did you know that you can taste the burn of willpower on your tongue?

did you know that you can taste the burn of willpower on your tongue?

uninvited it simply sits there

you can not move it

you can try to outwit it

take it for a ride if you want

but burn it will burn

and not leave you alone

and so i can only keep marching on with all that i am

through labyrinths of lost words

through blood dances

and filtrated information

through frames of technologica and self-images

blinding fears, genetica and freedoms

through sorrow and flowers

and always through love

through choirs of wild voices

through african soil and mirrors

i push my way through

how can i stop

when such a path lies under my feet?

through waves of oceans and green of apple trees

through the grape-sounds of pianos

and always through flames

i thrust through with my whole being

with wind around my calves

words boiling and insurgent in my jowls

i can not but quake with 

this tenacious willpower

het jy geweet dat jy die brand van wilskrag op jou tong kan proe?

het jy geweet dat jy die brand van wilskrag op jou tong kan proe?

dit sit ongevraagd net daar

jy kan dit nie skuif nie

jy kan probeer om dit te uitoorlê

ly dit om die bos as jy wil

maar brand sal dit brand

en jou nie alleen laat

en so kan ek net bly aangemarsjeer met al wat ek is

deur labirinte van verlore woorde

deur bloed-danse

en gefiltreerde informasie

deur rame van tegnologika en self-beelde

verblindende vrese, genetika en vryhede

deur verdriet en blomme

en altyd deur liefde

deur kore van wilde stemme

deur afrika-grond en spieëls

dring ek my weg deur

hoe kan ek stop

as so 'n pad onder my voete loop?

deur golwe van oseane en groen van appelbome

deur die druiwe-klanke van klaviere

en altyd deur vlamme

beur ek met my hele wese

met wind om my kuite

woorde kokend en opstandig in my kieste

kan ek nie anders as om te tril met

hierdie moedswillige wilskrag nie

Krotoa

During the Site_Specific International Land Art Biennale I contributed my performance poetry to the Fences  project of artist and cultural activist Erica Lüttich. She discovered the story of Krotoa, also known as Eva, and she and her Boitumelo Sewing Project knitted a beautiful and richly colourful cloak worn by Mokhema Hlaganani, who played the part of Krotoa. 
Interesting to note is that Krotoa worked in the household of Jan van Riebeeck from the age of 11. She served him for about 10 years until he left the Cape in 1662. She was the niece of Autshumao, also known as Harry die Strandloper. Seeing that she could speak several languages she was appointed as interpreter, emmisary and negotiator between the newly arrived Europeans and her own people, the Khoisan. She was related to royal Khoi family and this made her even more desirable as a pawn for Van Riebeeck. She was highly regarded as someone with great diplomatic skill and a knack for intelligence gathering, and this while still only a teenager. (She is also known as being instrumental in the emergence of the Afrikaans language).  Although she was the first Khoi woman to marry a European, Pieter van Meerhoff, and the first Khoi to be baptized as a Christian, she was always more at home with her own people. Another Khoi interpreter, Nommoa, accused her of being a traitor to the Khoi. One can only imagine the conflict of loyalty and identity she was experiencing. Toward the end of Van Riebeeck's stay in the Cape of Good Hope he started to doubt Krotoa's intentions and fidelity to his cause and believed she was passing on strategic information to her own people so as to turn them against the colonists. Because of this struggle with her identity and belonging, and possibly for other reasons she was lead to drink and other behaviours that the biased tellers of history would make us believe. The last 5 years of her young life she spent incarcerated on Robben Island. 
Why her story was not known for all this while: her blood runs through some prominent white Afrikaner families. 
The piece I conceived consisted of five poems  - "Fences" dealing with the Colonialist/Ownership/Safety theme and the other four poems, "Vir Krotoa", "Vir Sara Baartman" (written by Diana Ferrus), "Aan Ingrid" and "Street Woman"  inspired by women who were challenged and/or scarred by man-driven societies. 
By the visionary hands of Erica, she brought Plettenberg Bay's neighbouring communities together to participate in various art projects, including the rigging up of the fences used as part of the performance. Kudos to Erica for the inspiring and heartfelt work she does! 

Two years ago I wrote In die Grond en Blom skyn die hoop - a poem touching on woman's strength, her eccentricity and hopefulness. When I came across Krotoa's story, I thought back on this poem and saw how well the words fitted her. I re-wrote certain phrases and tweaked here and there for the poem to become:

Vir Krotoa

sy het vele warmgebakte kranse ontdek langs die woude
het hul gevul met klippe, voetspore en uitgekapte wense
die dou lek sy vroeg-oggend van die boegoeblare
en vee haar wange met die sagte son wat deur die skeure breek
sing sy alomheen die liedere wat resonant oor die vlaktes aanrol
'n vrou soos hierdie mag nie stilbly

hoor hoe haar stem deur klip en geskiedenis breek
sien hoe sy vrouwees bevry
deur met grond liefde te maak
in haar skyn die hoop
wat nog by ons mense spook

en so bly sy opstaan, 'n ware vrou,
gevul met drome en verwarring
sy doen haar daaglikse pligte
met grond onder haar naels, borduur sy die kontinente aan een
sy is alleen, net sy en haar haar tong
praat sy vir die onthalwe van ander,
maar nooit vir die onthalwe van haarself
prinses die een dag, 'n pion die ander,
haar identiteit verskeur en verkrag
'n vrou soos hierdie word maklik misverstaan

hoor hoe haar stem deur klip en geskiedenis breek
sien hoe sy vrouwees bevry
deur met grond liefde te maak
in haar skyn die hoop
wat nog by ons mense spook

en so het sy oor die berge met haar aardsvlerke gevlieg
nakend soos net die veld en lug daarvan hou
leerken sy die laaste helder paaie van oorlewing
dra vuur en klippe aan om die laaste vestiging te bou
waar lug nog diep ingeasem kan word
en grond diep gegtrap kan word sodat groen lewe
uitrys uit water en klei en 'n nuwe wêreld aanbreek

hoor hoe haar stem deur klip en geskiedenis breek
sien hoe sy vrouwees bevry
deur met grond liefde te maak
in haar skyn die hoop
wat nog by ons mense spook

soms verloor sy haar kop, maar nooit haar hart
sy druk haar lippe en bors ferm teen die aarde
voel die vibrasie van minerale krag
grond is bly om te voel hoe diep hierdie vrou haar spoor trap
'n vrou soos hierdie kan nie stilbly
in haar skyn die hoop
wat nog by ons mense spook

Photos taken by Erica Luttich

Earth Pods

Photographer Werner Strauss has recently sent a few pictures he captured a few weeks after the AfrikaBurn festival of Kim Goodwin's wattle structures, The Earth Pods. With the photos he sent us a very moving letter expressing his gratitude for our contribution to the festival. It really touched both Kim and I to receive the words and images from Werner. 

It is the first photos we have seen with clean and clear space - no tents or costumed merrymakers in the back or foreground. 

Sun, shadows and textures perfectly captured.

Thank you Werner for this gift.

I have been penning down several bits of writing inspired by the Earth Pods but could not get anything off the ground. With the arrival of these photos something just clicked and the poem started to come together:

with hands we make things

of the earth

and for the earth

we weigh

we measure

we lift

we bend

we pull

we stretch

we hit

we weave

make nests for our creativity

and so the Earth Pods have risen

they have come to life

and stand on their own three feet

independent and strong 

slightly ruffled by the wind

but never blown down

a wee bit stirred by the onlooker's wonderment
but never collapsing

lightly rustled by questionings of what they are
but never limited by any speculation 

they be anything the sky wants them to be - 
deep ocean creatures

bustling microbes

alien spacecrafts

the sound of kissing

seeds picked from our souls

restless fertility

a tolbos tumbled by the winds

the fingerprints of the gods

nests for our wandering souls

fruits from the spheres

temples
silence

wooden syllables spelling poetry in the sky
moving filaments seen on the insides of our closed eyes

the mating dance of desert wind and sand

sssssshhhhh

listen, they are singing with

the vocal cords

of

forsaken trees

hold them in the blink of your eye

they are treasures of the earth

vlugteling

my naels byt ek met 'n ritmiese onsekerheid

die sweet korrel tussen my borste

ek is vlugteling uit die stad van Woord

ek deins met onafgemete tree

val oor ongelykhede in die kobbelstrate

tuur terug oor die afstand van my vlug

my lot, my lot!

Woord lê in puin

my tong verklip tot stilt...

refugee

i bite my nails with a rhythmical uncertainty
the sweat beads between my breasts
i am a refugee from the city of Word
i stumble with unmeasured steps
trip over the unevenness of the cobbled streets
i gaze back over the distance of my flight
my fate, my fate!
Word lies in ruins
my tongue petrifies to silen...

vir die onthalwe van nie verstaan

vir die onthalwe van nie verstaan

voel ek woorde aan jou

trap ek die verhoog met my lyf

tou draai ek om my hande

drink uit leё koppies woorde

speld veiligheidspelde aan 'n swart hemp

sit voor 'n sonhelder sak vol nartjies

skil een na die ander se ronde koppe af

om die soetsappige vlees teen my honger tong te lê

vlos ek my tande sodat jy my mond kan aanskou

borsel ek my hare om die borsel te herhaar

lees ek uit 'n boek met wit blaaie in persies geskryf 

stapel ek klippe op in 'n wankel hoop

gaan sit ek langs die ou man met die wynglas

wat hoop ek kom sit nie langs hom nie

die alleen druppel rooiwyn lê sy fossiel-lyf

teen die holte van die glas

tilt dit na my mond en proe gis en stof

vingers van sop lek my tong

bodem van bord val op my spoeg

die roosmaryn stik die brood

die mond van die tygerberge tuur soos 'n grot

my tong troos ek met druiwe

dood gekook in suiker

die vrou wat jou afloer uit haar donker oё

groet my met haar lyf

die kop van my regter skouer ruik na jasmyn

Ode to Garlic

Oh Garlic, what homage

can we bring you

and your graced state

of bulbousness?

Packed tightly into

your little white dome

we want to break you open

and spread your cloves like

shining white pebbles onto

the shores of our meals.

Oh, Allium Sativum,

brother of Onion, Leek,

Chive and Shallot,

you turn my mouth

into a warm hearth.

You who have grown

rich and full in

the dark soil of the earth.

Proud should the lily be

that you are part of her family.

  

When we peel you

your skin breaks into

the fine wings of a white butterfly,

flitting and refusing to be taken hold of.

When we crush, bake and chew you

you suffuse the walls, 

our skin, tongues and throats

with you pungency.

Your strength does not

lie in size or weaponry;

it lies in the way you smell of the sea,

of the suurbossies on the dunes

of the dark moist corners of the Tsitsikamma

and of soft, curled-up young ferns.

I grow impassioned with

the spirit of you.

With your unavoidable presence

no long-fanged demons

will walk through my doors.

If the Egyptians invocated you 
at the ceremony of taking oaths

and the Greeks piled you onto cairns of stones 
at the crossroads for an offering to Hecate,

then I can take a hold of you,

smear you on my forehead and temples

and beseech the poetry of you

to land upon my tongue. 

As much as you try

you will never be

insipid, tasteless,

dull, boring or bland -

you hold too much excitement

and urging energy of restless underground wells.

I go to the market,

enticed by onions, potatoes,

ginger, squash,

coriander and mushrooms,

yet I am never satisfied

until you lie with your orbicular lightness

in my basket.

  

Stuffed in olives,

crushed onto pizzas

grilled with prawns

sliced into pickles

blended with pesto

concocted with green beans

mixed into hummus

brewed in soups

fused with pasta

alchemized with butter

and

united with olive oil - 

you are herb and spice,

fruit and vegetable,

fire and lily,

gold and silver!

Hail the garlic crushers

for theirs is a divine deed.

Releasing the bulb’s bitter-sweet juices to all of the world

might just dismantle all arrogance,

melt all iciness 
and  

break down all pretense. 

Verrukking van Klank

Performing with Morné van Heerden at the Kindlewood Soirée in Johannesburg.

vlugtig vlieg die ritmes uit ons vingers

en draai ons in 'n kolk van ekstatiese malkoppigheid

totdat swart en wit,

spier en hout,

ek en jy

een word

die dans ons vasboei

die melodie ons in hegtenis neem

en die wispelturigheid van die sikloniese ritmika

ons verewig gevangene hou

in die verrukking van klank

 exuberance of sound

flightlily the rhythms fly from our fingers

and we turn in a whirl of ecstatic madness

till black and white,

muscle and wood,

you and i

become one

till the dance shackles us

the melody takes us captive

and the moodiness of the cyclonic rhythm

ensnares us forever

in the exuberance of sound

ontmaskerende koorstigtelikheid van klank

ons vingers

skud die

sweet van

die klankekoors

oor die

gate van

ore wat

die toevoer

is na

die ondergrond

van julle

siele

die kwiksilwer

in die

buis van

julle monde

breek oop

met die

druk hitte

van die

ontmaskerende koorstigtelikheid

van klank

unmasking feverability of sound

our fingers

shake the 
sweat of

the sound-fever

over the

holes of

ears that

is the

subway

to the underground

of your 
souls

the mercury

in the

tube of

your mouth

breaks open

with the

pressured heat

of the

unmasking feverability

of sound

Gaan sit eenvoudig op jou gat en skryf!

Hou op om met jou kop in die lug rond te dryf!

Gaan sit eenvoudig op jou gat en skryf

Dit is nie so moeilik om die pen op te lig - 

vir wat wil jy voor die daad van skryf dan so swig?

Hierdie alewige ge-uhm en ah-ery 

moet nou onmiddellik 'n einde kry!

Hoekom is dit hierdie nimmereindigende gewroeg?

Dit maak net jou siel en kop onnodiglik moeg.

Ja, komaan, hou op om met jou kop in die lug rond te dryf!

Gaan sit eenvoudig op jou gat en skryf

Ja, JA, dit is wat ek doen, fokkin elke dag,

maar die woorde doen fokkol, sit net vir my en lag.

Ek staan op my hande om die wêreld andersom te bekyk,

dalk sal dit die woorde amuseer en hulle ook beter laat lyk

Ag jirre in die jimmel, hoor my weenklaag!

Hierdie stagnerende gesukkel is nou lankal te moer in afgesaag!

Dit is nou die tyd om die woorde aan die strot beet te kry

en aan te dring dat hulle ophou om jou so om die bos te ly.

Selfs beter, gaan sit op jou gat en kerf hulle neer - 

dit is al hoe hulle EN jy sal leer!

'n plek waar slegs die wit motte uit my mond vlieg

in die witste oomblik van my kop

wil ek insweef en myself vir 'n wyle daar inburger

daai witste wit van plekke

waar sin en woord nie 'n sê het nie

dis al wat ek soek  -

'n suiwer oer-plek 
waar ek tot 
die eindes van 
die heelal
kan sien
en dit nie 
nood-wend-dig 
hoef 
te poëtiseer nie

'n plek waar slegs 
die wit motte

uit 

my 

mond

vlieg

Ode to the Avocado

There is
no other green
in the world
that carries
your texture
and your taste.
Fingers linger on
your skin
waiting restlessly for
the ripening
into
your perfect softness.
Knives and spoons,
tongues and teeth
can not wait to break through to 
the moist velvet heart of you.

Of all fruits
your beckoning
is the strongest.
There is immediate
chemistry
between you and
us, the tongue bearers.
You are irresistible -
fingers flock to your silken
and pebbly skin
desperately wanting
to press and
squeeze
and
pinch
you.

When you cross
our paths with
your elliptical glossiness
the eating
of you
is inevitable.

Oh, Avocado, how you make
the mouth
a better place!
You are
the great tropical berry,
filling mouths and stomachs
with rich and nutty oils.
You are the globe
where
green peace
resides.

You unite
the disparity
in the salad bowl.
Cucumber, tomato,
lettuce, basil, olive oil,
lemon, black pepper and salt
make more sense with you around
What is tortillas, sushi,
crisp hot bread, pizza and
shrimps
without you?

Unhesitatingly
you mix
with
everyone.
You make
a celebration
of every meal.

Independent, well-defined,
and dignified - 
you are a meal on your own too.

Oh, Avo, you make the kitchen complete!

You are the king of fruits.
One whiff of you opens
soft, wet and
mossy forests around me.

Hanging from your tree
you lighten up the sun.
And how is it that you are 
more
buttery
than butter?

We want to hasten our patience
and stow you away in
brown paper bags, newspapers
and dark corners of baskets and pots
steering you into ripeness,
yet you have your own rhythm
that beats to your own season

Your name even sings with warm
and open syllables -
A-Vo-Ca-Do
A spelling sheer wonderment,
Vo signifying your eternal invogueness,
Ca sounding the thrill that careers through
the throat when a slice of you hits the tongue and
Do closing like a soft meadow on
all these sensorical richnesses.

And oh, let us not forget your majestical pip -
the seed that fills out the shape
of your pregnant belly.
When you are sliced open
your pip suddenly exposed and fragile,
wrinkly and papery, 
you cling on to the juicy flesh
refusing to let go of the fruit of life.

Oh, Avocado,
you make 
my mouth complete.
You dissolve
my inner conflicts.
I can not eat you alone,
I always want to share you.
With you on my plate
I can believe in
brotherhood again,
with you on my tongue
I can believe in
life again