poetry-page

SPANNER IN THE WHAT? WORKS by Wopko Jensma

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 11:05:23 +0100

Wopko Jensma.Born 26th July, 1939. Disappeared without trace after August, 1993

Wolf Weinek - Walter Saunders - Wopko Jensma - opening at Gallery Y -
image© taken from the website : http://www.art-archives-southafrica.ch/JENSMA.htm

SPANNER IN THE WHAT?WORKS
i was born 26 July 1939 in ventersdorp
i found myself in a situation
i was born 26 July 1939 in sophiatown
i found myself in a situation
i was born 26 July 1939 in district six
i found myself in a situation
i was born 26 July 1939 in welkom
i found myself in a situation
now, when my mind started to tick
i noticed other humans like me
shaped like me: ears eyes
hair legs arms etc ... (i checked)
we all cast in the same shackles:
flesh mind feeling smell sight etc...
date today is 5 april 1975 i live
at 23 mountain drive derdepooirt
phone number: 821-646, post box 26285
i still find myself in a situation
i possess a typewriter and paper
i possess tools to profess i am artist
i possess books, clothes to dress
my flesh; my fingerprint of identity
i do not possess this land, a car
much cash or other valuables
I brought three kids into this world
(as far as i know) . .
i prefer a private to a public life
(i feel allowed to say)
i suffer from schizophrenia
(they tell me)
i'll die, i suppose, of lung cancer
(if i read the ads correctly) '
i hope to live to the age of sixty
i hope to leave some evidence
that i inhabited this world
that i sensed my situation
that i created something
out of my situation
out of my life
that i lived
as 'human
alive
i
i died 26 July 1999 on the costa do sol
i found myself in a situation
i died 26 July 1999 in the grasslands
i found myself in a situation
i died 26 July 1999 in the kgalagadi
i found myself in a situation
i died 26 July 1999 in an argument
i found myself in a situation

Wopko Jensma,born on 26 July 1939 was a South African poet and artist.

As a privileged,white artist, he spoke openly about the injustices that were experienced by Black people during apartheid. His poems Once and Now, speaks about racism experienced by young girls working as domestic workers. Written around the 1970s, these poems could also be read as an extension of his personal experiences with the South African government. He had a mixed racial marriage that was not allowed or even recognized by the South African laws. But, Once and Now, is not the only poem in which Jensma displays his distaste of apartheid laws, in Where White is the colour/Where Black is the number, critically looks at the meaning of being Whiter and Black in South Africa. Written in 1977, this poem was banned. He often makes use of multiple languages in his poems to empahsise his points.

Later in life, Jensma was diagnosed as a schizophrenic, which incapacitated his artistic skills and may have led to his becoming a vagrant. He was last seen at a shelter, the Salvation Army Men's Home, in August of 1993 before disappearing without a trace.

Prior to this he had been a family man married to an African, Lydia, with whom he had two children, a son and a daughter.

Poems

1973 Sing for our Execution

1970 Ophir 12

1975 Snarl 1

1977 I must show you my clippings

1977 Where White is the colour/Where Black is the number (banned)

Exhibitions

1968 New York USA

1970 UNISA (Sik-Screen Exhibition)

1971 DAM (Art SA)

1972 Wail for the Beast

1979 SANG (SA Printmakers)

Content for this posting has been taken from the following 2 sites :

http://www.sahistory.org.za/people/wopko-jensma

http://www.art-archives-southafrica.ch/JENSMA.htm

A Song On the End of the World by Czeslaw Milosz

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 16:48:08 +0100

A Song On the End of the World

by Czeslaw Milosz (awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1980)
translated by Anthony Milosz

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,

A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,

Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.

Czeslaw Milosz by David Levine

The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Fri, 18 Nov 2011 13:42:20 +0100

"Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson, FRS (6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892) was Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom during much of Queen Victoria's reign............"

"...Born on August 6, 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire, England,Alfred Tennyson is one of the most well-loved Victorian poets. Tennyson, the fourth of twelve children, showed an early talent for writing. At the age of twelve he wrote a 6,000-line epic poem.......".

The Poem has inspired many artists & musicians.

William Holman Hunt,The Lady of Shalott, c.1889-92. Manchester, Manchester City Art Gallery.

W.E.F. Brit ten's photogravure

John William Waterhouse (1849–1917) I am half-sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott. 1916. Oil on canvas.

John William Waterhouse: The Lady of Shalott [on boat] - 1888.Oil on canvas.The Tate Gallery- London, England

Actual Size (W x H): 200cm x 153cm

You can listen to musician, Loreena McKennitt's version of the Lady of Shalott :

"Loreena McKennitt (born February 17, 1957) is a Canadian singer, composer, harpist, accordionist and pianist who writes, records and performs world music..........."
The Lady of Shalott

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Part I

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And thro' the field the road runs by

To many-tower'd Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Little breezes dusk and shiver

Thro' the wave that runs for ever

By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,

Overlook a space of flowers,

And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,

Slide the heavy barges trail'd

By slow horses; and unhail'd

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,

The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly,

Down to tower'd Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy

Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear

That hangs before her all the year,

Shadows of the world appear.

There she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot:

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,

And the red cloaks of market girls,

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,

An abbot on an ambling pad,

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,

Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue

The knights come riding two and two:

She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror's magic sights,

For often thro' the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed:

"I am half sick of shadows," said

The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,

And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd

To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down to Camelot:

And from his blazon'd baldric slung

A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armour rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather

Burn'd like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot.

As often thro' the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

"Tirra lirra," by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot.

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

"The curse is come upon me," cried

The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat

Beneath a willow left afloat,

And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse

Like some bold seer in a trance,

Seeing all his own mischance--

With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;

The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right--

The leaves upon her falling light--

Thro' the noises of the night

She floated down to Camelot:

And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,

They heard her singing her last song,

The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darken'd wholly,

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.

For ere she reach'd upon the tide

The first house by the water-side,

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,

By garden-wall and gallery,

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

And round the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross'd themselves for fear,

All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, "She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott."

World War I Poetry

Fri, 11 Nov 2011 15:17:03 +0100

Siegfried Sassoon

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy

Who grinned at life in empty joy,

Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,

And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,

With crumps and lice and lack of rum,

He put a bullet through his brain.

No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye

Who cheer when soldier lads march by,

Sneak home and pray you'll never know

The hell where youth and laughter go.

In Flanders Field

John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

Siegfried Sassoon: Declaration against the War

I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority, because I believe that the War is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it. I am a soldier, convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers. I believe that this War, on which I entered as a war of defense and liberation, has now become a war of aggression and conquest. I believe that the purpose for which I and my fellow soldiers entered upon this war should have been so clearly stated as to have made it impossible to change them, and that, had this been done, the objects which actuated us would now be attainable by negotiation. I have seen and endured the sufferings of the troops, and I can no longer be a party to prolong these sufferings for ends which I believe to be evil and unjust. I am not protesting against the conduct of the war, but against the political errors and insincerities for which the fighting men are being sacrificed. On behalf of those who are suffering now I make this protest against the deception which is being practiced on them; also I believe that I may help to destroy the callous complacency with which the majority of those at home regard the contrivance of agonies which they do not, and which they have not sufficient imagination to realize.

At Last the Secret is Out By W. H. Auden

Sat, 15 Oct 2011 12:38:27 +0100

At Last the Secret is Out
By
W. H. Auden

At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicious story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.

"A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language."

The Seeds were buried deep by Matthew Mokoena

Sat, 15 Oct 2011 12:30:13 +0100

The Seeds were buried deep

Matthew Mokoena

The Seeds were buried deep…

Six days labour with harboured heaves,

Rolled up sleeves,

No sleep, grief, nor partial reprieve.

Deep…

From spoken word metaphors that big banged metal doors to settle scores,

Deep, hanging,

Pendulum swinging statements that cradled life.

Deep…

“LET THERE BE…” lived long before the light could even breath.

Deep…

Is just a matter of mortal perception,

To God, we remain shallow in our stolen expressions.

For God is the Artist and we are the Artwork,

God is the Artist and we are the Artwork.

The Seeds were buried deep…

The Sower with 10 seeds,

Five wise and without light the other five bleed.

The river gushes as it rushes the blind lead,

So one seed decides he must leave.

Two flourish,

One is the farmer that pockets his one talent, his one need.

One is a warrior,

A poet with words spoken blantly.

A lost sheep that must lead does so blindly,

Like some of these poets, their words caught in the briers or thorn trees,

But what happens to a poets’ pens seed.

The Seeds were buried deep…

A neighbour is he who leads to see the captives set free.

A captain Samaritan,

Of waterless ships that sail through the harmattan.

Winds that lick the desert dry are bound to return again.

These chosen few…

Poets jump into the heat wave with life jackets to resuscitate the surface,

But the Seeds were buried deep,

So in attempts to reach the source our words diverge,

Receding farther and farther from the truth.

These poets’ words won’t save you,

Chains hanging from jeans are symbolic,

Their words will enslave you.

To know yourself,

You first need to concede to the fact that there are things which you do not know,

That faith breaches the gap between the known and the unknown

And the known cannot be unknown,

But the unknown can be known

And this truth you have to own with your soul.

For you were predestined to catch the echo of the spoken word in Genesis,

And although you were not always willing,

You’ve always been an active participant in God shaping your destiny.

Although you were not always willing,

You’ve always been an active participant in God shaping your destiny.

She by Matthew Mokoena

Sat, 15 Oct 2011 10:01:17 +0100

This week I stumbled across this poem by a local poet :

She

Matthew Mokoena

She was a strong,
black,
loveless woman.
She said,
"He doesn't love me no more.
He doesn't hold me down or beat me against the concrete floor, doesn't hit me with concrete thoughts as he slams the bedroom door.
He doesn't deliver fists as gifts that fit my tits nor feeds the kids with love from lips, nor takes my hints not to brake my ribs, he's got skills but kills my emotions when he breathes from gills, HE doesn't love me no more."

She was the type who bragged to friends
about his jealousy, his strength and the power in his hands.
Yet the same hands transformed into fists, fists that tore her body into bits, bits that disfigured her body kits.
His hands transformed into fists that beat, bruised, abused and used her face as a comfort zone.
His hands... landed on her ribcage,
but she wasn't on the same page.
So his rage landed on her ribcage,
told her her friends, "This is love,"
but her friends weren't on the same page.
"Dump the bastard he's got rage,
like an animal he belongs inside of a cage."
"No, no, no," she said.
"He's my man and...
without him I'd go mad and..
he didn't get love from an early age."
Her excuses made him and exclusive explosive in her existence, but her persistence will ensure that woman like her face exstinction.

You see, if beating a woman was a test,
this man had passed it with distinction.

Every night neighbors had front row seats, if they missed it today, tomorrow the movie repeats.
This piece depicts,
how on a daily basis a womans life depletes, how the cycle of her life becomes complete.

See, she grew up in a society where heart attacks were a result of a very fat attack caused by ignorance of bioslim.
A society where woman believed a knife should be used for cutting, buttering and terminating unborn life.
I prayed that this type of woman would never be my wife, but had Eve aborted...
maybe, just maybe,
the Cain's in us wouldn't have survived.
He doesn't love her no more...

Finding out more about the poet was a little bit of a challenge, but I am a bit of a bloodhound and too stubborn to give up easily, so here goes :

Kunalati Matthew Mokoena was born and raised in the East rand & relocated from Tembisa to Spruitview in the late 80's. He attended Germiston High where he ultimately fell in love with Word. He completed his B-Tech in Finance and Accounting at T.U.T. where he was a member of the T.U.T Drama Society from 2004-2006. He has performed at many events, including the NASDEV cultural festival held in conjunction with Macufe and

the in 2004.

He was an official member of the T.U.T Street Poets Society from 2006-2007 and was the organisations chairperson in 2007.
A co-founder and former member of a band/a group/a movement known as

Matthew is currently involved with www.spokenmind.net "...is a home for the unique minds of poets, graphic artists, musicians and cinematographers.Through the special strategic collaborations and partnerships it has formed with other sharp role players, the Spoken Mind is also determined, through social responsibility projects, to change the lives of the millions of citizens of our beautiful country."

“Our word, your word, changing lives for the good.”

"I am by the Word, for the Word, In the Name of the Word."

ShoShoLoza

Sat, 15 Oct 2011 12:19:46 +0100

ShoShoLoza

I thought that, with all the fuss and excitement we have seen over the last couple of days with regards to the Springboks and The Rugby World cup, I would post the song Shosholoza since it appears to be quite strongly associated with the Springbok team.

The song gained further popularity after South Africa won the 1995 Rugby World Cup, and is a favourite at sport events in South Africa.

The following information is largely taken from the entry in Wikipedia :

Shosholoza is a Ndebele folk song that originated in Zimbabwe but was popularized in South Africa. The song was sung by all-male migrant workers that travelled by steam train from their homes in Zimbabwe to work in South Africa's diamond and gold mines. The sound "sho sho" uses onomatopoeia and is reminiscent of the sound made by a steam train. Stimela is the Zulu word for steam train. Zulu workers on the mines later took up the song to generate rhythm during group tasks and to alleviate boredom and stress. The original author of the song is unknown.
The song is so popular in South African culture that it is often referred to as South Africa's second national anthem.

Shosholoza

Ku lezontaba

Stimela siphum' South Africa

Shosholoza

Ku lezontaba

Stimela siphum' South Africa

Wen' uyabaleka

Ku lezontaba

Stimela siphum' South Africa

The lyrics, roughly translated, mean :; Go forward; Go forward; on those mountains; Steam train from South Africa; Go forward; Go forward
on those mountains: Steam train from South Africa; You are running away; You are running away; on those mountains; Steam train from South Africa

Personally my favourite version of the song is the version by Dan Moyane, however, I cannot find an audio file of it on the internet.

I am not a sports fan, I don't even know how you play rugby, so I cannot really appreciate the video (especially the 2 shots of dead animals), however, this is a very nice version of

Shosholoza & Nkosi Sikelel'i Afrika

(click above to listen)

Here is a link to the Peter Gabriel version of the song (click on the image) :

The Afterlife by Louis Jenkins

Sat, 15 Oct 2011 12:13:59 +0100

The Afterlife

by

Louis Jenkins

Older people are exiting this life as if it were a movie… "I didn’t get it,"
they are saying.
He says, "It didn’t seem to have any plot."
"No." she says, "it seemed like things just kept coming at me. Most of the
time I was confused… and there was way too much sex and violence."
"Violence anyway," he says.
"It was not much for character development either; most of the time
people were either shouting or mumbling. Then just when someone started
to make sense and I got interested, they died. Then a whole lot of new
characters came along and I couldn’t tell who was who."
"The whole thing lacked subtlety."
"Some of the scenery was nice."
"Yes."
They walk on in silence for a while. It is a summer night and they walk
slowly, stopping now and then, as if they had no particular place to go.
They walk past a streetlamp where some insects are hurling themselves at
the light, and then on down the block, fading into the darkness.
She says, "I was never happy with the way I looked."
"The lighting was bad and I was no good at dialogue," he says.
"I would have liked to have been a little taller," she says.

From North of the Cities (Will o’ the Wisp Books, 2007) © Louis Jenkins.

Louis Jenkins is a native of Oklahoma, but has lived in Duluth, Minnesota, for the past 30+ years. Considered a master of prose poetry, he is the author of dozen award-winning books and has been featured in numerous anthologies. A favorite on Garrison Keillor's Writers Almanac, Jenkins' has said that pleasure, clarity, and empathy are among the most essential characteristics of a poem. (quoted from http://www.yourdailypoem.com/listpoem.jsp?poem_id=97).

—Wendlessen, from The Calendar of the Trees

Sat, 15 Oct 2011 09:47:36 +0100

—Wendlessen, from The Calendar of the Trees

I am sitting cataloguing a copy of Jack the Giant Killer by Charles de Lint and I came upon this poem which he has cited in the beginning of the book :

Rowan am I and I           am sister to the Red Man
my berries are guarded by dreamless dragons
my wood charms the           spells from witches
and in the wide plains           my floods quicken

—Wendlessen, from The Calendar of the Trees