Adisa's initial interest in writing can probably be traced back to the stories she was told by her Aunt Zilla, who Adisa would visit during the summer. Since she was frequently around storytelling, Adisa reflects on “always writing, or at least making up stories and poems in [her] head" (Agard 43).
When she left for Hunter College, she was not aspiring to major in English or Creative Writing, but Mathematics. Adisa made the shift to writing after attending a poetry reading by Sonia Sanchez, and reading the novel Cane by Jean Toomer (Leach).
[continue there...]
31 August 2009
28 August 2009
Backstage With Lesego Rampolokeng
Robert Mckay
Published:Aug 28, 2009
GHOST WRITER: Lesego Rampolokeng speaks his mind
A biting social commentator but no ‘people’s poet’
SOUTH African writer, playwright and performance poet Lesego Rampolokeng takes to the stage once again in Bantu Ghost at the Market Theatre from the beginning of next month.
Initially conceived as a tribute to South African hero Steven Bantu Biko on the 30th anniversary of his death in detention, this performance-art piece became instead a tribute to the black thinkers and writers whom Biko himself acknowledged as major influences in his own writing — Aimé Césaire, Franz Fanon, Robert Sobukwe, Mafika Gwala, Amilcar Cabral and others.
The show combines Rampolokeng’s poetry with experimental movement by one of the country’s top dancers and choreographers, Nelisiwe Xaba.
[continue there...]
Published:Aug 28, 2009
GHOST WRITER: Lesego Rampolokeng speaks his mind
A biting social commentator but no ‘people’s poet’
SOUTH African writer, playwright and performance poet Lesego Rampolokeng takes to the stage once again in Bantu Ghost at the Market Theatre from the beginning of next month.
Initially conceived as a tribute to South African hero Steven Bantu Biko on the 30th anniversary of his death in detention, this performance-art piece became instead a tribute to the black thinkers and writers whom Biko himself acknowledged as major influences in his own writing — Aimé Césaire, Franz Fanon, Robert Sobukwe, Mafika Gwala, Amilcar Cabral and others.
The show combines Rampolokeng’s poetry with experimental movement by one of the country’s top dancers and choreographers, Nelisiwe Xaba.
[continue there...]
27 August 2009
Picasso and the Allure of Language
Indepth Arts News:
"Picasso and the Allure of Language"
2009-08-20 until 2010-01-03
Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University
Durham, NC, USA United States of America
The Nasher Museum presents a groundbreaking exhibition examining Pablo Picasso's lifelong relationship with writers and the many ways in which language affected his work. Picasso and the Allure of Language comprises some 60 works in all media by Picasso, as well as select examples by fellow artist Georges Braque, and photographs, letters, manuscripts and book projects by a diverse group of artists and writers.
Together, these works illuminate Picasso's deep and multidimensional interest in writing and language, which gives new meaning to highlights of his lifetime of work.
[continue there...]
"Picasso and the Allure of Language"
2009-08-20 until 2010-01-03
Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University
Durham, NC, USA United States of America
The Nasher Museum presents a groundbreaking exhibition examining Pablo Picasso's lifelong relationship with writers and the many ways in which language affected his work. Picasso and the Allure of Language comprises some 60 works in all media by Picasso, as well as select examples by fellow artist Georges Braque, and photographs, letters, manuscripts and book projects by a diverse group of artists and writers.
Together, these works illuminate Picasso's deep and multidimensional interest in writing and language, which gives new meaning to highlights of his lifetime of work.
[continue there...]
21 August 2009
Poéfrika interview with Mike Cope
1. What’s your relationship to poetry? How do you interact with it?I talk to my pet rabbit in rhymed couplets. Apart from that, I read it and think about it a fair bit. I make up songs in my head, to borrowed tunes.
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2. Do you work on just one poem at a time, or do you work on several at the same time?
If I’m working on a poem, then that’s what I’m working on. I like to return to things after some months.
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3. Poets labour a lot over their work (as do other artists). A lot of time and dedication goes into writing good poetry. Where’s the money?
There are too many ‘poets’ and very little money, and such money as there is tends to go to poets who serve various agendas. Prizes, with their winner-takes-all structure, give the impression that people are being paid and honoured, but in fact very few are receiving very little.
Poets who aren’t climbing on a wagon must write for the pleasure of it. Nobody tries to publish their completed crossword puzzles. That said, I think poets should be paid.
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4. Do you ever write ‘political poems’? Why, or why not?
All my work is in some sense political, and to various degrees. Everything, in my view, is political – to varying degrees. At the same time my work questions the power of the political, on its own, to complete our lives.
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5. Is there a particular goal you seek when you write? Awake others? Entertain? Tell the truth? What?
While I am writing, the poem is its own end, and is a part of an imagined conversation with other poets.
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6. How do you know when a poem is ‘finished’? Do you ever ‘give up’ on a poem?
I am never certain that a poem is finished. I have often given up on poems.
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7. You are to encourage poetry students to write a poem. Please come up with a ‘writing prompt’, very short and simple.
Write a 3-verse poem which contains no adjectives, adverbs, clichés, slogans, complaints or opinions. The poem may not be about yourself. It may only contain ordinary language, of the kind that people use when they speak. It should contain at least one metaphor*. The first verse must set out a problem or situation. The second verse must explore it. The third verse must offer some resolution, or insight.
*A metaphor brings together two different things to create a new meaning. ‘John is as strong as an ox’ is a simile, not a metaphor. ‘John is an ox’ is a metaphor. ‘The sky is like neon lights’: simile. ‘The neon-light sky’: metaphor.
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8. What writers, living or not, have influenced you the most?
My father Jack Cope was the writer who influenced me the most. Apart from that, I am influenced by whoever I am reading. The list is long, and I’ll never reach the end.
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9. How and where do you write? Drink coffee, wine? Listen to music? Type, scribble? At a café, in the sitting room?
I write at a desk on a computer, at home. No wine, sometimes coffee.
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10. Here's an on-going poem. Please add to it.
They stood before me that night
With clenched fists and blown pupils,
Shadowed by leafless branches of a cotton tree,
The moon as bright as the moon and no metaphor
For which image can serve? What simile
Makes sense enough? The ghosts that guard
The tree nod yes, though I’ve not said a thing.
One shade uncurls and crooks a bony finger, calling me.
The voices rise up like beheaded trees
I stumble forward fear at my heels
How did this night arrive and where is wisdom’s heed
"Gone my child are your clothes -- face now this thing."
So strip off your nudity, and learn to be naked.
Release your fears as branches drop leaves
And let yourself see.
The man with an axe stands by
About to chop your ego,
Stand well away.
Oneself gone in the dark,
Everything else steps forward.
What black moonlight paints the scene;
The leaves whisper in the palms of the wind.
_______________
Michael Cope was born in Cape Town, South Africa, in 1952. His father was the distinguished novelist Jack Cope. He has worked, among other things, as a jeweller and a computer programmer. He has published two novels, Spiral of Fire, (David Philip, 1986) and Goldin: A Tale (iUniverse, 2005), two volumes of poems, Scenes and Visions, (Snailpress, 1990) and GHAAP, Sonnets from the Northern Cape (Kwela Books and Snailpress, 2005), a memoir, Intricacy: A Meditation on Memory, (Double Storey, 2005), several chapbooks of poetry, and extensively on the Internet.
He is a veteran performer of poetry, and has made a CD of jazz & poetry with Chris Wildman, Everybody Needs. He lives in Cape Town and works as a designer and jeweller. He teaches Goju karate. He is married to Julia Martin, and has three children.
Zimbabwean poets for human rights
The work of Zimbabwean poets John Eppel and Julius Chingono has been recognized by the inclusion of their work in Fire in the Soul: 100 Poems for Human Rights, published by New Internationalist, with the support of Amnesty International.
There are a hundred poems from a hundred different poets from across the world, published from the beginning of the twentieth century until today. Other poets featured in the collection include Ken Saro-Wiwa, Margaret Atwood, Rita Ann Higgins, Luis Enrique Mejía Godoy and Pablo Neruda.
[continue there...]
There are a hundred poems from a hundred different poets from across the world, published from the beginning of the twentieth century until today. Other poets featured in the collection include Ken Saro-Wiwa, Margaret Atwood, Rita Ann Higgins, Luis Enrique Mejía Godoy and Pablo Neruda.
[continue there...]
18 August 2009
Life's work
Today, washing the dishes
the smell of dish-washing liquid,
the sound of distant conversation,
a grey warbler, the neighbour
putting in his vegetable garden;
our son hanging
his life's work
so far in the balance...
[continue there...]
the smell of dish-washing liquid,
the sound of distant conversation,
a grey warbler, the neighbour
putting in his vegetable garden;
our son hanging
his life's work
so far in the balance...
[continue there...]
17 August 2009
Poet William Witherup
We were each alone:
San Francisco is a desert to the shyness of love.
You sat in a rocking chair by the window,
wanting to die. The streetlight on the corner
shone on your face and bathrobe with the bluish-whiteness
of desert moonlight. I looked in your eyes
and the pupils were as wide as a Saharan night.
You were not in the room, but we were walking among ruins,
trailing a broken wing.
[continue there...]
San Francisco is a desert to the shyness of love.
You sat in a rocking chair by the window,
wanting to die. The streetlight on the corner
shone on your face and bathrobe with the bluish-whiteness
of desert moonlight. I looked in your eyes
and the pupils were as wide as a Saharan night.
You were not in the room, but we were walking among ruins,
trailing a broken wing.
[continue there...]
16 August 2009
15 August 2009
Limericks
Many of my favourite are Isaac Asimov's (hard to find on-line). I do not know who wrote some of the other ones I enjoy. Apparently, the form requires a certain amount of lechery, although I've read good, non-lecherous limericks, notably by Mad Kane. I suppose one has to be a master limerick writer to pull that kind of thing off. Here are some of my favourite lecherous limericks. No offence to anyone.
And they don't have to follow the declared pattern or rhyme-scheme, either. Some are limericky for deliberately breaking that pattern and/or its scheme. Why? Because we've come to expect a certain number of feet, and a certain rhyme scheme, declared in the first two verses. When that is broken, we feel what the writer of the particular limerick meant for us to feel. Here's an example. I wish I knew who had written this one, too:
In the Garden of Eden lay Adam,That's a tight one that seems to have everything going for it: rhyme, humour, lechery, and the fact that it's conversational (it doesn't sound forced). I'd be happy to know who wrote it, and give them credit.
Complacently stroking his madam,
And loud was his mirth
For he knew that on earth
There were only two balls -- and he had 'em.
There was a young man of Cape HornAnother good one by I don't know who. If you know, let me know. And please try Mad Kane's prompts, to which I have not adhered fully. And oh, I almost forgot, I've always thought that the reason we have so many bad limericks is because they're delicate, yet look like they're simple to pen.
Who wished he had never been born,
And he wouldn't have been
If his father had seen
That the end of the rubber was torn.
And they don't have to follow the declared pattern or rhyme-scheme, either. Some are limericky for deliberately breaking that pattern and/or its scheme. Why? Because we've come to expect a certain number of feet, and a certain rhyme scheme, declared in the first two verses. When that is broken, we feel what the writer of the particular limerick meant for us to feel. Here's an example. I wish I knew who had written this one, too:
There was a young man from Japan
Whose limericks never would scan.
When asked why this was,
He answered, "because
I always try to fit as many syllables into the last line as ever possibly I can."
There was a man from Ghent
Who had a p*nis so long it bent
It was so much trouble
That he kept it double
And instead of coming he went.
A wonderful bird is the Pelican.
His beak can hold more than his belly can.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week!
But I'll be darned if I know how the hellican?
There once was a plumber from Lee,
who was plumbing his girl by the sea,
she said 'Stop your plumbing',
'there's somebody coming',
said the plumber still plumbing... 'It's me!'
There once was a man from Bonaire,
who was doing his wife on the stair,
when the banister broke,
he doubled his stroke,
and finished her off in midair.
14 August 2009
How to Influence the Virtual Machine
Start with the innards, and render the machine
inoperable by tearing it open at the inseam.
Make it clear who’s controlling whom:
Leave behind your insignia,
then coat yourself with iridium.
[continue there...]
inoperable by tearing it open at the inseam.
Make it clear who’s controlling whom:
Leave behind your insignia,
then coat yourself with iridium.
[continue there...]
13 August 2009
MEN FLOW LIKE RIVERS
(by Basotho participants in a training workshop)
Men flow like rivers from the mountains
clear and strong
into the pits of South Africa
to pull gold from the earth.
As they descend into dark chambers
their families become memories, like the sun.
They claw through the flesh of mother earth
searching for veins to exploit,
while their own blood and souls are ravaged.
For when their bodies are spent,
twisted or lifeless,
the clean white-shirted man picks up his phone
and orders another river of men
from the mountains.
According to Work for Justice, the Lesotho-based newsletter in which this poem first appeared, "Men Flow Like Rivers" was written by Basotho participants in a training workshop for community workers.
From Work for Justice. No. 24 (March 1990). Reprint with acknowledgement.
http://lifeiswasted.blogspot.com
clear and strong
into the pits of South Africa
to pull gold from the earth.
As they descend into dark chambers
their families become memories, like the sun.
They claw through the flesh of mother earth
searching for veins to exploit,
while their own blood and souls are ravaged.
For when their bodies are spent,
twisted or lifeless,
the clean white-shirted man picks up his phone
and orders another river of men
from the mountains.
According to Work for Justice, the Lesotho-based newsletter in which this poem first appeared, "Men Flow Like Rivers" was written by Basotho participants in a training workshop for community workers.
From Work for Justice. No. 24 (March 1990). Reprint with acknowledgement.
http://lifeiswasted.blogspot.com
12 August 2009
A Revelation Reveals a Dry Sky Disguised with Clouds
The sky behind your shoulder loiters.
Movement disguised by travel,
acuity loosened by slow wheels.
My stomach lurches as scenes slump
like the times my car stands still
but slips because another pulls forward
[continue there...]
Movement disguised by travel,
acuity loosened by slow wheels.
My stomach lurches as scenes slump
like the times my car stands still
but slips because another pulls forward
[continue there...]
11 August 2009
10 August 2009
In Line At The Drive-Thru Pharmacy
We never pay attention to the sparrows
drab brown tiny wing blurs
and maybe this is our problem.
We walk across the hard-packed ground
every day every step and only notice
when rain splits earth open.
[continue there...]
drab brown tiny wing blurs
and maybe this is our problem.
We walk across the hard-packed ground
every day every step and only notice
when rain splits earth open.
[continue there...]
8 August 2009
WOMAN
(by Nikki Giovanni)
she wanted to be a blade
of grass amid the fields
but he wouldn't agree
to be the dandelion
she wanted to be a robin singing
through the leaves
but he refused to be
her tree
she spun herself into a web
and looking for a place to rest
turned to him
but he stood straight
declining to be her corner
she tried to be a book
but he wouldn't read
she turned herself into a bulb
but he wouldn't let her grow
she decided to become
a woman
and though he still refused
to be a man
she decided it was all
right
© Nikki Giovanni
Link to this poem:
-----------
Technorati Tags: nikki giovanni, woman, american poetry, black poetry
Nikki Giovanni books at Amazon
More about this poem and/or the poet:
- http://itunes.apple.com/fr/album/legacies-poetry-nikki-giovanni/id279372834
- http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/20th_century_amer_poetry/91542
- http://www.ohioana-authors.org/giovanni/highlights.php
- http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=99264347
- http://www.dailykos.com/tag/Nikki%20Giovanni
7 August 2009
Questions to a poet
Dear Reader,
You may answer these here in the comments section, or take them to your blog and deal with them there. If you decide on the latter, do leave us a little link here so we can go over to learn from you.
This is a one-off thing and is in no way going to compete with regular prompts that we already have on the web. I'm also going to tag other bloggers/friends (Mshairi, Stephen, Geoffrey, Lyrically yours, ren.kat and Kojo). You may, of course, tag others, dear reader, for that is one of the purposes of these things, isn't it?.
Cheers, and happy 2007.
Responses:
You may answer these here in the comments section, or take them to your blog and deal with them there. If you decide on the latter, do leave us a little link here so we can go over to learn from you.
This is a one-off thing and is in no way going to compete with regular prompts that we already have on the web. I'm also going to tag other bloggers/friends (Mshairi, Stephen, Geoffrey, Lyrically yours, ren.kat and Kojo). You may, of course, tag others, dear reader, for that is one of the purposes of these things, isn't it?.
Cheers, and happy 2007.
- Question one: Why do you write poetry (or literature) at all?
- Question two: What is your favourite poem? You know, the one you'd have loved to have written, the one by whose standard you base all other works of art. If your life depended on answering this question, what poem would you suggest to the person holding the knife to your throat?
- Question three: According to you, what is the state of poetry today? Is poetry flourishing or dying?
- Question four: What kind of poetry (or literature) do you dislike, and would not consider buying?
- Question five: Between the styles of Come (by Makhosana Xaba) and word speaks (by Kojo Baffoe) which do you prefer? Care to tell us why? Obviously, Makhosana and Kojo aren't required to answer this question.
- Question six: What was the last poetry book you bought?
- Question seven: Where do you go for poetry on the web?
- Question eight: Do you talk poetry (or literature) with friends and family? "Hi honey -- Hey, I read this incredible poem today..."
- Question nine: What one piece of advice would you give to a beginning poet (or writer in general)? One. What would you tell them to do or not to do?
- Question ten: What line comes to you after the following two verses (in other words, please write the third verse -- these are spontaneous lines from me and are no part of any poem I'm writing or will be writing).
When the light from the lantern
beamed and fell upon the child,
abcd efg hijkl mno p qrst uvwxyz
Responses:
6 August 2009
5 August 2009
Michael Cope's "Some examples of silence"
This is the silence
of a parent's body,
on the mortician's slab,
old head turned back,
hands showing
the stillness of meat.
from "SOME EXAMPLES OF SILENCE"
(by Michael Cope)
[continue there...]
of a parent's body,
on the mortician's slab,
old head turned back,
hands showing
the stillness of meat.
from "SOME EXAMPLES OF SILENCE"
(by Michael Cope)
[continue there...]
4 August 2009
YOUR PRESENCE
(by David Diop)
In your presence I rediscovered my name;
My name that was hidden under the pain of separation;
I rediscovered the eyes no longer veiled with fever;
And your laughter like a flame piercing the shadows,
Has revealed Africa to me beyond the snow of yesterday;
Ten years my love.
With days of illusions and shattered ideas;
And sleep made restless with alcohol;
The suffering that burdens today with the taste of tomorrow;
And that turns love into a boundless river;
In your presence I have rediscovered the memory of my blood;
And necklaces of laughter hung around our days;
Days sparkling with ever new joys.
© David Diop
More about this author:
My name that was hidden under the pain of separation;
I rediscovered the eyes no longer veiled with fever;
And your laughter like a flame piercing the shadows,
Has revealed Africa to me beyond the snow of yesterday;
Ten years my love.
With days of illusions and shattered ideas;
And sleep made restless with alcohol;
The suffering that burdens today with the taste of tomorrow;
And that turns love into a boundless river;
In your presence I have rediscovered the memory of my blood;
And necklaces of laughter hung around our days;
Days sparkling with ever new joys.
© David Diop
More about this author:
- Read another poem by this same author here on Poéfrika
- Wikipedia page
- On Kintespace
- On Pambazuka (in French)
- Amazon page
2 August 2009
GRAPES
(by Julius Chingono)
Today I was fortunate
to stumble upon a vendor
sorting out grapes for sale.
He separated
the good from the bad
on a plastic sheet
spread on the pavement.
He gave me the ones
that he thought were foul.
I sorted the grapes
in my mouth.
I spat out
those that were bad
but my tongue
did not find
the grapes all that bad.
It's just that
the broken ones
had less juice
and the over-ripe
had an odour.
© Julius Chingono
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1 August 2009
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