REVIEW

In The Beginning was a Poet; the Poet was at Museum Africa

Been a long time since I had an interaction with a troupe of people I respect with all my artistic spirit. There are quite a few good and committed artists these days. We do have occasions whereby as poets in Mpumalanga we meet and wax lyrical. The last time was December at Matshilo Motsei's house. Before that it was Expression Sessions [Kriel] and us at White River during the 16 Days of Activism Against Women and Child Abuse.

However when I was one of those chosen (millions will be called but few will be chosen) to be part of the Realmentlak poetry do I was blerry excited. I looked at the Realmentalk

line-up and I felt like a six-years-old child in a chocolate factory - salivating and wetting my jersey. As an artist nothing gets me going like meeting equally-minded souls and trading what makes us tick. We tick like Rolexes and Breittlings I'm telling you.

So, back in Mpumalanga it will usually be me and my small troupe of multi-talented artists who play both instruments and sing and

do poetry and rap. They are fine lyricists and all-round artists. In Johannesburg, which the last time I performed was at Shivava Cafe I know I meet gems. So, when on the 29th I took that long trip to the city of Gold (the city I don't like - and a city which Sipho Sephamla had a way of saluting) I wanted to do my in-and-out like a jewelry store robbery. What I mean is to get in, do my poetry and eject as soon as possible. But when you come from 'the sunshine province' where we cull the things we don't like you somehow feel a breeze immediately you mount Machadodorp and know that bullets can't reach you.

Okay, Realmentalk poetry session was, to borrow from rappers - off the hook. The faces I have never met before and which were equally dying to meet me all showed up and we smiled without the benefit of wine. The pretty female poets I met on P-O-E-T-R-I were there and I must say they looked far wow in real life than the camera ever tried to mess up their beauty. Then came the time for us to meet and network; and talk politics as usual, and network some more; and talk to NAC's Andrew Nkadimeng, who has recently become quite an inspirational mentor and friend, network some more with Prof Peter Horn and my old friend Myesha Jenkins, network some more and talk to various people, including Masoja Msiza and Lesego Rampolokeng.

But before that I went into the Museum Africa photo exhibition where they are curating Sifiso Yalo and some old cartoons from the '50s, '60s and '70s. I spent a sizeable time going through South African history through the artworks. I should declare Yalo is the future, that's immediately Zapiro retires his venomous pencil.

Okay, when the Realmentalk session started; which was billed to be a bomb threat in the Museum Africa auditorium; smithereens could be seen a distance away. And when you see smithereens before the actual explosion you know it's cluster bombs on deployment. [By theway those are banned weapons]. The show was opened by all-rounder Antonio David Lyons. All-rounder because he's many things, an actor, a singer, a poet and performer. He's also such an altruistic soul that left patrons puzzled by his clever use of poetry to paint pictures; that will either give you a pain in the heart or a feeling of warmth.

He delivered a poem so rich in imagery that it took some patrons a whole 12 hours to notice that it was about a woman who killed her abusive husband and left the 'uncle' [Lyons] with babies to raise and lie to daily. 'I forgive her, yes, we pray - and pray some more', he said in a serene tone.

Then the stage opened for none other than the new kid on the block; I like to call him David wa Maahlamela's protege. I like to joke that Maahlamela is our next poet laureate after Ntate Keorapetse Kgositsile, and I have recently felt that when he moves into that august position he will leave Matete Motsoaledi to put on his mantle. Matete was next with poetry that poked fun about the disability of our democratic status quo. A poem titled 'Eintlik' left a lot of patrons in stitches while it probed the nation's conscience. He delved in love as well with 'Lerato'.

The next line-up was made up of explosive folks such as Icebound Makhele [more slam], Lesego Rampolokeng [profane], Mpho Sabata Mokae [nostalgic], Motho-feela [prophetic], Prof Peter Horn [tutorial], Goodenough Mashego, Vonani Bila [activist], Mak Manaka [naughty], Masoja Msiza [communal] and Maahlamela [jovial] who was compering the event.

Icebound was on his pan-Africanist element -calling South Africa by its name; Azania. Lesego was his controversial self - often for the shit of it as he mocked the concept and spitted [spurted] bile. Mokae reminisced a lot about Taung and Kimberely's Big Hole [Gat], his hometown and its people. Motho-feela was the ghetto prophet he has always been - the man from the land of the common people. Horn was being horn - piercing and taking some of the younger poets on a turorial. Mashego [by the way that's me] I'll leave that to the jury. Bila was on a humourous tip until he recited 'The Horrors of Phalaborwa' about Mark Scott-Crossly who fed Nelson Chisale to lions at Hoedspruit. Mak, or blerry Mak, had her ears being tickled by her thights while his soft lips were.... what were his soft lips doing when his ears were tickled? Masoja introduced a protege and was on his community building best and Maahlamela took us back to Musina and we suddenly were bopping from music playing out of a tavern while reading a book.

Realmentalk's first installment was a blast; not because I was a part but because reviews on Facebook and other social platforms concurred. And the women who came to support were not disappointed that not a single one of them was given an opportunity to give a vote of thanks. Real Men is a simple concept about fixing what is wrong with pat

riarchy - one poetry session at a time. And with a 77-years-old Horn on our side; only time will tell. But remember; 2011 is the Year of the Poet!

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NEWS

A Patriot Speaks from His Heart
TEXT BY: David wa Maahlamela

I recently started realizing what a blessing it is to be born in South Afrika. Last week after one incredible South Afrikan, to be more specific; Limpopo-born gold medallist Caster Semenya won in a dominant performance during the 800m IAAF World Championship in Berlin, I decided to record this year as year two thousand and South Africa (2000&SA). This gifted teenager taught all South Afrikans and the rest of the world that, ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you’.

For Caster, winning despite the emotional torture dished out by the IAAF, the federation that allowed her to enter the Olympics and question her gender just before her big day is not a mean feat. Perhaps there’s something we are not being told, that she probably arrived late and just got on her marks. Maybe that’s the reason why the IAAF started questioning her victory. How disorganised do they think Athletic South Africa is to send a man to represent the country in a Women race? Does ASA have credibility before IAAF?

The ugly scenes reminiscent of what happened to the Springboks during the Rugby World Cup Finals when Percy Montgomery was pushed to fall on the cameramen. That was an obvious attempt to dent the image of South Afrikan rugby even though at the end of the day the best man won. The gesture he used, that of lifting his shoulders in surrender while half-stretching his arms as if saying: 'What can I say?' was not just sportsman spirit but also that of Ubuntu.

With the recent stellar performance of Bafana-Bafana during the FIFA Confederation Cup by giving World Champions Brazil a tough-time, my pride in the ability of this nation to stand up and be counted was reborn. As if that was not enough, Kaizer Chiefs and Orlando Pirates humiliated the Her Majesty's Manchester City FC. What else do I need to be a proud South African? How does it feel that we are the inventors of the controversial noise-generating Vuvuzela?

Unlike the Martin Luther King Jnr and Malcom X who were celebrated after their death, Nelson Mandela is the only internationally celebrated living ancestor. Perhaps the recent chain of service delivery protests is a sign of the freedoms enjoyed in this country. Workers and community members are free to take to the street and raise their concerns without any fear.

Unfortunately while exercising legitimate rights by demanding, unfortunately vandalism still features prominently in some of these protests. But again, faultless audit is not a good audit, some auditors believe. Being able to identify rooms for improvement is a best way to better service delivery. Perfection does not exit, it is a process not a destination.

I am singing no praise to any man, but I believe there are quite much good things happening in our country to outweigh the bad that is branded in the media. Tell that to Mr. Journalist he will tell you where to get-off. To him good stories don't sell. A good story like Caster Semenya’s victory is not yet complete until the gender crap in mentioned. There’s lot to celebrate yet hence some of us are already addicted to complaining, we can’t stop anytime soon.

I realized my love for South Africa after visiting Washington DC in 2005, seeing how people live within surveillance cameras all in the name of homeland security; how I was told in my hotel room there’s even one yet deactivated until I’m suspected of something; how one night we were awoken up at 04h00 due to a faulty fire alarm which scared the hell out of 3000 people in a five star Hilton Washington hotel; Jaywalker pedestrian traffic fine; I can go on and on. The worst one was in a metro rail where I saw a sign that says: ‘If you can be found seated while an elder or disabled person standing, is a criminal offence.’ I mean this is what we do day in and day out everyday in our country without any legal enforcement. That's ubuntu, humanity.

I went to 'despotic' Zimbabwe several times and have never felt the way I did in Washington DC, the capital city of the Land of the Free. I won’t even mention stringent airport security searches which took close to two hours to undertake.

My point is; let’s make noise about the bad as a way of drawing attention and with an intention of rectifying them; not promoting or finger-pointing. When called upon let’s celebrate without the ‘but…”. FIFA Confed was a success, nobody can argue to the contrary. As we give standing ovation to Caster Semenya, let’s motivate every single South Afrikan to strive for excellence in whatsoever we do. Bring back that gold Caster; we want to see it in the dusty street of Polokwane. I already wrote a poem to bless your return.

(Written on the 20th August 2009)

REVIEW

Review of a literary Journal: Green Dragon 6
reviewed by David wa Maahlamela

“Welcome to the sixth issue of the resurrected Green Dragon.” That’s the first line of the editorial of this 2003 founded literary journal. In the fifth issue the editor, Gary Cummiskey announced that he was euthenising it, and thanks to Poetry Africa festival in University of KwaZulu Natal which inspired him to carry this heavy yoke again.

The first time I came across Green Dragon, I fell in love with its layout and the use of what I regard as reader-friendly theme font, Palatino Linotype. Unlike other few literary journals, Gary is not putting his name on the cover, bolded and in caps as if it’s his own compendium. Of course working alone in a journal, one will expect common typing errors such as in the third sentence of this sixth issue’s editorial: “Producing a literary journal can a lot of work and-". I believe he forgot word such as ‘demand’ or ‘create’ after ‘can’.

A question that emerged in my mind is that how do we motivate few individuals who out of passion decide to do whatever it takes to run this few benevolent journals in the country? This came after Gary regarded it as “a thankless task”, I then realized that whatever they do; they are actually doing it for us, as writers.

Green Dragon consists of great wordsmith such as Ingrid Andersen, Janet van Eeden, Gus Ferguson, Allan Kolski Horwitz, Kelwyn Sole, Mphutlane wa Bofelo and Mxolisi Nyezwa. One other thing I like about this issue is variety of writing styles and themes used. The only problem which is not a problem is use of same writers. I spoke to several editors and realized that it’s safe to use people that you already know to avoid things like plagiarism. The only challenge is to be careful not to end up publishing names of writers rather than their products.

Former editor of New Coin, Alan Finlay’s second poem entitled ‘the flood…’ left me licking fingers. Choice of words plays a big role in this poem. Instead of saying I’m weak, he says: “my strength defeats me”. Furthermore he keeps on painting his own pictures in lines such as: "i am bitten by my own tears/ their long hot arrows, hot as sorrow…”.

As usual, Vonani Bila brings those age-restriction kind of pictorials where sensitive viewers should be cautioned. The poem, On Julie’s menu is about Julie who ‘burrows the heap of dead babies and miscarried brood at the hospital, cuts the head off, cooks and eats with pap.’ If you’ve read most of Vonani’s work, you will realize that he writes about stuff that are happening in our villages yet most writers; due to the question of credibility; avoid writing about them. Such stuff we normally talk about them in whispers, he says them loud. Poems such as Dahl Street, Pietersburg which starts with a very heavy statement; can bear evidence: “Sex-worker are burgers/ we chew the fresh ones…”. Mbengwa, Mpho, Hola Gazi and Porto Alegre Prostitute support my argument.

One poem that will adhere to your teeth is ‘homicide’ by Cecilia Ferreira. The poem is about a person who’s about to be judged or interrogated yet deep down confessing that he/she won’t sell out whatever secret he/she is keeping.

my tongue
is on a butcher’s board
(it’s not dead yet)

my tongue
is going to be slaughtered
(for dinner tonight)

my tongue
will be a platter
(with secrets on the side)

my tongue
is poison
(when silent)

Gary Cummiskey’s poem, Afterwards, just like Aryana Kaganof’s poem, The man without skeleton have something in common. One may think I’m say this hence they both use the f- language; but that’s not my focus. Of course in Gary’s poem there’s a line: “when we fucked against the wall” and in Aryan: “instead of booking into a cheap hotel and fucking the bejesus out of each other”. What I personally liked out of these poems is that they are able to take one into emotional situations and make you feel what the person felt. The use of simple or basic vocabulary enables them to be easily understood. Basically they used simple words in an artistic craft.

List of sound effects by one of the editors I respect the most, Kobus Moolman left me groping for understanding. The style of writing he applied; the same as the one on Alan Finlay’s first poem return (that’s after reading full version on Green Dragon blog), are broadly ambiguous. There are both advantages and disadvantages of this style. They are flexible to fit any situation and they turn to be relevant to any other occasions even after ages. The disadvantage is that they have many possible meanings in such a way a reader might misinterpret them.

The next poem is Visiting Hours by David wa Maahlamela – Oh it’s me! Well as much as I would like to chop myself, I don’t think I’m brave enough to do so. I will leave it for other critics. (the poem is great, actually it is very relevant around this time when government is discussing issues of a National Health Insurance. I’m not giving kudos to this poem simply because David wrote this review but the first thing that came to mind at reading it was ‘how can it be relevant to the doctor’s strike and rhetoric coming from Luthuli?' David shies away from confessing that he, like Vonani seem to have appointed themselves as carriers of the ghetto cross, all the way to the Mount of Olives. If I had to chop the poem it would be an injustice, however the jury is out and anybody who has read Green Dragon is welcome to taunt the poet – Editor)

Tania van Schalkwyk’s Hierophant is also one of those poems you would enjoy reading again and again. It’s nice to see how a person fears the presence of a ghost yet not happy when it has to leave hence it’s someone beloved.

In The Litchis’ song lyrics I married a goose emerges the type of ambiguity I personally prefer. Goose here can imply in two ways, as a bird and informally as a stupid person or person from a stupid race. A persona might be in love with this bird in such a way that people do not approve their bond or he might be in love with a person of a different race and people of his race not approving this cultural interaction. In conclusion he says to his own race:

“If they grew feathers
If they grew a beak
Then maybe from them
A wife I would seek”

Joop Bersee portrays a descent sexual scene in his poem, A game. His second poem, Crap Pizza beautifully tells of a woman’s worth. How what we regard as small things like cooking counts in the absences of the wife. On the second line there’s what I assume to have been typing era: “the pizzas are coming un” I guess it was suppose to be “in”.

Colleen Higgs in her short story, The poet and the woodcutter which in the index list is spelled as ‘woodcuter’ with single‘t’, is short and straight to the point. The story is alerting writers not to end up living writing in such a way that they will not even lighten up for their spouses when they deepen themselves in to the world of muse. It is true, most writers find themselves at times having to answer the “between me and your writing/poetry, whom do you love the most?” question.

Anton Krueger’s poem, Naked also stole my heart. To be honest, short poems like haikus are not my thing, that’s why I find it difficult understanding poems by Mick Raubenheimer. Below is one of them entitled Loci.

there is no inside
there is no outside
even is
is taking things
a bit far.

Having said that I still enjoyed his last poem entitled Hoove print. So gently romantic in a form of questions, the person asks his “tenderest creature” if she enjoyed what he calls “monstrous sensitivity”. He beautifully asks: “does your body still throb with echoes…?”I really saw and felt what was happening that evening…that urgent net.

The hip-hop influenced poet and founder of www.kasiekulture.blogspot.com, Goodenough Mashego is sharing shame of his neighbourhood in a poem shatale (part two).

“nothing you get in here only weedsmoke & AIDS
the girls ain’t giving us love they steal our cash get us poisoned
though it’s my hood i swear to god i’ll catch the first plane out”

Goodenough’s poem reminds me of the inferno which was burning me recently. Most established writers are into weed nowadays. It is believed that it results in writing quality stuff. Bob Marley and poets such as Han Shan, Mafika Gwala, Dambudzo Marechera but to mention a few, were writing best under the influence of either marijuana or alcohol. I really don’t know if that is a right way to inspire the coming generation.

“…I ask lots of difficult/ questions most of which/ I cannot answer myself” That is a quote from Aryan Kaganof’s second poem, Letter from a girl with no head. Aryan’s short story, Glock for sale literary made me to read it again. He tells a sad story comically. The story is about a person who got mugged by “the tall so-called black” while he was in position of his glock.

“It’s hard to argue with the barrel of a 9mm in your face and the very tall so-called black man in front of you looking nervous and his finger wriggling itself all over the trigger.”

He kept on creaming the story with light jokes and informality. Unlike the conventional way of quoting where we normally say: “like said so-and-said…”, Aryan gave a quote and later he said: “You might have noticed that the previous sentence was written by a much smarter person than myself, and it was.” They say as long as the lion can not learn how to write, the hunter will always be the hero in a Lion & Hunter story, but with Aryan is the opposite. He kept on sarcastically criticizing his failure in sentences such as this: “I probably couldn’t kill myself if I tried putting the barrel in my mouth and pulling the trigger”. The quote I loved in conclusion of the story, which made me understand why he kept on saying “the so-called black man” is the following: “There are no so-called blacks or whites anymore, just a dirty shade of grey called reality” (one rapper I love, Immortal Technique says there are no longer Blacks, Whites, Coloureds and Latino but only rich and poor people, I found that quite intriguing – Editor)

Megan Hall’s poem Valentine’s Day portrays contradiction of the haves and the have-not. How relaxation time to the have is working time for the have-not.

Neo Molefe Shameeyaa also outstood herself with her documentary poem; I heard fame and fashion calling your name. In this poem she just explains things as they are without giving any input. It is written in a dream-kind of style where one is just duplicating a picture without adding any personal colours.

Arja Salafranca concludes by reminding me of James Matthwes as she embraces age in her poem Chapped hearts, observing changes on her body and memories in the heart, bearing testimony to thirty-seven year she’s completing.

All in all, I give thumbs up to this resurrected Green Dragon issue and wish it could forever conquer death. For more information on Green Dragon, visit the following blog http://www.dyehard-press.blogspot.com/ . Mo Faya!

PROFILE

POET-LAUREATE IN WAITING - FOR HOW LONG?

When national poet laureate Mazisi Kunene passed away after a long illness last year, the country was gripped by a moment of uncertainity. As in any succession a need suddenly arose for someone worthy of the mantle to step into Kunene's size fourteen leather shoes and provide the country with laments and odes. Kunene is he who Sandile Ngidi once in his tribute that, "Kunene is largely forgotten in South Africa - a country that too often reduces greatness to political heroes. Surely the toyi-toyi was not the only response in creative self-expression when we were oppressed?" Okay when he died, we suddenly remembered him even though we never named a street or a theatre after him. Maybe our guilt at having abandoned him post '94 will drive us to finally honour him.

Immediately after Kunene's passing a highly articulate poet and to the very end a servant of the South African literary community Professor Keorapetse Kgositsile stepped in the suddenly vacant shoes. I still need to ask him if he's really size fourteen or whether he experiences regular blisters, even though some of the brilliant verses I have come across attributed to him suggests he's got a bigger footprint, figuratively.

But now in the spirit of a revived South African literary landscape there's another need for an understudy to this advisor to the Minister of Arts and Culture Dr Pallo Jordan. Someone who will immediately take over in the event of the good prof deciding to pass the buck - in his lifetime. Kasiekulture presents the most prolific Sepedi poet and performer to ever grace God's green earth - David wa Maahlamela as that understudy. Actually, I think I can get away with labeling Maahlamela a young man - he's still just 23-years-old. His artistic excellence has been tested in many publications, amongst one of them University of Limpopo's Dramatist in Residence Prof John Ruganda edited publication Turfwrite. Maahlamela's deep Sepedi poetry has seen him awarded many accolades, amongst them African Heritage Arts & Cultural Festival (2001 - 2003) Award, Musina Mayoral Excellence Award for Poetry (2005) and that famed International Society of Poets Outstanding Achiever Award (2005). And he's just 23 years old - let's remember that as we move along.

There's so much to write about gems that make a mockery of the Kimberely Process because they are just too good nobody cares if they are blood diamonds or not. Even if he was born in Liberia under despot Charles Taylor or restless Ivory Coast you can bet your last dime this rough jewel would have made it to any part of the world, adorned the fingers of Queens and remained down to earth. Maahlamela, who incidentally works for De Beers is just that. I'm going to write so much about him because it's not everyday that the local media (which is so obsessed with everything Beckham or Diddy does) interrogates rural-based voices like Maahlamela. His poetry has also appeared in the Polokwane based Timbila Poetry Project annual anthology TIMBILA. Here he largely muses in English and Sepedi.

His role model is undoubtedly mad-bard Lesego Rampolokeng after Nelson Mandela. Few poets are ever vocal about their adoration for the old with some calling him 'a blunder/ leading the nation asunder' but Maahlamela even put Mandela on the cover of his book. He wrote these intriguing lines about and for Rampolokeng. 'To the rhyme master - once in a while lesego/ let's write plastic poetry/ that melts when we near the fire/ let's praise corrupt politicians/ and ululate when they fart'. This thought-provoking (especially in the context of South Africa where politicians are as corrupt as Mobutu Sese-Seko to the point that their demonic greed froze the National Lottery) was published in Kobus Moolman edited FIDELITIES. His poetry has also graced the hallowed pages of Botsotso, New Coin, Carapace, Kotaz and Echoes. But all these overdue successes in getting his poetry published in various anthologies targetting various readerships is not the main point behind this review.

And the point is also not to market Maahlamela as a poet laureate-in-waiting, which he is. The point is simple; Maahlamela surprised many by finally releasing his first Sepedi poetry collection titled Moswarataukamariri (Timbila) (loosely translated it means 'He who grasps a lion by its brow'). It was surprising because young men his age are still obsessed with Ebonics much to the detriment of their own mother tongue.

To express his level of self-esteem Maahlamela is brave to write, 'dingwe di retwa di bowa mokatong. Ge e le nna ke retwa ke sa ya' (Others are praised when they return from a race. Me, I receive accolades before I race). Further on the poem says, 'gobane ke mofenyi, maila go fenywa' (because I'm a victor, allergic to defeat). Now, let's not take things at face value but put this to the test.

As told to you earlier Maahlamela is only 23-years-old but his poetry has already taken him to Washington DC, he has performed infront of Arts Minister Jordan and the best writers this country can offer at the inaugural South African Writers Award and has recently finished his first English poetry manuscript which is now ready for publication. Moswarataukamariri, which was edited by legendary Sepedi playwright Alleta Motimele and Lerole Mamabolo is made up of more than 50 beautiful poems. The one that I found outstanding due to its depth is Ka Lehu Laka (In the event of my Demise) which is praise singing/ tragedy/ comedy and dry humour at its best. If anybody thought indigenous languages can't make William Shakespeare look dull try getting someone to translate Ka Lehu Laka for you. I challenge and promise you cash if you can get anyone to successfully do that - it's so rich it's just untranslatable (for lack of a fancy word).

After all is said and done, and like I said I can only write so much about altruistic souls who deserve own chapters in the Encyclopaedia of South African Poetry, Maahlamela, like Kgositsile and the late Kunene deserve a mention - if not biographies. Instead of government stressing about renaming landmarks after only struggle heroes, let us remember what Ngidi said, "Surely the toyi-toyi was not the only response in creative self-expression when we were oppressed?" Maahlamela deserves a statue and a plague, anywhere but Newtown, where people will ask relevant questions about him - the next poet laureate.

* Maahlamela's new English poetry will be featured in the upcoming Green Dragon # 5 (Dye Hard Press)
* He will also be featured in the popular SABC 1 Thursday night 18h30 series Voices of Africa (Media Peace Centre)
* For other titles from Timbila Poetry Project visit their website.