Met jou klere aan

Skooltyd moes ons 'n internskap doen.
Vir 'n week was ek by Protea Boekhuis in Hatfield. In die oggende het ek met die bus stad toe gery, my Discman in my sak en die CD van die dag gereed vir die uur wat ons deur Pretoria sou ry. By die werk het ek nie juis veel gedoen nie. Ek het in 'n hoekie gesit en manuskripte gelees, meer kan ek nie onthou nie.

Een van die vrouens wat daar gewerk het het dié sin teen haar muur vasgeplak, en ek sal dit nooit vergeet nie: vir julle skryf ek susters, wat in die liefde geval het, wat gebreek het soos borde.

Nou, meer as 10 jaar later, kry ek die hele gedig van Sarina Dönges aanlyn:

My arme susters

vir julle skryf ek, susters,

wat in die liefde geval het

wat gebreek het soos borde

of dunner, soos Venesiese glas

julle wat die snykant

van nagdinge ken

aan julle deure sal kom klop

die woordgeleerdes en fariseërs

uitgeswel soos somervrugte, immuun

teen die steekvlieë van die sonde.

julle wat gesmul het

aan gesteelde pere

sal snags in Mosesmandjies lê

op 'n meer van Valiums

die lakens sal julle vasrank

soos plante 'n vermoeide huis.

julle wie se minnaars wortelskiet

langs hulle geil vrouens,

julle sal opeens weet, liewe susters,

(julle lywe uitgeskud soos meelsakke)

dat julle bloot 'n bestanddeel was

nooit met liefde gesuurdeeg nie;

julle was peuselkos

aptytwekkers voor 'n maaltyd

ag, my arme susters.

I feel like I'm just treading water

Not Waving but Drowning
BY STEVIE SMITH 1902–1971

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Do the hard times come to a screeching halt at some point? Do things start making sense and all of a sudden you know, you just know, what it is you are doing?

These are restless nights, man. And not just for me. I am not restless in isolation. All around me there is fear mongering towards a generation so unsure of ourselves that we are deer in the headlights, unable to move in any direction even when we know the fucking 18-wheeler is barreling down the highway at top speed and won't stop to spare us. From all sides come the nagging questions about what our plans are, what we intend on doing with our lives, whilst at the same time being told that there are no jobs, that by the time we retire the retirement fund will be empty, global warming will have killed off all the polar bears, China will take over and disasters upon disasters upon disasters will happen. And this is not even considering the small catastrophes that happen at 4 PM on an ordinary Wednesday, the ones where the unthinkable occurs to the ones we love. 

So I am in a constant state of panic about not being able to manage it all, about unsuccessfully multitasking, about where to come 2016. For now there is a plan, for the next 6 months there are barely hours left to breathe. But come 2016, the Fates are reinventing my wheel for what feels like the umpteenth time. 

Logic and experience tell me it will be ok. Everything will be ok. You can't plan this, you have to leave some things in the hands of whatever comes next. Logic and experience tell me I can handle all of it. But still. At times I wish I was made of lesser stuff, that I needed someone besides myself to tell me it will all be ok, that I could remain in one place for the sake of one person, that life within boundaries would be my choice. Instead, an anxiety about wanting more than walls and 9-to-5s and a daily dullness challenges the fear I have of being much too far out all my life and not waving but drowning.

You got some me in you

Jy stuur foto's van skape voor julle twee weer op pad is. Hoe anders ons verhouding is in vergelyking met julle s'n. Vandag het ek met G. gesels oor ouers, oor wat die ander helfte gemis het deur nie daar te wees nie, watse verskil dit maak as mens saam deur die vuur moet stap. Ek verlang na jou, na die lang pad, na kos soos wat net jy dit kan maak, na tye met die hondjies, na die reuk van daai grys-blou truitjie van jou.

Ek wil voorberei vir die gesprek met die sielkundige, die voorbereiding vir 'n nog groter/ander gesprek einde van die maand, ek wil notas maak in my dagboek.

Toe kry ek dié, van 'n tyd net nadat ek weer terug was in die land waar selfs die wolke in gelid marsjeer:

Vanaand maak ek my bed
met 'n laken wat jy oor
12 000 km
2 vliegtuie
3 treine
en 'n taxi gebring het.
Dit is niks besonders nie,
vaal blou. Dis al.
Maar selfs deur my
verstopte neus
(verkoue in die somer? waar op Gods aarde?)
ruik ek hy is van ver,
van die tuiste af. 

Ek is lief vir jou Moomin.

Hazelton

What a lovely day spent walking around the harbour and discussing life.
As I was heading home I noticed everyone walking their dogs, and it made me really miss mine. He has been dead for 3 years already, and yet sometimes I miss his extreme affability and good-naturedness. I miss the thick white hair, the cold black nose and black eyes. I miss the hard skin of his feet and the too-long nails scratching on the wooden floors.

A few years back I impulsively took out Animal Poems (edited by John Hollander), and in it found a poem about an old Cocker Spaniel by Robert Penn Warren that was poignantly beautiful:

Trusty and True

When the tears come I reach out to my mother.
No matter how far away she is, I have never doubted her, never felt alone, never felt like there was an obstacle that I could not face. She is the one to talk me down from the metaphorical ledge.
My mother is magnificent.

Since today is International Women's Day, I thought a bit about practically having been raised solely by impressive women, all with hardships of their own, and all with infinite capacities to love, to share and to support one another.

My Afrikaans grandmother is a very tough nut to crack. She is unyielding, unaffectionate and at times annoyingly unwilling to accept other worldviews beside her own. Then again, she is 86 now, and despite all her flaws she came back when others left. My ouma might fail when it comes to expressing love directly, and yet she tries, in her own way. She multitasks when reading books, she knows how to preserve any kind of fruit, and she can garden like no other. Although I have felt her to be disappointing in her persistence on old ways of thought, it must be crippling to be slipping constantly nearer to dementia. Perhaps when you can't remember if you have eaten it is comforting to remember your own childhood, your deceased husband, the better times of past memories relived in this unmemorable present. As much as her cracks have started showing ever clearer, she has been there, and her tiny, shrunken body crumbles even further when the time for departure arrives. And despite all her mistakes I have no other ouma.

When my ouma went home after a few months of staying with us, our cleaning lady Rosina stepped in. She was a lady in her late 50s/early 60s with patches of white skin that appeared in between the brown. Rosina always arrived dressed very smartly (after having taken the bus and taxi from Shoshanguve for what amounts to two hours if I remember correctly) and she came by twice a week. The highlight was coming home to her mashed potatoes and green beans. When I was still prepubescent she would meet me at the robot and we would walk home together. Rosina must have seen so much of the tiny intricacies and difficulties in our household, and yet I know nothing really of hers. I seem to remember a husband that was no longer present, and her sister's kids playing a role. When I was done with school she retired, and I have not seen her since. Strange (and worthy of closer investigation) how many white children have been raised (in part) by black (or coloured or Indian) women, and then how the children distanced themselves from their caretaker (their surrogate mother even) as soon as they would reach an age where racial division would appear to be socially imperative.

My sister is the fourth impressive woman, even though I think she does not trust her own capabilities at times. Over the years we have had epic fights and disagreements. We have lived separate lives while living in the same house. But she is also the one who drove me around before I had a licence, who let me borrow her ID before I was 18 to get into clubs, who has shared uncomfortable single beds with me whilst travelling, and who has offered advice I actually took. Whereas I will feel brazenly, openly (and often stupidly), my sister has a calmer, more rational demeanor that is hard to shake (although at times I would very much like to shake her until she actually tells me how she feels).

Besides these four admirable women there have been wonderful female friends whose influence I am very grateful for. They are all passionate, intelligent, embracing and I have a great respect for how each of them has faced /is facing the big, unplanned events that make life just a bit harder than it needs to be.

In that spirit, to all the women that have raised me and all the ones that keep enriching my life, I thank you for being phenomenal.

Phenomenal Woman
BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,   
The curl of my lips.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,   
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,   
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.   
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.   
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,   
And the flash of my teeth,   
The swing in my waist,   
And the joy in my feet.   
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,   
They say they still can’t see.   
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,   
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.   
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.   
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,   
The bend of my hair,   
the palm of my hand,   
The need for my care.   
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Light home

Negester en stedelig

Terwyl die Negesterre en die stedeligte witter
in die donker suidelike nagte óm ons skitter,
slaap jy nog weg in nag en swye
langs mos en varings van eertye:
’n see-anemoon waar geel spirale
lig deur water in jou van ’n Oerson daal,
daal in jou slaap; jy roer,
’n vis teen riet en maan se perlemoer;
jy sluimer in ’n tonnel van die kuil –
’n otter in nat holtes nog verskuil;
dan stort jy skielik uit as mens, besitter
van die Negester en stedelig se skitter.
Saans as die rye ligte langs die strate brand
sal jy met wye oë en met kleine hand
vir my bedui en stotterend sê
hoe groot houttolle kabels in diep slote lê;
partymaal sal jy by my tafel neul
om na die sirkus of die mallemeul
te gaan; en vaster om jou groei bioskope,
fabrieke, speurverhale en mynhope;
saans sal die stad se ligte witter
in jou donker siel bly skitter.
Watter kaart of watter ster sal ek jou wys
om veilig deur die grysland heen te reis?
Sal ek van ’n God praat wat verdoem,
van Christus, en die Tien Gebooie noem?
Voorlopig dan, maar onthou altyd
aan jou dade grens ’n ewigheid;
gee sin aan voorgeslagte deur die eeue heen,
besef jy is ’n vegter weer van die begin, alleen;
en mag die Suiderkruis en Negesterre witter
as die stedeligte in jou siel bly skitter.
~ DJ Opperman


Hierdie hemel is nie myne nie, agter wolke sonder einde skuil geen sterre wat vir my iets beteken nie. Hier ken ek nie my pad nie, hier is geen Suiderkruis wat wys waar my plek in die wêreld is nie.


Gedurend die tuisvakansie het ons twee plaas toe gery. Daai eerste aand het ons met tee en komberse buite gaan sit en ons plek tussen die sterre gekry. Ligjare se ligte het oor ons geskyn terwyl die melkweg vir ons ons rigting gewys het. Salig en gelukkig om in daai oomblik met jou te wees het ek geweet dat solank jy by my is, solank hierdie hemel 'n stukkie myne bly, sal ek nie die pad duister raak nie.

Feite

via Die Erfenisstigting on Facebook

Peacock Tail

I start helping out in a crèche today, so this seemed fitting. 

Blue umbrellas

by D. J. Enright

'The thing that makes a blue umbrella with its tail -

how do you call it?' you ask. Poorly and pale

Comes my answer. For all I can call it is peacock.

Now that you go to school, you will learn how we call all sorts of things;

How we mar great works by our mean recital.

You will learn, for instance, that Head Monster is not the gentleman's accepted title;

The blue-tailed eccentrics will be merely peacocks; the dead bird will no longer doze

Off till tomorrow's lark, for the latter has killed him.

The dictionary is opening, the gay umbrellas close.

Oh our mistaken teachers! -

It was not a proper respect for words that we need,

But a decent regard for things, those older creatures and more real.

Later you may even resort to writing verse

To prove the dishonesty of names and their black greed -

To confess your ignorance, to exiate your crime, seeking one spell to

life another curse.

Or you may, more commodiously, spy on your children, busy discoverers,

Without the dubious benefit of rhyme.

Hartklop

My ma stuur vir my poësie uit die moederland.

Grense

My naakte siel wil sonder skrome
in alle eenvoud tot jou gaan,
soos uit diepe slaap ons drome,
soos teen skemerlug die bome
opreik na die bloue maan;

gaan met al sy donker wense,
en die heilige, nooit-gehoorde
dinge sê, waarvoor die mense
huiwer, en wat om die grense
flikker van my duister woorde.

~NP van Wyk Louw

Float

Today the surface invites the quiet observer to

paint it by numbers,

to assign a 6 to the metallic-sheen-parts

and an eleven to those that get glimpses of sunlight. 

Most of it would be covered by a 44, 

hovering somewhere in between navy and Midnight Blue. 

Outer Space streaks (officially colour 414A4C) occur

where the water grates against itself. 

Monet might have added swishes of dirty white 

(my colour seven) 

or swatches ranging from bone to apricot
to the tops of hundreds of restless little waves. 

Some days you can see the bottom of the harbour, 

with water so clear that it doesn't even have a number,

only a change in the 'opacity' of the layer. 

Not today though. 

Today hues fit like puzzle pieces for milliseconds

before the entire wheel has to be reinvented.

Tribute

Rougesang by dood van Mandela

ondergronds het ’n rif geskuif

die aarde struikel

verward swik die son

toe sy asem hom verlaat het in die nag

het die sterre geduisel

want alles is verstrengel

wurgend aan sy dood

sy dood en die dood alleen

ineens is alles droef

asof ons in ’n groot skadu staan

asof glas deur ons breek

asof klip in ons splinter

asof ons gedagtes in fluisterende wanhopige groepe rondvlug

soos assegaaie in die grond bly vassteek

trillend

in Qunu weier die beeste vanoggend om uit die kraal te gaan

by Lusikisiki lê die visse na aan die oppervlakte

in Mvezo maak die korhane geen geluid nie

die gedagte aan Mandela laat ons binnekante knak

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

ons kan selfs nie die mond oopmaak nie

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

om te begin praat oor sy dood om te praat oor sy dade

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

oor sy bloed wat pyl soos ’n luiperd na geregtigheid

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

om te vertel van sy werke, sy sagte ongelooflike krag

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

die lieflike nate van sy blommende vergewende kopbeen

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

die stormram van sy tong

wat toekomste tot ’n verbonde kern wring

ons kan nie reg laat geskied aan Ons Grote

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

ons wil dit nie sien nie

in die voetpaaie, op die sypaadjies, in busse langs die paaie

bondel ons swyend bymekaar, ons die gewones

ons sprinkel ons trane oor hom

ons besprinkel die erflating

van die Vreeslose Kryger wat ons eenmaal regeer het

ons besprinkel die lyk wat gewas moet word

ons besprinkel die geopende bloed van Mandela

ons gewones was hom nie met water nie maar met liedere

met droefheid neem ons sy liggaam

ons was dit, ons bad dit

met hande wat hom liefhet, raak ons aan sy dade

ons gee hom aan, van hand tot hand

hoog bokant ons koppe

die man wat ons van onsself gered het

o singende bloed van die seun van uNosekeni

o palms van Mvezo vol sterre en reën aan die oewers

o arms van Qunu wat ’n land se diepste wonde omhels

die Groot Aanmekaarbinder

niemand se strottehoof kan Mandela se lied end-uit sing nie

niemand ontglans ooit ons Groot Saambinder vir ons nie

niemand oortref hom in morele gesag nie

geen leier is nog ooit só deur sy mense lief gehad nie

hy wat ons beste gesig was

hy wat ons aan onsself teruggegee het

die beliggaming van die wêreld se smagting

na iemand wat omgee

wie se dade onbeskaamd goedheid wou bring

geliefde Mandela, bring seën op ons, jou kinders

laat jou lewe sy vingerafdruk op ons almal laat

dit sal lank duur voordat ons ooit weer ’n mens so edel

iemand so genesend en koppig mooi

so taai van inbors so streng insluitend van beginsel

so elegant en oorrompelend van hart in ons sterflike arms kan hou

– Antjie Krog

(Gebaseer op die weeklaag geskryf vir Moshoeshoe 1, “LITHOKHOKISO tsa Moshoeshoe le tse ling” deur David Cranmer Theko Bereng.)

Maya Angelou also wrote a tribute poem entitled His Day is Done. 

Deurmekaar

Ek besit nogals 'n hele paar digbundels, meestal in Engels. In Duitsland het ek my eie aanmatiging ondersteun deur tweedehandse Penguin digbundels in die U-Bahn te lees. Nie dat ek baie van die gedigte verstaan het nie, dit het eer daaroor te gaan om nie te lyk soos 'n Duister nie, om nie iets in hulle taal, wat tog ook myne is, te lees nie. Duits was oorals, en ek wou wys dat ek iets anders as dit ook kon wees. 

Maar al die gedigte was eeue oud en geskryf deur mans wie se wêrelde nie dieselfde gelyk het soos myne nie. Dit was soos die kunsuitstalling wat ons gister by Fried Contemporary Gallery bygewoon het: ek kon die prag wat ander sien verstaan, maar het self nie gevoel as of dit my besonders geraak het nie. Met kuns wil ek my hande oor die werk laat gly, ek wil elke deel voel en sien en met die macro-zoom-lens van my oog elke besonderheid opneem en nooit vergeet nie. Met gedigte wil ek dieselfde emosionele reaksie hê, ek wil voel hoe woorde oor my lippe vloei en deur my tong gevorm word en hoe klanke by my bly. 

Deesdae hou ek van Danie Marais se woorde, oor wie ek van tevore al geskryf het. Maak seker om na sy digbundel Al is die maan 'n misverstand te kyk. Dalk hou ek van sy gedigte omdat hy 'n paadjie wat vergelykbaar aan my eie is gestap het, en ek op die oomblik moet begin keuses maak oor die Toekoms (met 'n groot 'T' want mens moet altyd bietjie bang bly vir die môre). 

Ma

Ek moes geweet het, Ma,

geweet het ’n mens kan nie wegkom nie,

nooit

van jou eie stem,

van Afrikaans,

of verlange,

of die suburbs,

of niks nie.

Maar ek het probeer.

Ek het gehardloop,

gefokkof,

heen en weer,

Duitsland, rock bottom, en terug;

was elektries van hoop,

vrot van ambisie,

maar die lewe is sekuur

en die hart, Ma, is ‘n sagte teiken.

Ek moet met jou praat, Ma,

want die tyd versand

en alles lek weg na verderf.

Jy moet my vergewe, Ma,

want ek weet nie altyd wat ek doen nie.

Ek is nie goed met my hande of geld of aanvaarding nie.

Ek het jou liefde soms in die gesig geskop –

oor ek die almagtige stilte nooit kon bykom nie,

oor ek in volle beheer van my eie verleentheid moes wees,

oor niks anders binne bereik was nie.

Ek het jou liefde met klippe gegooi, Ma,

maar jy het vir my gekyk soos die see.

Jy weet maar te goed,

hoe ek voor jou betoog en my hande in die lug gooi

soos ‘n ortodokse Jood voor die Klagmuur

elke keer dat ‘n droom in my skoot kom vrek.

Wat gaan ek alles aanrig,

as jou liefde gaan lê?

Soms droom ek

hoe jy jou rug op my draai

om dood te gaan, Ma;

Hoe jy my

soos ‘n sleep, Ma, agter jou aan

skeur. 

Die gedig is nie my eiendom nie. Van sy gedigte is as Engelse vertaling ook hier te lees.  

Hope Tomorrow

I think that in between the adenine, guanine, thymine and cytosine, hope is sequenced into our DNA. It seems we always have the ability to hope for a better tomorrow, to hope for what we cannot possess today, to hope for what we could not achieve in the past.

True, what we hope for changes just as our circumstances do, but there always remains a little something, an esprit de corps that continues rooting when nothing else remains. Perhaps I am wrong and too privileged to have experienced the loss of hope.

No. Even the dying, the disillusioned, the sick and old and suffering, even those in the abyss will cling to "these last strands of man in me". Hopkins writes in Poem 64 (Carrion Comfort)

"I can;

Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. "

I don't know when one would give up hope. If I understood L'Étranger right, all life is senseless, and there is nothing after death. When one accepts this fact, one has two options: kill yourself, right then and there, because essentially life is pointless. Or, alternatively, rage, fight, squeeeeeeze as much life from yours as you can, since we are confined to earth for a specific time and before and after there is nothing. Our souls aren't eternal, just as our bodies aren't - better make the best of the here and now. Better to hope for the best in the here and now?

When I originally wrote this post, I liked this idea of living for the moment. But now I wonder if it is not just some hippie cliché. Sure, make the most of your day and make a point of enjoying your life. I mean, I used to think that as soon as I leave here my life will start. As soon as I am done procrastinating, I will achieve something more meaningful, more important to the world. However, one must plan ahead, pay bills and buy food and spend nights watching brain-dead television series. Not every day is an adventure, not every damn day is filled to the brim with experiences that you will treasure forever. 


I agree with an existentialist worldview because I never had a very strong faith in a godly power. Life and death happen, if there is and afterlife I'll see how it goes then. Perhaps our potential for hope is really the thing that makes us take action in the everyday: we hope for something and we (mostly) know what choices to make in order to get there. 

Re:Stacks

I'd like to see Rives live.

Both videos are courtesy of TED. 

Enjoy.

One art

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- Elizabeth Bishop

The university has started again, so I don't have the time to write myself, but Elizabeth Bishop does it better in any case. 

Distance

I don't know how people have relationships, never mind long-distance ones. 

So this one is for you. 

For you I have slept
Like an arrow in the hall
Pointing towards your wakefulness
In other time zones

- Ondaatje

(I don't know where this quote is from because I just found it in a word document on my computer).

The Laughing Heart

Here is a link where you can watch Tom Waits reading it -  at the end he says "That's a beauty", and I agree.


The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

- Charles Bukowski 

via The Best American Poetry

Congratulations

Today the matrics (Grade 12 in SA) received their exam results. It must be very exciting to find out your marks and if you got a distinction and, if you are going on to a tertiary education, whether or not your marks meet the requirements.

I matriculated in 2006, but because I was at a German school, there was the option to do Abitur, which is the German matric and would add a year to my time at school. My marks in matric were good enough to receive a bursary, so I spend another year at school. In any case, I would not have known what to study.

Somehow, it was always clear to me that after school I would continue my education, that I would go to a university and get a degree and a master's degree and do my doctorate and hopefully be happy with it all. Well, after getting my BA, I am looking quite forward to doing my honours degree ( here, you do a year of honours and then only a year of masters, whereas I know elsewhere in the world you do a two-year masters degree).

But to be honest, I still have no specific idea about where I want my life to head. The last years in school I was not a very happy person because I felt I needed to get away and see the world and experience something else. I just wanted to leave here. After a year away, and after three years at the university, I realised that I still want to leave and jump on planes and drift from place to place, but right now, being here in Pretoria is pretty good. I am fortunate to have a mother who helps me to continue my education, to be able to live in a nice house,  to have one remaining dog at home, to go to the coast during holidays that last for months, to have met people whom I would like to be friends with for a long time, and ultimately, to have  learnt so many new things. I think that although I did not study anything very specific, I have above all learnt to appreciate a more faceted and nuanced view on the world- perhaps I have learnt how to be more open, to be more considerate, to be more questioning and to see myself as rather lucky.

So, to the matrics of 2011, I hope that you choose carefully now, and that, even if sometimes you question your path, you will never have any regrets.

Here is a poem my Robert Frost that I have always liked (especially) for its last two lines:

The Road Not Taken ( 1915)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 

via Bartleby

Writing well

Here is some advice on writing poetry by Charles Simic, a Serbian-American poet, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1990 and Poet Laureate in 2007. I think his advice is applicable to any good writing? When blogging, I am unsure how much one considers one's readership. With smaller blogs it is probably more essential to focus on a specific area and so build up a readership - but with very popular blogs, I wonder if the writers think about what they are posting or if they are just glad 100 000 people are reading it daily. 

Charles Simic on Writing Poetry

A few things to keep in mind while sitting down to write a poem:

1. Don't tell the readers what they already know about life.
2. Don't assume you're the only one in the world who suffers.
3. Some of the greatest poems in the language are sonnets and poems not many lines longer than that, so don't overwrite.
4. The use of images, similes and metaphors make poems concise. Close your eyes, and let your imagination tell you what to do.
5. Say the words you are writing aloud and let your ear decide what word comes next.
6. What you are writing down is a draft that will need additional tinkering, perhaps many months, and even years of tinkering.
7. Remember, a poem is a time machine you are constructing, a vehicle that will allow someone to travel in their own mind, so don't be surprised if it takes a while to get all its engine parts properly working.

I read that everything that is worth doing takes time. I like writing, but I am sure it can be much ameliorated by following some of Simic's advice.

I would like to...

Variation On the Word Sleep
Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.


via Berkeley