character, you are following this character through. Are you Mr S? VN: Well Mr S was a characterised as a kind of linguistic alterego. Not so much like a different person or a psychological alter-ego but linguistic in the sense that he has a different relationship to language. He uses language in a different way. When I sat down to write these poems there was this other way of relating to language that was inside me but kind of suppressed. Probably linking to all of my insecurities about language as well. I think it’s become a bit like that here (SA), in India [language is] a very hierarchical thing, so if you speak English well, you’re higher up the hierarchy. It becomes a way in which people suss each other out as well. If you don’t speak English very well then you get noticed, in a context like that, as some one who’s probably from a rural background. PP: And your currency drops VN: Yes, so the effect that has is that, you grow up with this kind of anxiety of wanting to speak [English] the proper way. You feel insecure about how you’re speaking it because so much is placed on speaking it properly. But then maybe there’s another side of you that relates to it [the English

language] in a different way. So Mr S became a way to have that other side of me come out and feel free to do strange things with the language. PP: Your process, then, for writing Mr S must have been different. Most collections are poems written over the years then collected into a book. But Mr S is a very contained kind of collection with a beginning middle and end. VM: What happened was that, I had been reading a book called “All About H. Hatterr” by a man called GV Desani published in the 1940s in England. Desani was an Indian who grew up in Nairobi but there’s very little known about the African part of his biography. At some point, he came to England and then later moved to India and then the States. He wrote this book with this kind of parodic Indian voice, like that “Mind Your Language” kind of thing, but he pushed that a little further. It is edgy and very erudite [with] all kinds of things going on. It’s like the Indian version of “black face” but underneath that “black face” there’s something more. It’s not a subservient kind of thing. I had been reading the book [while writing] and when you’re reading, you know, your voice gets influenced. I had a very formal method of writing a poem and had just started with experimenting with repetition. Without realising it this voice started coming into that. I didn’t know where this voice was coming from, but I knew that every time I started to write with this particular method, this voice would come out. So then I wrote ten poems and thought maybe there’s something here. I wrote some more then thought this could be a book. It wasn’t all planned at the beginning, it started out with a certain method that suddenly triggered this voice in me. This voice was, I realise now, all the strange things like he speaks in a strange English. I’m an atheist, but Mr S writes prayers and I like concrete poetry but Mr S is very abstract sometimes. So in a way, I think it became a sort of avenue for me to break the rules.

“prayers for fishes, tossed each to each in translucent glue prayers for the hairier beasts, roistering in rolling tundra if we are to conceive a world, let us conceive it - at all risk 33

one...”

(Short Prayer to the Economy)

PP: How long have you been back in India? VN: I moved back to India in 2000 and then a year ago moved to the States. This was the longest time I’d lived in India because up to that point, I did my schooling in Zambia and college in the States. But we went back every year to India and my parents kind of raised me as an Indian in Zambia. PP: Do you speak Tamil? VN: I speak Tamil at home PP: Do you write in it? VN: I write in it now. I learnt the script when I was a child and I’ve had to work [with it] recently. I had this Indian identity given to me by my parents but I didn’t complete that, really, till I moved to India in 2000 and it was unplanned. PP: We have 11 official languages in SA but most of us write in English because of our education system (and many other reasons). I’m one of those people, I can speak Zulu and I can write it quite decently but to say I’m going to write Zulu poetry, I’m afraid of doing something wrong. So there’s always a bit of a wrangling between the different languages, the purists... Have you ever had to encounter that where other people question why you don’t write your poetry in Tamil? VN: Yes, especially in India because there’s been a kind of language culture war going on. If you go somewhere it’s all about “oh you English poets”, and they (the English poets) do end up dominating because English is at the top of things. I don’t think it’s a very productive way to do it. What’s more interesting to me is to push the languages to where they cross-pollinate. Like in South African poetry, and also in hip hop, [where] you now have people who are rapping in Zulu or in English but with all these words and registers coming in (from other languages). That’s so much

more exciting than to see these as separate universe. Think about how [the different languages] can all be put together. PP: And experiment with the languages and see what you can do with the various languages. VN: And I think translation needs to be a really active part of that. Literary translation has really failed in India and that’s part of what keeps the languages separate. PP: Have you experienced writer’s block? If yes, how do you deal with it? VN: Well, I think there are many different kinds of writer’s block. You know some of it can be quite profound. It can be important for a poet to not speak or to be silent. And you have a lot of great poets who for whatever reason they feel they need to just take a break. They’ve been talking too much and they need to step back and take a break. So that’s one kind. We should be able to respect the writer’s block because maybe it’s because something is working itself out. Writers [tend to] have their greatest bursts of [creativity] when they are very young and when they are very old. When their very young, it’s because they don’t really know that their stuff is good or bad and then their old it’s because they don’t care anymore. [What happens] in the middle is that you become very judgemental of your own work and you become anxious. So that [type of writer’s block is] different because that is something that you have to struggle with. And I think a lot of people, especially poets because poetry is not taken very seriously; [they find it] tough to keep writing poetry [after their] twenties. That’s when you have to be able to push at it and push to stay in the grip of things. And push [yourself to keep writing] even though you hate every word you write. Because, obviously, when you get older and you read more you’re going to be more critical of what you write and that’s a good thing. But you have to push beyond that. [This] kind of writer’s block can be addressed really just by rolling up your sleeves and just forcing yourself [to write]. [T]he other kind of

writer’s block , [is] just more profound. PP: From here on, are you working on anything new? VN: I’m working on a third collection of poems. This book of poems is a kind of a trans-creation but might [also] be rewriting. I’m looking at [passages in] the earliest Sanskrit poem which is the Ramayana. I take a passage and then use that to try and make a contemporary poem that can speak to a contemporary audience that might also be arguing with the original. So it’s like somewhere in between translation and writing. It’s also, in a way, [an attempt to] tap into the energy of the old guys. We have multiple languages and rather than getting caught up in which is the right language to write in and which is the wrong one, to try and find ways to use that tension between the languages as a way to open new horizons. PP: And how is that process different from your usual writing process because it involves a lot of reading and research? VN: In a way it solves the problem of writer’s block because. (re-thinks) Well it doesn’t exactly solve it but at least [the writing] becomes more structured. I know what passage I’m going to get to next, so, in a way it’s a good way to keep myself going. I think that’s the beautiful thing about translation - you get to learn from somebody. You get to really tap into that power of that poet. I would love to read more translations from Zulu. I think that South African poets who write in English should be working in translation. Ari [Sitas’] poem, “Insurrection of the Cow” has this image of a cow’s horn stabbing the rain. This may be something deep in the Zulu culture but when it comes to English it’s so fresh because it’s creating a new way of looking at it. PP: It’s creating a new metaphor VN: Yes. So writing in English doesn’t mean having to [stick to the rules]. We have to actually bend the language to our needs. Mr S is part of it and I’m teaching myself to do that.

PP: How important then is it for poets to engage with each other in spaces like this, Poetry Africa and other spaces? VN: Part of what the poets have to do for each other and themselves is to not just be involved in your own stuff [but get involved in each other’s work]. With Khulile Nxumalo’s work, I was telling him that what I find so moving about his work is that a lot of the poems bring in other people’s work or kind of names and tributes and so on. So through the fabric of the poem he’s actually linking a community together. I think journals also do that.

Vivek’s first book is Universal Beach (2006) and Life and Times of Mr S (2011)

since 2007, Poetry Potion has published hundreds of poets:

Abigail George, Aboo Hansa, Africanchild, Afrikavrou, Alexander Kane, Allan Kolski Horwitz, Aloysius Gonzaga, Alyssa, Anathi Nish Tiyo, Andiswa Onke Maqutu, Angelluv, Annique Le Roux, Anthea De Bruyn, Ashraf Booley, Aubrey Ngwenya, Ayabulela Tutuse, Ayodeji Morakinyo, Azola Dayile, Babalwa “Lady B” Kona, Bakhulule Maluleka, Bandung Poet Mau Mau, Blou Leask, Bongani Ngcobo, Brendan Hepburn, Bruce Cooper, Bulumko Ka Nyamezele (BeLUMKO), Busisiwe Khanyile, Carla Chait, Carol Ronaldson, Chad Brevis, Charl Landsberg, Chisanga Kabinga, Chris Lawrence, Christine Msibi, CJ, Clifton Gachagua, Clinton De Wee, Cornelius Jones, Dafa, Daniel Bogogolela, Danieluv, Darshana Nagar, David Wa Mahlaamela, Diliza L Madikiza, Dina Koumatse, Dineo Ramokgopa, Dinitah, Ebele Mogo, Elizabeth Wurz, Elle, Ephraim Zuva, Esosa Omo-Usoh, Esther Van Der Vyver, Exavario Dafa, Fasaha Mshairi (HotnyHaze), Fathima Dawood, Felix Erasmus, Fezekile Futhwa, Galapagos, Gavintonks, Genna Gardini, Gert Hanekom, Glodina Gordon, Gnosis, Grace Nkosi, Guy Richie, Hajo Isa, Hape Mokhele, Hector Kunene, Heletia Smit, Icebound, Indigolunarh, Itumeleng, Jaco Jacobs, Jaco Vd Westhuizen, Jared A. Carnie, Jazz Africa, Jerome Cornelius, Jolyn Phillips, Juliejacqui, Kabelo Mashishi, Kabelo Mofokeng, Keileng Junior, Keletso Thobega, Kella Kills, Kgosietsile Dinthloane, Khanyo Mjamba, Khomotjo Manthata, Kofi Baako Pe, Lazola Pambo, Lethlogonolo Mashego, Liya Bona, Lucas “Pilgrim” Serei, Lwazi Prolific, M Jay Mutle, M Rantoa, M.B. Gama, Madlu Saladi, Mafika Gwala, Maikutlo, Mandi Poefficient, Mandy Mitchell, Mapitsane Maila, Masechaba Letsela, Masingita Masiya, Matshepo Thafeng, Mbuyiseni Oswald Mtshali, Mbuzobuciko, Mduduzi Benedict Gama, Mercy Dhliwayo, Miriam Dube, Mis2ly, Miss Devine, Modise, Mohamed Sheikh Abdiaziz, Monique Barnard, Moonviolets, Morula Wa Kutukgolo, Moses Mtileni, Moses Shimo Seletisha, Mpho Khosi, Mpho Malepa, Mr Christyle, Muriel Moafrika Mokgathi, Mwape Mumba, Mzilikazi, Nabi Thlalefang, Nancy Morkel, Napo Masheane, Natural_Mystic, Ndaba Sibanda, Ndumiso Sikhakhane, Neo Shameyaa Molefe, Nick Purdon, Noni, Ntanjana Sisipho, Nyakale Mokgosi, Obakeng, Ononiwu Fortune, Page Ngwenya, Pamella Dlungwane, Philile Ntuli, Phillip Taute, Phoenix J, Poet Mau Mau, Poeticus, Prince Shapiro, Quaz, Rantoloko ‘The Truth’ Molokoane, Raymond Mupatapanja, Reitumetse Johnson, Reitumetse Sefolo, Rick Thomas, Righteous The Common Man, Roché Koster, Roland Ndu Akpe, Rose, Rudene Watt, Sabelo Wa Ka Methula, Saleeha Idrees Bamjee, Samuel Azubuike Duru, Samuel Ndango, Sarah Lauzon, Saurell Boyers, Sehlohlo Piet Rampai, Sekgokgo Tshesane, Sihle Ntuli, Similo Gobingca, Simiso Slashfire Sokhela, Simphiwe Phukwane, Sinovuyo Nkonki, Sithembile Matyobeni, Siyanda Kwaza, Siza Nkosi, Sonny, Soul Child, Soulful Flyer, Sphe Artee, Stella Ashworth, Sun Sword, Tariq Toffa, Thabang Waba Moabi, Thabiso Matupa, Thabo Jijana, The Black Poet, The Skeleton Coast, Tinashe Muchuri, Tommy Dennis, Toni Stuart, Tonye Willie-Pepple, Torry Msimango, Tosin Otitoju, Tracy Swain, Tshegofatso Monaisa, Uduak Robert, Ugwu Stanislaus Nnachetam, Vanessa Cardui, Vangi Gantsho, Verity Maud, Vic Mahlangu, Vuyokazi S Yonke, Walt Geldenhuys, Xorpoodleking, Yolanda Arroyo-Pizarro, Yoliswa Mogale, Yorric Watterott, Yoshira Marbel, Zamantungwa, Zhaunine Petersen, Zwesh Fi Kush... want your name on this list? SUBMIT YOUR POEMS!

poetry Use what language you will, you can never say anything but what you are. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Charl Landsberg

Words Made Real that is how we did it how we shaped our pain made it tangible made it real... more real than before words let us take that sorrow and the abuse that we suffered and made those things whole so terribly apparent for a moment we cowered afraid of what we did our horrors made flesh our demons incarnated but then we took those things and smashed them because fear made hard is fragile compared to our hopes and love

Vicky Tsiluma

This thing called language Language was meant for communication not classification Yet the status quo continues to prosper They say Embrace diversification shun monopolization Yet we frown upon racism but accommodate ethnicity Town-born, town-bred - You’re not native enough Country-born, country-bred - You’re not industrialized enough This thing called discrimination takes shape in our different forms of communication yet we continue to fan the fires of victimization Language is meant for communication Shun classification When in confusion seek clarification Don’t let idiosyncrasies blur your view of unification

Chad Brevis

Fiction Not For Children To lose yourself in the mirth of a tale does not necessarily truths unveil. But in searching for truths, the astute reader finds that reality eludes the confines of the mind. To search for the real in the freedom of thought is a childish thing bringing to fruition, nought. But to search for a truth in discursive illusions shows a fine eye for the fictions preclusionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. What we seek for in a tale is not so much reality, what we attain through a tale is the inkling of a truth. When we skim the dark pools of our discursive canons, without knowing, we force ourselves to remain ignorant and aloof. But beyond the dusty old pages of Greece, and the lofty ideals of a philosophers peace, a collective consciousness takes blossom and grows and makes relevant for today the canons of old.

Mathapelo Thafeng

Breathing Footprints Africa is a game. Mistaken for a name. The aim is to darken. The frame. And blame it on the Anglican. In the same manner. That brought fame. To the Jamaicans. Naming and Jamming. Speaking of thicker flames. Asking. Who did you say. Your name was. Are you Susanna. Are you that old sweet song. That remains in my heart. I am every minute of everyday That falls on the ground. I am the sun shining. I the bum. I am every life. Worth living. I am every laugh. That skips and dance. Doing a twang. Silencing reality. Realizing Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve played. This game. Ever since I can remember

q&a

Sabitha TP Or, it can also be written that poetry, that moody bedraggled somnambulist misses often the gritty gist of itemised lists and the wistfulness of unread catalogues and the beauty of paper-clips as she, the crabby insomniac walks out on your page for a brazen nightly stroll, leaving you not even a cigarette to puff out your rage.

from Poems to Father 50

t first, Sabitha TP is a passionate, vibrant person especially when talking about the politics that matter to her. I really could’ve chatted with her all day about poetry, politics and where she’s from Kerala, a state in the south west region of India had there been no schedule. Before meeting Sabitha, I didn’t know about her work or her background. It is this background rich with culture politics and activism that has shaped her into an inspired and inspiring poet. Talking to her is a lesson in culture, in politics in finding ones passion and pursuing it to the best of ones ability. Sabitha and I chatted while she was in Durban for the 17th Poetry Africa. Poetry Potion: You write in both Malayalam and English. Is it always a conscious choice which language you will write in? Sabitha TP: I think the poems choose their own language. For example, when I’m using certain folk illusions from Kerala or the collective memory of the people of Kerala or when I need to use dialect, in those cases, those poems come to me in Malayalam. I used to write a lot more in Malayalam than I do now. I still publish poems in Malayalam. I have a poem for Michael Jackson. Now that, strangely, came to me in Malayalam and not in English. Even though it is dealing with stuff that anybody can access, everybody’s memory, everybody’s popular memory, it came to me in Malayalam because it’s also about “the whiplashes raining on the back of his ancestors”. It talks about how MJ walks on this tip-toe because his moves become precise because of the way his ancestors were treated. And he’s afraid of growing up so his voice remains thin and his skin goes white. So there’s also the fear of the dark of the black. So I talk about various kinds of fears of his which make him who he is. And to escape from those fears, he moon-walks from himself. That’s how the poem ends. I also have a song which is in Malayalam and is a duet between a man and woman - the Bharani song a feminist call. The festival of Bharani is the festival to the goddess. It’s a festival celebrating the goddess’ yearly menstrual cycle. The goddess menstruates only once a year and when she menstruates is when this festival happens. The songs sung by the devotees for the festival are these songs which are abusive, they talk about “shake your breast goddess, show

us your bum goddess”. So this is some kind of abusive and sensual erotic songs, so that [poem] I could not write in English. I follow the pattern of the song, written in rhyme, it can [also] be sung. There was no way I could do that in English. That poem chose Malayalam to happen in. Where as the Michael Jackson poem, I think I was conscious in my choice to write it in Malayalam because I wanted to evoke a certain collective memory of slavery, of a certain kind of fear of colour, etc. It would be more natural to write it in English but I chose to write it in Malayalam because I wanted the people to make that connection between our history in Kerala and this popular Black American History. PP: Speaking about history, talk to me about Kerala. STP: Kerala had the first elected communist government in the world. In 1956, we had our first elections and it was the communist party that came to power and they stayed in power for about eighteen years. There had been military coups and the like [in other parts of the world] but this was a democratically elected communist government and it’s not just about elections actually because the history of communist politics in Kerala is very interesting. It wasn’t just about welfare politics but it was also about a cultural revolution. So there were conscious movements, one was to popularise science and fight superstition - Kerala was full of superstition at that point. It was very segregated in terms of castes, there were lower castes and upper castes, very much like racism. Many of the castes had their own extremely superstitious rituals which were oppressive. The communist government, with the politics of welfare, health care along with all that stuff, also had a cultural revolution to fight superstition, to fight caste segregation, to popularise science and to translate literature from the Soviet Union into Malayalam. There was this massive propaganda which was funded by the Soviet Union. In the Soviet Union there was actually the Malayalam Press, in Moscow. The Raduga Press actually had it’s on Malayalam division, where we had these fantastic translations, from Russian into Malayalam. We grew up on a diet of Maxim Gorky and all this wonderful propagandist children’s literature about the poor rising up against the rich, against the fat men who are the rich people.

PP: How did this cultural revolution inspire you as a young person growing up in such a rich political, cultural environment? STP: I had no choice but to be part of that movement from a very young age because my father, K. Satchidanandan, is a very well known Malayalam poet, one of the most imminent modernist poets in India. He translates his work into English so he’s bilingual. Actually, he transcreates his work in English. He was never a party member but he was part of the leftist movement and the cultural revolution. Some of my earliest memories are of me travelling with him into the most remote villages in Kerala, carrying cans of Eisenstein films to show villagers. My father and a group of other poets would travel together into the remote villages where they would perform poetry with a message, poetry which is propagandist in some sense. So in that sense it was organic for me. I grew up with it. It completely informs the politics of my own poems. I’m passionately committed to equal rights and welfare politics. PP: Your father has clearly influenced you quite a lot. Is there any pressure though, when you grow up with a father who’s in the same space that you now occupy, to live up to him? STP: Very much, very much. PP: Do you show him your work? STP: Actually, he is my first reader. He’s the first person I actually read to and show a poem when I’ve written. The moment I write it, I email it to him. We don’t live together anymore so I email it or I phone and say “dad, I have a new poem and I read it out to him”. I even wake him up at the three in the morning if I think it’s a particularly good poem. But there has been an extreme anxiety of influence in my case. I have been extremely pressured. It took me forever, really, so I’m a “late” poet, in a sense. I started writing when I was very very young. I wrote my first poem at the age of twelve called The God Of Poverty and it was about my experiences

of travelling with him into this villages. I got published at fifteen by the person who had pioneered modernism in Kerala, Ayyapa Paniker. He was a fantastic, amazing poet and an amazing mentor to young poets and like my father, he was also an English professor. But Paniker was a better mentor for me because my father was too close to the skin to be a mentor. I was very anxious and there was a lot of pressure when my first poems were published. The people of Kerala can be quite gossipy and terrible, it’s a very fraught kind of cultural space and they said “her father must be writing her poems for her.” I actually stopped publishing after a while. I had published about ten poems by the age of twenty then I made the conscious decision not to publish anymore because I just could not handle the gossip and these accusations that my father was writing my poems for me. In Kerala, almost everybody reads poetry, every literate person reads poetry so there was this huge pressure from the public. They expected me to write on the one hand, on the other, they felt like how could I not be a writer with a father like that. “Maybe he’s writing them”. I resumed only when I was about 26/27. By then we had also moved to Dehli when my father was invited to become the Director of the National Academy of Letters in India. I could deal with it better because in Dehli I didn’t have to encounter the public in Kerala which was accusatory. That was really good from me. It was really liberating and then I found my own voice. And it was a struggle, so I am a late bloomer in the sense that there was a seven year gap. In terms of my relationship with my father, a senior poet, I would say he has been, on the one hand, lovely to have. I wouldn’t be me if it wasn’t for him. My politics, my commitment to writing, all of that has been completely influenced by him. But on the other hand, I would call him both a protective shade and a shadow. It took me a long time to grow out of the shadow.

Just as the rays of the sun touch your third eye awake, father, the stars gleam as so many suns for me; the night is my fever, my hermetic solitude, my blank 54

page, my churning, well-being, being. Fragment I: Day, Night (Poems to Father) PP: You speak a lot about your father being bilingual and translating his own poems, do you translate your own work? STP: Yes, I do. Like the Michael Jackson poem, I translated it. It’s not a great translation because the poem works better in Malayalam. But I do translate some of my work. Some of the poems travel beautifully into English some of them don’t apparently the Michael Jackson poem worked. That is what people tell me PP: But you felt that it didn’t work? STP: Yeah I thought the Malayalam version was better. But the words that can’t be translated, I just let them be. PP: Have you had other people translating you own work? STP: I have this very political poem which is part of the movement in India. It was written in Malayalam because I wanted it published the next day. And it’s easier to just send that to the editor for the next issue. It was very important to get that published [immediately] because it was for a doctor who worked with the forest people of Central India. He had been accused of being a Maoist; completely wrongly implicated in crimes. He had been in jail for over a year [at the time] and the movement was picking up because there was a hearing coming up for his bail. That poem had to come then to build up that kind of pressure. I wrote it in Malayalam, sent it to the publisher, it came out the day before the bail hearing. After the poem came out, he was released in bail. There was political pressure to have it published right then... [Later] I did my own translation and put it up on Facebook. I have poet friends; a friend of mine [then] did a beautiful short version of it in English. It’s a poem of about twenty one lines and he did a version which was only six lines. Getting only the essence of it. My father, without telling me, did a version of it and also put it up in the comments thread and a

another writer friend did a third translation. I ended up with four versions to work with. From the four I put together a fifth translation. So it was a collaborative translation of sorts. PP: That experiment is actually exciting because sometimes you will read a translation and feel like a better word could’ve been used or a better image. STP: Very exciting, I found that some people had actually gotten the essence of the poem better than I did. So you’re not necessarily your own best translator. PP: Many writers want to use their poetry to push some sort of change but often they aren’t sure if poems can ever achieve that. But this poem says to me it’s possible to push people towards change. How, would you say, the process of writing this type of poem is different from writing any other poem? STP: I don’t think literature has ever changed the world. I don’t think it can change the world. But without literature, the world will not change. It’s a very strange kind of relationship literature has with politics. Literature is part of cultural politics, it can change thought patterns. It contributes to that but not as a primary mover. I’ll never say that a work of literature can actually change the world but it is one of the players. Poetry can effect change as a part of the larger cultural politics. And sometimes there is just no other way but to respond [through poetry]. For example, when the terrible genocide of Muslims happened in India in 2002, the whole world was aghast obviously, and there was no way for us writers not to write about it. Not to write from the point of view of the victim. So politics actually make you want to do something, make you want to respond and there’s an immediacy of that need. There’s an immediate need to respond and there’s an immediate need for it to be out there. To be read by people, to be discussed, to be talked about. It may be just one drop in the large ocean of the movement but you feel the pressure to add your drop. PP: And it makes a difference to someone, gives someone

else a different perspective? STP: Yes. PP: Let’s talk about Insurrections*. How did you come to be part of this collaboration? And as a poet with musicians, how has it been to be in that space? STP: It’s very interesting how it came about. Sumangala’s [Damodaran] in conversation with Ari [Sitas] started talking about [creating] a certain kind of cultural politics and they decided to do a project together. I think there was some talk about it having to be a political collaboration. It couldn’t be anything but a very political collaboration [because of] the similarity of the movements in India and Africa against corporate miners. Marikana [had just] happened during [their discussion], so there [were] people protesting against the governments in both countries for collaborating with corporate miners. In India, there’s this huge movement picking up in central India and eastern India. A lot of the forest land is being sold to miners, multinationals; the land is being taken away from us. The forest land doesn’t belong to anyone but the forest people. And it’s common land, it’s common property. The government doesn’t own the bloody land so it’s not for them to sell it. And they have ben selling it to mine companies and evicting the forest people who have been living there for centuries. They are the first people of the land. They have been there for thousands of years and they are in absolute, abject poverty. There have been no welfare programmes for them, no special schools, nothing to actually bring them up. There has also been no attempt to preserve their culture so on the one hand they are stopped from being part of the mainstream because they are not given access to education, on their other hand even their culture is not preserved. Instead they are being killed. And who’s killing them? The Indian army. The Indian army and the police have been colluding with governments in those places, they’ve been colluding with the Indian central government and with the miners and actually killing them. I’m sure that Ari and Sumangala talked about the similarities in these kind of land politics and that’s how the movement got moving. Sumangala and I have known each other for a

very long time. In fact, she was the Economics professor at the same varsity I studied in. She’s the granddaughter of the very first communist chief minister of Kerala. So she’s been raised up in the party politics. She knew my politics, knew my father and she knew my poetry. She said, “you have to come and join the project”. And, of course, it had to be a musical collaboration. And I knew that Vivek [Narayanan] does performance poetry. He has a great ability to work with sound and he had lived in Africa for many years. So Vivek and I were the poets from India and Sumangala brought in musicians; Ari brought in South African musicians, Neo Muyanga joined in. It was amazing how we developed the project. It all happened over the internet. From South Africa the only person I knew and had met before many times was Ari. It’s only after coming here (for Poetry Africa ) that we’ve all met for the first time. It’s amazing how a project of this scale, this amazing ambitious scale, how this could happen long distance. We were constantly emailing each other. Sumangala would tell me to pare down a poem, make it more singable. We left some of the decisions to Ari since he was with the musicians. I have verses for three songs in the album and the third one is in Malayalam. Sumangala had already composed the melody and she sent it to me to write verses for the melody. It was this an amazingly interesting experience of working with music that’s already set and having poems which they gave music to. It was this wonderful interactive, multi-way project. We were all in different continents. It was actually crazy. It’s been pure magic. PP: I’m looking forward to it. STP: It’s been pure magic. PP: Let’s talk about writer’s block, how do you deal with it? STP: First of all I’m not a prolific poet. I don’t write very much. On average, I probably write something like 7 to 10 poems a year of which I may think three are not publishable. That’s not very much, I’m not a prolific poet. Unlike my father who has 27 collections of poetry. He’s 67 years old now. He’s amazing actually. He can just write like that. I can’t do that. I need to be in a certain head space in order to write. So

yes, writer’s block, for me it’s a huge thing to deal with. Also because I don’t keep up with my writing in that kind of steady pace so I lose it once in a while. I have actually developed certain strategies in order to deal with it. So I translate other people’s work. That brings me back to writing. That brings me back to language and to thinking about the poetic language. Translation has been a wonderful writers block breaker for me. PP: That’s an interesting strategy. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to who uses translation to deal with a writers block STP: I also read a lot of poetry. I read everything. Not anything, of course, I’m very discerning and I’m very demanding as a reader. I want a certain kind of poetry. I read literature from all over the world. Thanks to my father I grew up on a diet of international poetry, so I’ve read African poetry from the time I was ten. I was exposed to Dennis Brutus and Senghor and Saro Wiwa. I’ve [also] grown up on Latin American poetry - Neruda and a whole lot of them. Also a lot of anti-Nazi poetry like Paul Celan, Nelly Sachs, Anna Akhmatova from Russia. So I’ve grown up on international poetry not just in English but wonderful translations from other languages. So reading is another writer’s block breaker.

* Insurrections – featuring poets and ethnomusicologists from India and South Africa. The Insurrections ensemble will be performed by musicians Sumangala Damodaran (India), Jürgen Brauninger (South Africa), Neo Muyanga (South Africa), Pritam Ghoshal (India), Brydon Bolton (South Africa), Bettina Schouw (South Africa), Sazi Dlamini (South Africa) and Paki Peloeole (South Africa). And poets Ari Sitas (South Africa), Malika Ndlovu (South Africa), Sabitha TP (India) and Vivek Narayanan (India).

Stockists

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contributors Treasure Mndeni Ngobese is poet, writer, self-taught artist and a student-teacher. He lives in the East Rand of Johannesburg. He has attended writing workshops from Community Life Network and has been published Black Letter Media. More of his poetry is available in various sites including www.cln.org.za and many others. Vicky Tsiluma is a freelance writer and poet. She started reciting poetry at twelve years of age and wrote her first poem when she was thirteen. She is a regular contributor at PoetrySoup.com Moses Mtileni is the author of two collections of poetry, “U ya va rungula” and “When the Moon Goes to Rest”. His poetry has appeared in Timbila, Loocha, Shopsteward, Sowetan and in anthologies “Voyages” and “Pegasus” (cyberwit.net, India) Raymond Mupatapanja, aka Raymupats, is a journalist, poet, humanitarian, actor, model and musician born in Zimbabwe. He lives in South Africa were he works with different youth organisations mentoring young adults, he also works with soviet clothing. Mosimanegape Omolemo Moate a.k.a Motion Of

Poetry is a writer of fiction, storyteller of true events and a poet of reflection. His writing is composed mainly in Setswana, English and other vernaculars. Charl Landsberg is a South African poet, musician, writer, and artist who focuses on LGBTQI issues as well as issues surrounding other marginalized peoples. His work comments on civil and human rights issues and criticizes systems of abuse, bigotry, discrimination, and ignorance. Chad Brevis is a Masters student of English Literature at The University of the Western Cape with training in Ethics and Linguistics. He worked on a full dissertation on taboo topics in literature. He is currently working on his PhD in Linguistics on “Freedom of Speech: Economic and Political Disapprobation and the Rise of ‘Hacktivism’ Culture. During his undergraduate and Honours years, he worked as a tutor for the Department of Religion and Theology. He currently tutors in the Department of English. Chad also works as a staff writer for the Cape Town based cultural hip hop magazine IAM Magazine. Matshepo Thafeng is a writer who gets lost in words. If it were up to her, she would spend the whole day analysing each and every word. She has been writing since the ages of 14 and received a certificate of merit for the best English student in grade 8. When she writes, she gets into a trance .She is a former Market Theatre Laboratory student and holds BA degree in communication science from UNISA, but none of her work has been published yet.

submission guidelines • Poetry Potion is an online poetry journal with poetry, reviews and interviews published daily or weekly online as well as a quarterly print edition. • All print editions are themed, a call to submit is published quarterly online. • www.poetrypotion.com - the website - has an open-ended call for submissions for the A Poem A Day challenge as well as other poems that don’t fit into the print edition theme. • We do not pay for poems published because Poetry Potion is a non-profit publication. We hope to change that in the near future. • We do not publish individual collections of poetry, please refer to our website for poetry publishers if you have a manuscript and want to be published. • All copyright remains with the poet.

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