In the August quarterly workshop, we read the poem, ‘Things I Didn’t Know I Loved’ , by Nazim Hikmet.
Reading it led to writing about things we like and love, the small, often unnoticed details about them, and what they help us to remember.
If you’d like to read Hikmet’s beautiful poem – here’s the link:
(to read more, click on the lines above)
I never knew I loved the sea
growing up on mine dumps at high altitude
dry soil with gold dust
I never knew I loved the beaches, Clifton in
summer sun, ice water makes me lose my ankles
Plett’s lost beach, Lookout
that got swallowed by an angry river
snatching all my childhood memories
sand castles and rock pools
stolen sex on the whispering dunes
sand in your panties doesn’t feel too good
I never knew I loved the waves,
the curling walls of water that
boys surfed down while I bobbed over
the curves of the little waves
in the shallows, safe
I never knew I loved the smells
waking up to tingling fresh sea air
that brought a hunger for coffee and croissants
eaten overlooking an empty beach
after a long, long walk with wet toes
the smells of breakfast with the salty starfish brine
bacon and maple syrup and seaweed
I never knew I loved the sea, the beaches, the waves, the smells
when I was growing up on the mine dumps
at high altitude
I’ve learned to love the sunrise – I used to sleep
long into the morning –
growing pains, childhood seemed so hard
to get up for school, to study early for exams
the frost still white on the lawn
the milk cart delivering milk and orange juice –
vitamin C in icy winter, the Western Transvaal
so cold the water froze – long icicles
from the garden tap, the bedroom windows all misted up –
I could blow a hole into it to see outside –
the dog’s paw marks as they tracked over the grass
his yellow piss a steaming puddle near the willow tree.
I’ve learned to love the night –
dark velvet sky, stars like holes punched into a blanket –
although some nights were frightening when my parents fought
their battles at the other end of the house.
I woke and held my breath – the shouting subsided
and then I heard the sound of my mother
feeling her way along the dark passage –
her hand dragging the wall. I still hear that sound some nights –
even though it’s over forty years ago.
I’ve learned to love the ocean – yet I lived
a thousand miles away and I only saw it once
a year – a seaside holiday in the Eastern Cape
and like an English child I had a net and a sunbonnet
and ate rock candy. I think I married
my husband because he lived by the ocean
and now we walk on the beach
every day – whales blow. We take our dogs
to Sunrise beach sometimes at sunset.
The moon rises there too –
I never knew I loved sunrise.
I never knew I loved sticks.
I thought of them straight and cutting, like schoolmasters.
But sticks can be mottled and gnarled,
even more beautiful than old people -
irregular, and useful in a way of sturdiness.
They make a shape out of longing, and sometimes
I have to wonder if they miss their trees.
I never knew I loved breathing,
except for Anne’s ‘three conscious breaths’, of course.
I’ve come to realise, though, you’ve got to love the other ones too.
The way they pass quietly down the corridors of your life -
just doing their jobs, without any rewards.
They make a living out of thin air; and maybe they get miffed
having to carry on so underappreciated.
I never knew I loved drops
In my recollection, they always gathered in stains.
But drops can be valiant, pot-bellied revolutionaries -
the way they hold out against the forces of gravity.
Every laugh is a drop, resisting before it falls.
They make tiny surprises out of plunging, so I’ve decided to collect them.
I don’t want to end up with a sad and empty bucket.
It is strange how many things we love
yet do not know we love them
sitting with two sister writers
on a chilly rainy day in Touch of Madness
I discovered this love for cups
Having not known winters before
my blood pipes had gotten it frozen
corpses of words in their box
blue nails waited long in vain
to release the ink
This burning cup of white Rooibos
nearly finished my tongue
as I gulped a few sips
to restore the system
What would winter be like
without burning cups of tea?
In my childhood
I have listened to many birds
their chirps used to wake us up
in the morning
I learned the names of many of them
it all happened naturally
Today, pigeons and herons
are my favourites
their songs whether filtered or sandy
always attract me
I never knew I have passion for trees
many times I have stopped on my way
to watch their swaying boughs
or colourful blossoms
and felt a son of praise rise in me
I am Eve in Kirstenbosch Gardens
how I wish I could retain all the names
on the umpteen labels they wear
I like empty jars
their feminine look
the way they open up
waiting to be filled
with endless possibilities
Rivers are loveable too
and unstoppable
their serpentine course
through mountains and plains
never closing an eye in the night
their rumbling, our lullaby
Raindrops are funny things to fall in love with
enchanting like bubbles
children all over the world know this better
how mayny get spanked
for playing in the rain?
Raindrops drumming on our roofs
imbibe us with heavenly bliss
As a child I have climbed many mountains
from home to school
from home to my auntie’s
from fome to my granny’s
there mountains everywhere
scary staircases to the infinite
There mountains here too
a look at this one in front of me
always takes me to the chains in me
the good thing about climbing mountains is
you always come back where you started
Could this be the beginning of passion for hiking?
Sharing a smile
with a stranger
forgetting to be afraid
folded in your arms
I am a child again
laughing.
love hides in the flowers
of the syringa tree
surprising me each spring
a window seat over Africa
red dust roads
aching in the sunlight
sharing a meal with strangers
under a syringa tree
barefoot in God’s garden
where fat bellied secrets
sprout from the seeds
of lost words.
I never knew I loved crystals so much
until I saw the light catch deep within them
far into the recesses of their infinite formations
and sunsets with you…
sitting side by side, holding hands, licking softserve
watching the sun sink its head below the horizon,
which reminds me of dad
who will die one day leaving everything behind
I never knew I loved him so much
He always said: you’ll only know how much when you have your own children…
and now, I do. Deep within my womb, it’s you.
Warm, soft and totally dependent on me.
I can’t see my life without you
I never knew I loved you this much.
I never knew I loved smells; paint, jasmine, sour rot, decayed flesh, coffee aroma.
From Colombia to Java, roasted beans infused with steam, sip crema,
swallow pure caffeine.
A surprise love; my lovers; I never knew I loved them all.
The shyest left daisies each morning. By chance I spied him,
tense with caution, place the yellow posy,
his six-year old fingers carefully arranging the crushed stems
in the hope I would love him back.
I never knew I loved mountains, framed by sea and sky,
white gulls daubed in the foreground,
evening light on the Hottentot Hollands. A lover’s caress.
Until I collected stones I never knew I loved jet,
black rock found in Whitby,
bevelled and drilled into jewellery.
I never knew I loved waters; discovered I too flow and ebb.
Each day, my tides synchronised with the planet’s oceans,
we both ruled by the moon.
I never knew I loved waves until I lived in my little house by the sea. The sound of the waves in the distance sometimes big and terrifying, other times lapping quietly against the shore.
I never knew I loved roses until I missed seeing them every Monday in the bathroom, a single red rose in a vase welcoming me back.
I never knew I loved roses until they arrived at random to tell me that he was in love with me. I never knew I loved them until they stopped coming and I knew what that meant.
I never knew I loved sunsets until I walked along the boardwalk and stood silently watching the sun go down behind the mountains, leaning into the arms of a kind, gentle, loving man who planned to watch many more sunsets with me.
I never knew I loved rocks until we sat together on the rocks enjoying the silence.
I never knew I loved hands until we fell asleep in the guesthouse, hands held across the gap between our single beds, so close, closer than if we had shared the same bed. Strong hands, hands to hold me, take care of me, support and protect me.
I never knew I loved cinnamon
The smell of it
wafting from a pot of simmering curry
or the feel of the hard brown bark
snapping between my fingers
leaving splinters of pungent smell
as I raise them to my mouth.
I knew I loved toddlers
tottering on widespread legs
trying to talk in words like ”úp”and ”more”
Toddlers with sticky fingers
on sugar highs
from too many sour worms.
Toddlers pressing car keys into draw locks
and beaming with pride
at the right move
though the wrong fit.
I never knew I liked smells
The metallic smell of commuter trains
sour seat covers
a prelude to some new destination
maybe to the smell of apple blossom
or sycamore or pine cones
fresh and new, carried on a crisp wind.
I never knew I loved dogs
Walking dogs
Snuggling with dogs
feeling their soft fur against my chest.
I must love dogs
because I pick up their poo
even when it is under the washline
where I want to hang
my pristine white cotton sheets
without them flapping into brown puddles.
I never knew how much I treasured moments
Just single moments uncluttered by how I should be
Just a joyous moment with me in it, in this moment and no other
Just the me I am and no other
I know that now. That there are such moments.
I didn’t know I loved not knowing
not knowing the wild mystery of the unanswerable
For what more could there be to know about a stranger’s kindness
except that it was a gift with no expectations?
I know this now. That one is given such unencumbered gifts.
And for all those fretful years before the mirror
I never knew that it was not how I appeared that made you love me
but simply that because you loved me, you found me beautiful
your constancy a more faithful mirror than my ever fickle self-regard
I know it now. That there can be such love.
I can’t regret not knowing
It is by the empty heart that yearning learns its longing
only, the question haunts me.
What is it that I don’t know now of which in time to come
I will say: what I didn’t know I know now?
I didn’t know I loved strangers until I found myself awash with commuting crowds at Victoria Station and I on my suitcase. Or when I stepped on an aeroplane and flew amongst them to strange new lands.
I didn’t know I loved dew till today while watching it sparkle and move on grass blades being dried by the early sun. Can drops object to being evaporated?
I found I loved dew when my shoes squelch it up and my socks absorb it to wet my toes.
I didn’t know I loved dew until the blade on the rear window wiped it away to show the road I had travelled. Reversing out to go forward.
I didn’t know I loved geese, standing on chimneys, calling a warning, letting dog and I know we were seen. Their chest marks proudly pushed out and white flashes below wings as they land.
Mountains I loved on the Swartberg Pass
The ranges stretched on both hands
Away to touch the washed blue sky
I touched the tops
Glory to God rang out.
I never knew I liked steps;
the ones that lead up into my house.
The dogs sit there and wag their woolly tails.
I never knew I loved all the steps
in my house,
my crooked house that a father built for his sons.
One step takes me from the level of my study down
to the entrance room – if you can call it that.
There are no passages in this house,
just single steps that lead up and down between rooms.
One step has been trodden so many times
there’s a smooth long hollow
worn into the wood.
I never knew how much I loved the steps that lead down to the bedrooms
beneath the house,
down a wooden ladder
(it came from a barn)
to where we sleep.
Sometimes when the wind is in the right direction
we can smell and hear the sea.
Now that I mention it,
I never knew I loved the sea
Clear and turquoise on a winters’ day
or when the sky is a blank of clouds and the sea gun metal.
On days when the wind howls
the sea kicks itself into a fury.
I never knew I loved the sea.
I know, though, there were days when I hated it.
Out on the ocean, crossing from one continent to another,
surrounded by its unrelenting enormity,
its always thereness.
I hated it then.
But now that there are earth diggers
and men with picks
ripping up the road that borders the coast,
the road I travel home,
I realise that I miss the sea
So many things to think of loving
I never knew how much I liked the idea of listing them all.
Anne Schuster is moving to Kleinmond, from where she will run writing retreats and a scaled-down writing workshop programme. This event, organised by the women who are members of her monthly writing groups, honoured her contribution to many, many writers.
‘In writing with others, without pretension, without competition and without trying to impress, there is an extraordinary connection of creative energies.’ ~ Anne Schuster
Christine Coates and Maire Fisher
With thanks to BOOK SA, Bridgett Whyte, Christine Coates and Maire Fisher for the pics and to Daniel Fisher for the music.
There are so many lovely photos that won’t fit here, that rather than making lots of small collages of small pictures, I’ve put them together into two movies with two songs as backing tracks. The music is slightly jumpy, but I couldn’t make files that were too big, so please forgive this. You’ll find the links below.
On Wednesday 20 October, 2010 Ann Donald generously opened the doors of Kalk Bay Books to the Monthlies, and we gathered to pay tribute to Anne Schuster, a remarkable woman, a gifted writer and writing teacher who has worked with women’s groups in Cape Town for more than a decade.
Preparations started well before 20.10.2010. Ilze Olkers, another exceptional facilitator, consulted with members of the group and so a fine plan was hatched. Each Monthly would write a tribute to Anne, on a postcard. These would, if possible, include words from ‘Writing is Learning to Die’, a poem written by Anne in her novel, Foolish Delusions:
Writing is Learning to Die
Anne SchusterI lie on the inside of the night
at the edge of the wound
scratching the dark with my eyelids
ready to write the story
which I cannot bear to rememberWhat is it that makes one dare?
I write as if the secret that is in me
were before me
galloping ahead of me and beyond –
a night-ride to the very edge of the world
where all the dragons liveWhat is it that makes one dare?
I let go into a moment of nothing
allow a force that I am not
recount my story to me
allow it’s breath to enter me
inspire me – andI hear writing write.
The postcards were then given to Christine Coates, story-teller, poet and book-maker extraordinaire. She became, in her own words ‘totally absorbed and compulsively obsessed’ as she created A Renga Book for Anne to Read and Play with at Leisure, made of recycled watercolour paintings, layered and folded into an accordion book with pages, envelopes, packets of surprises.
It’s impossible to describe how beautiful the book is; hopefully the photographs will help to show what an inspired creation it is.
Cynthia Mac Pherson kindly arrived early to fill vases with an abundance of proteas and bougainvillea and Cathwrynn, the lovely and willing assistant at KBB helped us to clear the decks for the evening.
As Anne and Annemarie arrived they were sung to their seat by Daniel Fisher (Maire Fisher’s son).
Shaida Ali, newly published author of Not a Fairy Tale, then welcomed everyone in fine sparkling style:
Anne, if at this moment, you’re feeling overwhelmed, take three conscious breaths. Hand on your heart for extra credit.
Thank you to Kalk Bay Books for the use of this fine venue. To the Mighty Monthlies who have participated in this mostly surprise, thank you.
Anne, your writing workshops have brought us much light, laughter and love. You’ve taught us that with stubs of pencils or fancy pens, we can open up cans of worms, free jinn from bottles, break locks on closets where bones were turning brittle. You’ve shown – without telling – that our non-dominant hands hold golden keys to secret words. Your workshops have been magical journeys. They’ve been gifts. So tonight it’s our turn to provide you with a gift or two or three.
Here’s the first. After long hours of deliberation the judges have agreed that you’re the most deserving recipient of: The Sparkly Chocolate Cupcake Award for Most Fabulous Writing Teacher and here to present it is my lovely blonde associate, Ms Wordsmith herself, Nella Freund.
The next award is another mouthful. It’s the Sparkly Chocolate Cupcake Award For Best Cloak and Dagger Mostly Surprise Farewell Party Assistant Planner. And it goes to Annemarie. Thank you Nella.
We are here, Anne, to rejoice in your move to Kleinmond. And we’re delighted that you’re not abandoning us: We love our new roles as Quarterlies. Thank you, Anne.
Christine, one of the original Monthlies, took us back to the first workshops, recalling the events that happened along the way. She presented Anne with her Renga Book, and as a true devotee, proceeded to show not tell her how it worked (as well as all the tributes from the Monthlies, Anne has been set games and writing exercises which involve pink and green slips …).
Christine said that the book represents the texture and richness of Anne’s influence on the writing and lives of many women.
The idea taken from a Japanese poetry form made by many
Maire introduced Daniel’s next song, and explained that both songs, ‘That’s All’ and ‘You were Always on my Mind’ had been chosen specifically:
When we started writing with Anne something new came into our lives. Not quite human, somewhat otherworldly, drawn from our depths, floating in the air around us. Shape-shifting, elusive, at times shy, at other times demanding, once this Protean creature moved in, she was here to stay. We’d find her wallowing in our bath, eavesdropping in restaurants, trying on the clothes in our wardrobe, watching our neighbours and prodding us to find out where they’d been.
Some of the monthlies treated her like a beloved friend, like visiting royalty even, communicating with her daily, helping her with her chores, seeing what she’d like to eat and drink. Often they’d travel many, many miles, through strange and unexplored terrain, guided by instinct and discipline, to provide her with exactly what she needed to flourish. For these monthlies, her shadowy form became solid and robust.
Sadly … other monthlies neglected her terribly, and she languished, patiently hoping for a morsel here, a crumb there, a small change of scenery, or simply a thin sliver of sunlight.With deep gratitude we thank Anne for fostering this complex, complicated, frustrating, rewarding and exciting relationship.
We dedicate both of the songs tonight to that abundantly generous, ever-giving and ever-forgiving creature, Our Writing.
Ilze then invited the monthlies to share in an open-mic session, to read the poems they had written for Anne, or to say something to her. A stream of Monthlies shared their words, including poems from the mezzanine balcony by Sue Bust and Brigitte Murphy …
Time for the grand finale: the presentation of two Dutch bicycles specially chosen for Anne and Annemarie’s forthcoming move to Kleinmond. As Mish Damstra and Shaida wheeled out the bikes which Mish had garlanded with flowers and festooned with flags, the Monthlies joined in a ragged but rousing rendition of ‘Annie, Annie, here is a bike for you’ (Maire’s version of ‘Daisy Daisy’):
Annie, Annie, here is a bike for you
Specially bought for the grand Klienmond debut
We hope it brings years of pleasure
As you enjoy your leisure
May you feel swell as you ring your bell
On the bike that we chose for you.
Dearest Annemarie, we also got one for you
Specially bought to give you the thanks you’re due
Our thoughts on this were not random
In fact they rode in tandem
Cos you’ll both look sweet
Upon the seats
Of the bikes that we bought for two!
(The bicycle, the bicycle surely, should always be
the vehicle of novelists and poets. ~ Christopher Morley)
Bikes that we bought for two!
Ilze then ended by asking us to think about the web that connects us all, that allows us to be where we are, who we are. We sat in silence as she chimed her Tibetan bells 12 times. One chime for each of the years the Monthlies have been writing together.
- Cupcakes for all – Shaida and Mish handing out the sparkly stuff
… A woman sits down to write. She sits down at the grey trestle table in the familiar room surrounded by other writing women. She notes the beautiful seriousness on all their faces – varied in age and occupation, committed to writing. She has left behind the dust, the dirt, the sticky pots and pans, the soiled linen. She feels the warmth that starts in her belly and slowly spreads throughout her body, and knows that it is time. She writes as they write, the women around her. They have carved out this little chunk of time. They feel, for these cherished moments, their real selves. She knows that, if she is blessed, she will carry the feeling off, out and home, like a secret rhythm …
~ an excerpt from A woman sits down to write published in 2003 by Women’s Writing Workshops.
Among the publications Anne has been responsible for are:
Kilimanjaro on my Lap a collection of poetry by Epiphanie Mukasano, 2010.
Writing the Self: An anthology of new writing from Women’s Writing Workshops, 2008.
Living on the Fence: Poems by women who are refugees from various countries in Africa, 2007.
Women Flashing: A collection of flash fiction from Women’s Writing Workshops, 2006.
Journey to Myself: writings by women from prison in South Africa. A collection of writing from a series of workshops with women in Pollsmoor Prison, 2004.
A woman sits down to write: Orts and Fragments from Women’s Writing Workshops, 2003.
In My Life: Youth stories and poems about HIV and AIDS. A collection of writing from a series of workshops with youth from different communities in the Western Cape, 2003.
Remember Me? Stories from women who work on farms, a collection of stories and poems from a workshop designed and facilitated for Women on Farms Project, 2002.
Nelspoort ons lief en leed, a collection of writing from a workshop with 16 women from Nelspoort, for the Southern Cape Land Committee, 2001. Book launched 2002.
Women Recall, a collection of women’s life stories produced from workshops co-facilitated (with Annemarie Hendrikz) for the Southern Cape Land Committee, 2000.
Piecing together the Past, a collection of writing from a workshop held at the District Six Museum, August 2000.
My greatest satisfaction when I look back at my work over the last 12 years is to know that I enabled this “community of women writers” (as Ingrid de Kok once described it). ~ Anne Schuster
Some members, past and present of Anne’s groups are:
Anne Woodborne (with Basil Appollis), Silence of the Music, premiered at the Baxter Theatre, September, 2010.
Beth Hunt, Hermanus (Penstock Publishing, Hemel en See Boeke/Books).
Christine Coates (with Stephen Malherbe), Living with my X, (Random House/Struik).
Colleen Higgs, halfborn woman (Hands-On Books), founder of Modjaji Books.
Consuelo Roland, The Good Cemetery Guide (Double Storey Books), short-listed for Sunday Times Fiction Prize; Honorable Mention Olive Schreiner Prize for Prose.
Gail Gilbride Bohle, The Web of Silence (Online at Crink).
Epiphanie Mukasano, Kilimanjaro on my Lap (Dakini).
Helen Douglas, Love and Arms: On violence and justification after Levinas (Trivium Publications).
Hester van der Walt, Hester se Brood (Modjaji Books).
Jean, Behind the Curtain: Jean’s Journey to Sobriety (Human and Rousseau), long-listed for the Alan Paton Award for non-fiction.
Joanne Fedler, When Hungry, Eat; Things Without A Name; Secret Mother’s Business; The Dreamcloth (Jacana and Allen and Unwin).
Joanne Hichens (with Mike Nichols), Out to Score (Random House / Struik); (Ed) Bad Company (Macmillan); (Ed) The Bed Book of Short Stories (Modjaji Books).
Karen Brooks, Emily and the Battle of the Veil and Emily and the Sprites of Light (Self published).
Karen Cochlovius, Desert Varnish (Kwela).
Karin Schimke and Margie Orford, Fabulously 40 and Beyond - Women Coming Into Their Own (Spearhead Press).
Kiki Theo, Money Well, Money Alchemy, Wealth Journey (Penguin).
Lynne Carneson McGregor, Red in the Rainbow (Random House / Struik).
Margaret Legum, Learning to saunter (Kalk and Cheese Press).
Margie Orford, Daddy’s Girl and subsequent Clare Hart thrillers (Jonathan Ball)
Mary Monaghan, Remember Me; Who Do You Belong To? (Self published).
Melissa Steyn and Mikki van Zyl, (Eds), The Prize & The Price: Shaping Sexualities in South Africa (HSRC Press).
Pregs Govender, Love and Courage: A Story of Insubordination (Jacana), long-listed for the Alan Paton Award for non-fiction.
Rahla Xenopoulos, A Memoir of Love and Madness: Living with bipolar disorder (Zebra).
Ruth Carneson, finalist for Penguin Prize for African Writing.
Shaida Ali, Not a Fairy Tale (Random House / Struik).
Tracy Farren, Whiplash (Modjaji), short-listed for the Sunday Times Fiction Prize.
Willemien De Villiers, Kitchen Casualties; Angel in the Tree House (Jacana).
And to prove that Anne walks the walk:
Anne Schuster, Foolish Delusions (Jacana), translated into German and published by Kalliope.
Many monthlies have been published in poetry collections, literary journals and short story anthologies and have won writing competitions. Among them are:
Anne Woodborne, Avis MacIntyre, Beth Hunt, Chantal Stewart, Christine Coates, Colleen Higgs, Consuelo Roland, Epiphanie Mukasano, Erika Coetzee, Helen Douglas, Irene Zeelie, Joanne Fedler, Joanne Hichens ,Karin Schimke, Loubna Freih, Maire Fisher, Margie Orford, Mish Damstra, Nella Freund, Rahla Xenopoulos, Susan Ziehl, Tanya Chan-Sam, Tracey Farren, Wilhelmien de Villers and – of course – Anne Schuster herself.
If names have been omitted from both of these lists, please forgive us. The intention was not to exclude anyone, but rather to show, with the information we had available (mainly from the Monthlies Blog ) how many women have been inspired by Anne as a writing teacher. If you know of others who should be added to this list, please let me know and I’ll add them immediately.
When discussing her workshops, Anne had this to say:
I’m often amazed that people don’t realise or recognise the power of women’s creative spaces. They think the fact that I make it a women’s only space is just an odd quirk of mine, and the fact that The Monthlies has grown from a handful of women when I started Women’s Writing Workshops in 1999 to the splendid number of 100-plus women at the last workshop, is some strange, unexplained phenomenon.
‘Strange, unexplained’ … and also highly creative and productive!
Thank you, Anne!
The Launch of Kilimanjaro on my lap by Epiphanie Mukasano. Grateful thanks to Liesl Jobson for taking the photos and allowing us to use them on the blog.
It was standing room only at Kalk Bay Books on Thursday 6 May 2010 for the launch of Kilimanjaro on my lap, a collection of poems by Epiphanie Mukasano, published by DAKINI.
Sadly, Gabeba Baderoon, who edited Epiphanie’s collection, was unable to make the launch. She sent her love and congratulations to Epiphanie, and said how proud and happy she was to have been associated with Kilimanjaro on my lap. In her absence Annemarie Hendrikz opened the launch by outlining the background to DAKINI, an imprint which publishes first collections of beautiful poetry.
The Dakini has many guises and is an important figure in Buddhist mythology, and Annemarie introduced her as a goddess of life-changing moments. What could be more life-changing for a writer than to see her words in print? The power of the Dakini carries beyond this though, to the heart of the reader affected by the words of a writer like Epiphanie. Perspectives shift, new roots take hold, we are taken into a life that is marginalized and often dangerous, and, as is the case with all good writing, after reading Epiphanie’s poems we see the world differently.
Anne Schuster, founder of DAKINI, writer, poet, writing teacher and facilitator extraordinaire of Women’s Writing Workshops, could herself be seen as a Dakini – a guardian angel of women’s writing who allows a writing space where voices like Epiphanie’s and many others flourish.
6 May, the date of the launch, is also Epiphanie’s birthday and Malika Ndlovu, Durban-born performer-word-weaver-story-lover, then saluted the birth of Epiphanie’s book and her birthday with a performance poem which she had written in 24 hours, after being asked to step in and take Gabeba’s place.
She is mountain’s daughter
yet spirit free like water
Epiphanie
sister born to rolling hills
and weeping sky
yet still she opens
inner eye
Epiphanie
it is clear to me
your home is here
your family is near
You need not run or ever hide
for you have found your home
inside
(Malika Ndlovu)
When she woke up that morning, Epiphanie said, the wind was howling and the rain was pouring down. However, she evoked a childhood rhyme: ‘rain rain go away, come again another day’. The weather obliged, and it was, Epiphanie said, ‘a good day for me.’ A day which had seen the birth of her book, her family and friends near her, surrounded by kindness and good wishes – she was, truly, counting her blessings.
Counting my blessings
I’m sitting in the setting sun, counting my blessings, They keep slipping out of my hands. Nothing palpable. Nothing to thank God for? Maybe my eyes have turned blind. Maybe my hands have turned numb. Maybe my heart is a living rock. I will start all over again. Counting my blessings. I wish I could fill buckets. No, trucks. No, ships. Still nothing palpable. Nothing to thank God for? I will start all over again. I’m sitting in the deep sleep of the sun. Everything is quiet. Even the mice in my house will not interfere. I can hear my breath, I can hear my heartbeat. At last, right under my nose, I have found something. Something to thank God for. (From Kilimanjaro on my lap)
Standing room only at Kalk Bay Books for the launch of Kilimanjaro on my lap by Epiphanie Mukasano. Grateful thanks to Liesl Jobson for taking and allowing us to use her photographs.
I spoke to Epiphanie about Kilimanjaro on my lap and asked her what lay at the heart of her book.
‘This is my own book – it’s a big step in my life. I never thought I would have a chance like this.
‘Life hasn’t always been easy for my family and me. But writing poetry has given me the opportunity to think this through for myself, and to realise that while it may sometimes seem that we haven’t achieved a great deal, at the heart of all that happens there is always hope. True, there have been many times in my life, when hope looked like dying. Watching people around me die, wondering, will I be the next? We’ve been tossed around by the winds and the storms of life. Then, at a time when I was very low, the chance of publishing my poetry came about. That coincided with hearing big news about my family in Rwanda, some of it harrowing, some of it joyous. I knew then that my poetry had added meaning; it would allow me to share these feelings, the sorrow and the celebration.’
On the edge of madness
the wind carried me away
down the green hill
to land
under a silver tree
(the first lines of ‘Under the silver tree’, Kilimanjaro on my lap)
‘Sometimes, I feel like a hollow reed. I ask, what has been left at the core of me, and can it ever be filled? I find sounds and music useful. I pour them into the hollowness and they settle. At other times I feel like a branch cut from the mother tree. But then I remind myself, I carry flowers and seeds. Wherever I land my feet I have been able to grow, even in foreign soil, even if that place is plagued by bureaucracy, regulations and xenophobia. A flower finds a place to grow, even in the hardest soil. My book is a flower – out of nothingness something has blossomed.
‘Working on my poetry, knowing it would become a book, has helped me in another way. I can see my connection to the whole world more clearly. I have often asked who am I? And now I can answer that question. I am someone who has had to work hard, try hard, deal with hardship, but at my core I am someone who wants to celebrate life.
‘Life can be as fragile as glass. War breaks hopes and dreams. In one short time, they are all gone. It breaks our contact with family and friends. The whip of war shatters everything. But in the darkness a bell rings and awakens you. It rings hope; it says, there is something beyond the darkness. Carry on. And then I look at my life, at my beautiful family, and I think, we have been through all of these things. But it has not been the end. We still have hope.’
then in the silent dark
somewhere from within
a song finds its way
light comes in the night
the moon relents
and you sing of the beauty of life
(closing lines of ‘Light in the night’, Kilimanjaro on my lap)
‘I know the colour of despair and the sound of hope; I counter my sense of displacement with a determination to settle and put down roots; I see life for what it is, and dream about what it may become. I accept my sorrows and I work hard at moving past nostalgia because nostalgia can kill you. My home is here now, in Cape Town, with the people who make my home: my family. My home is there too – in Rwanda. The people who died there live in my heart.
‘I carry all this with me and in me, and make my poems from it all.’
I am from a remote land
faint memories of undulating hills
and unwinding rivers
I am a rootless tree
standing as if by magic
swinging back and forth
yet battling not to crumble
(the first lines of ‘I am from’, Kilimanjaro on my lap)
About the poet
Epiphanie Mukasano is originally from Rwanda where she used to be a teacher. She has a Master’s degree in English Literature, and now lives as a refugee in Cape Town with her husband and children. Her poems have been published in Living on the Fence (2007) a collection of writing by women who are refugees from various countries in Africa. Epiphanie contributed ‘When a name is lost’ to the collection of birth stories, Just Keep Breathing and most recently, Cambridge University Press has published her children’s story Shema and the Goat (2009).
Kilimanjaro on my lap is dedicated to Epiphanie’s mother and to the memory of her father, sisters and brothers.
Kilimanjaro on my lap
By Epiphanie Mukasano
ISBN 978-0-620-46153-5
DAKINI
R90.00
Kilimanjaro on my lap is available at Kalk Bay Books, Clarke’s Bookshop, Long Street and direct from DAKINI at : www.anneschuster.co.za.
Live Writing provided material support for Kilimanjaro on my lap, and is delighted to have played a small part in the creation of this collection.
More pics from Kalk Bay Books at the launch of Kilimanjaro on my lap by Epiphanie Mukasano. Grateful thanks to Liesl Jobson for taking and allowing us to use her photographs.
Dear Monthlies
The end of another year, and after attending eight writing workshops, one that has been incredibly productive for the Monthly writing groups. This year we have truly written awry, thanks as always to Anne’s inspired and inspiring workshops. We have reached the sky, felt the wind, swam towards meaning, climbed way out of comfort zones, listened to the earth as she breathed, let thunder roll into our writing, burned away the dross and finally found ourselves in the Valley of Joyous Expression.
It’s been a great year for many of the monthlies – what with books being accepted by publishers, art exhibitions, second books being launched – the monthlies are hot! (And if you don’t believe me, take a look at the Karin Andersen’s news about Afrika Burn for a sizzling end to the exciting news for the year! Make sure you watch the video too – especially 1 minute 22 seconds in!)
Portfolio Day was brimful of writers showing what they had done during 2009, but Anne still managed to get us writing for the blog – Shadorma after Shadorma, followed by yet more Shadormas! They are such fun to write. I tried to find out more about them, but very little is known, and so I think we’ll just go with the Monthly interpretation of this poetry form: poems redolent with sleeping shadows!
It’s been my privilege to edit such talented writers – thank you for making my task so easy! May I end this with a gift of words to the wonderful women who make up Anne Schuster’s Monthly Writing Groups?
Mairexx
Shadormas for the Monthlies
I
O Shadorma
Are you but
a sleeping shadow-
poem of dreams
hovering?
Your name gives me the freedom
to think of you so.
II
The Monthlies
She who writes
swings on threads of words.
Eyes open
she mind-dreams,
falls aslant into stories
and writes her way out.
Reverie - Simeon Solomon (British, 1840-1905)
I am in
this day forever
in a feathered hat
adventures
hover in-between the lines
glittered and sparkling
The long grass
Weaving to and fro
Dark clouds gather
Frightening
Then thunder and lightning
Unload their cargo
She is pale
The colour of death
Her eyes closed
No more pain
Clouds roll in; lightning strikes
A soul burns
