POEMS by SS Dheda

Deadly Companion

Often my mind and I discuss you.
How time would be endless if you were not there,
how I would be different if you did not stealthily enter
through the backdoor of my hustled thoughts
and hide behind the curtains of my flaws,
or if you had not totally burnt through
all my other traits and remained like the sole
firefly buzzing through a night sky
of dark thoughts.

Concentrating on your being when I am in
solitude and amidst the clobbering clownish crowds,
I find that you alone are my philosopher,
my friend, my enemy, my companion, my problem,
my strength; my weakness.

Demolishing all bonds that tie me,
creating invisible impenetrable boundaries
around me, I am caged- in here- in
this dark, endless infinite room with you;
as simply as a prisoner and a timid constantly
dripping tap.

 

Old Things

I tried new things
but the carcass of the old things
took up too
much space

REVIEW: Salt

CHRISTINE COATES reviews the new collection by Louella Sullivan.

Salt by Louella Sullivan

A slight volume at just 35 pages, Salt is a delicately woven account of pregnancy and birth. Louella Sullivan’s poems are honed to their elemental value – each one a grain of salt. Giving birth is universal; we are all born, many women have given birth, and yet this journey is profoundly intimate. The image of salt is used throughout – salt of the sea, salt of tears, the saltiness of uterine waters, the embryonic sea.

Birth is regarded as both an inner and an outer journey; it is a journey to selfhood, a separation, when the child lives “beyond her fingertips”. The mother sees herself as a pilgrim on this journey. And ultimately, as the poet Cecil Day-Lewis noted, a letting go:

Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show –
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.

Sullivan describes birth as transformational, a rite of passage, a threshold to cross, transmuting from one state to another. The poet embarks on the journey consciously, willing the conception –

After I lie still, my hips tilted upward in prayer
Willing you across the threshold
You are eager to be born
I am impatient to meet you.

Yet the path to motherhood leads a woman very close to death. Once pregnant the poet experiences herself being underwater, being unconscious, turning inwards, merging, there is a blurring of boundaries. This identification with the foetus and then child is carried through the poems;

I look away
Hold my breath in
So she can
Breathe instead.

Sullivan employs images of creation, of the earth and the universe; the foetus is floating in its own cosmos, in its own world of water. Birth is compared to the geological upheaval of earth at its birth, the fire and blood of creation. Yet pregnancy is also mythological; the pregnant mother is linked to the sacred goddess, to fertility deities. But having given birth, she experiences the goddess being thrown back to earth.

When she forges her way out
In blood and fire
I pass onto her
what remains of me
then fall
like a goddess flung to earth
suddenly mortal.

Woven throughout are the feminine images of sewing, of threading, knitting and spinning. In Feeding time, the image of threads conveys becoming undone and being stitched together again:

Her kneading fingers
knit the threads
frayed from the day
and with her lips
she stitches them lushly
back to my heart.

The pregnant body and the baby within are described as continents that collide and separate, a body with a surface of ridges and furrows that will one day tell its own story:

One day when these scars
(and my hair) are silver soft
I will run my fingers across them
looking for the places where you are still part of me.

The body is both receptacle for the foetus and a surface for writing on, where stories are written and told. I love how the body also becomes a receptacle for language, how the body becomes the narrative and the narrative the body.

Instead I say: I grew you
in there y’know
– him too –
Her silent fingers
on my white scars
I know mommy and these are the stories we told you.

Salt is published by Aerial Publishing. Read four of Sullivan’s poems, published by AERODROME, here.

WORK/Life: Antjie Krog

Antjie Krog by Antonia Steyn

Antjie Krog is the author of the Alan Paton Award-winning Country of My Skull and A Change of Tongue. Her first poetry collection, Dogter van Jefta, was published when she was aged 18; other collections include Mede-wete / Synapse and The Stars say ‘tsau’. The English edition of Lady Anne, a collection first released in Afrikaans in 1989, was recently published by Human & Rousseau in collaboration with Bucknell University Press.

Krog has been an extraordinary Professor of Literature and Philosophy at the University of the Western Cape since 2004.

What does “writing” mean?

Writing, for me, means to attempt to say the unsayable.

Which books changed your life?

I don’t read books that do not change my life. I expect of every novel or poetry volume to shift something in me so that I am a different person by the end of it.

Your favourite fictional character?

Petrus in Disgrace and maybe a real character such as Teboho Raboko who shouts in his Sefela: “Hail you, fire-speckled giraffe, Hail you quinea fowl, with water tearing upwards from your head.” And in Afrikaans, a character by Eugene Marais: My vaal sussie Gampta, “al wat ek in die wêreld het, buiten my ou ouma.”

What are you working on at the moment?

I try to return to poems. Just single individual and not-thought-about poems.

Describe your workspace.

I write poetry, or the beginning of poems on my bed. They are reworked on paper until they move to the computer. I only got a “study” with a surface exclusively for a laptop and dictionaries when I was around 47-years-old.

The most important instrument you use?

Pencil. Sharp. HB. A4 paper and a Pelikan rubber. That’s for poetry. For non-fiction: laptop and a good chair.

What’s your most productive time of day?

Half-past-four in the morning, for non-fiction. Poetry is like a big shit. It comes when it wants. If you squeeze it back, it will be hard and dry. So you must have “endless” time…

What do you do when you’re stuck, or not feeling creative?

I once read that a writer’s block has to do with ego, so I work on the ego.

What’s the hardest thing about writing?

To sit down. To lift the pencil over the white empty page. To allow it to be a fishingrod lined into the unconscious, touching and lifting out shimmering fishes from below, fitted out to say what you try to say. The hardest thing about being a poet is that you don’t know when it will leave you – just one morning, and it’s gone, that heard-voice coming from you don’t know where. Gone. And as far as I can make out: it never returns.

What advice would you give to people starting out in a writing career?

I have no advice for younger poets in this technological age – coming from a time where the poem was what mattered, not the poet, her looks, her recipes, her relaxation methods, her self-doubt, his marriages, his Facebook page, agent or public utterances. That is why I didn’t answer some of your questions, those that I thought: jesus, what the fuck?

[Editor’s note: Those questions unanswered included “What do you dislike most about yourself?, “What are you afraid of?”, “What’s the best piece of advice you’ve been given?” and “How do you relax?”]

Lady Anne is published by Human & Rousseau.

Author photograph by Antonia Steyn.

POEMS by Kerry Hammerton

We Walked Anyway

That morning. The mist. The mountains
and sea invisible. The streets
flooded with overnight rain. We walked
anyway. Lobelias and campanulas
showing off purple-blue. Ferns
bright green with new growth.
The hurry-rush of water over rocks
drowning anything we could have said.
I followed the familiar curve of your calf and knee.
Swartbas and Tree Fuchsias thin
and upright in the forest.
Buckled branches forming
a tree-cave at the end of a long uphill.
A peaty soaked-earth smell.
Red clay and slippery fallen leaf
mulch clinging to our boots.
The way down quieter
but we still had nothing to say.
You shook my hand in the parking lot.
Drove away. Left me in the coffee shop
ordering breakfast, trying to work out
how I could do this without you.

 

Journey of Tongues

The way my grandmother stressed
my mother’s name: Marie – mu-reee –
her lyrical Welsh voice fattening
vowels so even her sternest command
sounded like an invitation to tea.

Her voice indifferent to the years
spent within England’s borders.
And here at the bottom of Africa
my brother and I tailored
our voices at home to say words

like pin and water the English way.
At school slouching back into
the flat nasal whine of our friends.
Learnt to say fok not fuck and swear
words my parents didn’t understand.

I tease my niece now
get her to say pin, water, home
to pass the Englishness test.
But it is I who will always sound foreign
even to my own ears