Conundrum
Antjie Krog
wrote
to be able to write one has to
enter the self by going beyond
the limits imposed by the self
well
for me
it’s never
been that
easy
Giving Voice to My Truth
In order to find the truth, my own truth;
I have to dig deep – not skirt around
that small kernel of self that has
the ability to explode like a volcano,
spewing the words over the page; resembling
hot lava, each word becomes alive like fire.
Words run into each other and
into themselves and expand across
the page exposing me and my life.
To find the kernel; the voice of my soul I
have to relax and be unafraid. I have to
express my thoughts and
reveal that which I have wanted and
needed to say. Many people, many voices,
many stories; through the darkest valleys
to the welcoming light;
all make up my solitary tale.
There have been learnings, and
there have been teachings but I only found them
after I was ready to leave the daylight
and dig deeply inside myself
in the stillness of the night.
Sound loop
Some thoughts just won’t
stop. Round and round a never-
ending merry-go-round. Over and
over some thoughts go, looping
endlessly like a record
stuck in a groove. One
thought gets bogged
down in one place, holding me helplessly chained, holding me
endlessly, helplessly in its thrall. Stuck,
stuck, stuck. It doesn’t travel,
it is stuck in the mud
of my mind, its wheels churning
helplessly, endlessly. It can’t
get going in the slippery
mud. New thoughts are bred
from the old. The new thoughts can
flow along new lines, towards
hope and healing, away from
the endless, helpless
churning of the stuck
idea. Thoughts give birth to more
thoughts, nebulous hard-to-
grasp ideas. Grasp those
thoughts, write them down,
make them concrete,
make them present, till
there is a series
of interconnected thoughts,
interconnected thoughts and ideas
that make a poem.
Why is it so hard to know
we’re god? Is it because in
every religion he’s been in body
a man a Jesus Mohammed
Buddha Krishna because the
Mary’s Fatima’s Durga’s were in
turn disappointed fearful abandoned
enraged ? But so, in life, were the
men, at some time or another, in some
place a cave a church even dare I say it a
home ? That line that sputters softly sputters from
god herself. Your incredulity about
your own divinity causing the static on the
line causing the sputtering instead of a streaming
flowing sprouting by itself pulled by gravity pushed
by light rising like yeast and that force is
you. Not this wrong idea about yourself broken and
sad sagging and grey squinting and
stiff. Not the Body Bereft Antjie
just the listening that will still be there when
the soft pink shell of your ear has dried out
and is being nibbled at by a soft furry light brown mouse.
5 August
In memory of my Dad
“To Hear The Sound of a Poem……..” (Antjie Krog)
To hear my sound emerge: let it
unfold, turning me inside out
as it struggles to come up
for air, from dark meaningless,
unformed depths.
searching for the light of day.
I hope for it, for elegance that elicits
the inward gasp, the outward sigh. Then
I know I have struck gold; found the vein
that travels through the rock face.
Does a bird care
if its voice is heard?
Is a thing of beauty whole, complete
of itself? I complicate my self-
expression, long for it to end
connected to another’s experience.
My voice feels free to sing
itself out into the still morning
when done for its own pleasure
alone, not caring who listens or
who hears. I want to move
towards something mysterious, the sound
of which catches me by surprise,
startles me. The sound of
myself as a poem.
Hello, who are you?
Where is my voice? it got lost
in the mess of my fabricated selves
in the dance of different
voices, swayed by unspoken
messages how are you? fine
thanks, it’s like trying
to decipher hieroglyphics;
don’t let them get
my real voice, they’ll wrestle it
to the ground and sit on it. I
was taught my whole life to be
someone I was not, so how
now must I learn to be myself?
sometimes I scare myself when
a real voice comes through, too
manipulative, too sexy, that one says
fuck too loudly at school functions,
she’s a bit wayward, that one
would sell her grandmother
for one more drink,
one more dance
hello there who are you?
One travels like a thought
The ideas came to me as I looked at
the man on the opposite seat
could he read my thoughts?
did he know what I was thinking?
I didn’t want to stare, but I did look
and because I was looking in front of me
I looked at him.
My first thought was, would I
let him do that to me?
WHAT??
It wasn’t love, certainly.
not even lust
would I remember him
or find him again?
no! of course not!
one travels like a thought
and gets lost in that thought
had he seen me looking, staring?
Or was he lost in his thoughts?
For the record, or whatever,
I did register his hair:
too long, very black and slightly greasy
and his skin, too pale, Parisian winter skin;
and the ring on his wedding finger.
When the train stopped, he got off
and said” good bye” why?
We-what?– we–? There were no other travellers
One travels like a thought.
It wasn’t rush-hour. The train wasn’t
crowded and there was no close encounter
no meeting, no conversation. Just
the thought of me travelling
like a thought and this was never written down-
or spoken about
On Saturday morn at dawn
The sun beats down, parching
earth and skin. Leaves
hang limp on trees desperate
for breeze. No air
to breathe, no fragrant smells.
Lethargic, heavy. Nothing
moves. All still,
bar the droning sound.
Army planes – Lebanon bound –
pierce the sky. Destruction will follow.
Retaliation for violation
of the Jewish nation. The olive branch
in beak of dove, offering
peace and love is lost, gone.
Hatred and evil abound.
And still, above, that droning sound
Going underground
Let the undertow carry you, drag
you down, unseen, into spaces you do not
know by day, places which your mind cannot
imagine. Go underground where the dark things
creep, where all that is hidden, all that hides
itself, all that is
unspoken, unspeakable, waits,
a potentiality. There, there,
comes the transformation, the chrysalis
split, the change of rhythm. Go underground into
the place of the maggot, the changeling, the place
of dark horror and there put
your feet against the wall of the earthless
floor and kick and kick and come out
flying into the starlit night. Go
underground out of the light to jagged damp
places of mud and filth and base elements. You have
to start with the elements, becoming something else
altogether. Go underground where the past
has returned to dust. Skulls bones, a discarded
cradle, abandoned dreams. The sludge of history
returning to the surface.
The voice within
She awakes in the middle of the night feeling
strange, like someone who has a vision. In her mind,
the story is taking shape, so colourful and powerful
it has to be spat out of her mouth. Like a flash
she springs out of bed, gropes for the light,
grabs a pen and a writing pad. At this time
of the night nothing dare raise
its voice. She’s set to let it out
on paper – “My life as a prostitute” – The words
flow. She stops and ponders. Drowned
in the heavy silence she wonders about telling
the true story. It’s like venturing on a dangerous road.
People will talk and scoff and judge. It could land her
in trouble. No, rather give it a twist. Deep inside
she is uncomfortable. A contorted tale
would be a complete betrayal of her innermost
feeling. What else could she have done
after her husband died? In her anguish she had been left
to fend for herself, to care for three small children. She had
often sent her children to sleep on empty stomachs. And after
all her attempts to find a job had failed she opted to sell
her body Today, a friend offered her work
as a hairstylist. She earns far less than in her previous days.
Yet, she’s not turning back. She’s burning
her old ugly picture. She has to
set an example for her growing children. Yes,
she’s made her choice. The only way
to free her mind
and leave
her hideous past behind.
she’s telling it.
leave the daylight . . . and go underground
I take a deep breath and dive
off the rocks into the clear
aquamarine water
below. Today I’m going to go
deeper than the turquoise
shallows underneath
the surface and leave
the rainbow-coloured ocean
garden far behind. Like Alice
going through the looking
glass, deeper and deeper I go
towards
the dark cavern looming mysterious
and murky. Blackness envelops
me like a mantle. My skin
prickles. I try not to dwell on what may be
lurking there. Will I become
entangled in weeds? Will I
get stuck, not be able to
escape Go on. Don’t
turn round. Keep going.
Something grips my ankle.
I shudder. I feel
the tentacles cling. I stop
breathing, but manage to
paddle very slowly. I glimpse a
narrow shaft of light
in the tunnel. It opens
to a crystal-lined dome of breath-
taking beauty. I gaze in
awe at facets glowing in rainbow hues
Version 2 - changing linebreaks; changing the feeling of a poem
leave the daylight . . . and go underground
I take a deep breath and dive off the rocks into the clear aquamarine water
below. Today I’m going to go deeper than the turquoise shallows below
the surface, leave the rainbow-coloured ocean garden far behind. Like Alice
going through the looking glass, deeper and deeper
I go towards the dark cavern looming mysterious and murky. Blackness
envelops me like a mantle. My skin prickles. I try not to dwell on what may be
lurking there. Will I become entangled in weeds? Will I get stuck, not be able
to escape? Go on. Don’t turn round. Keep going. Something grips my ankle.
I shudder. I feel the tentacles cling. I stop
breathing, but manage to paddle very slowly. I glimpse a narrow
shaft of light in the tunnel. It opens to a crystal-lined dome of breath
-taking beauty. I gaze
in awe at facets glowing in rainbow hues.
Find it in the Darkness
To find your voice, you must
enter the darkness in the shadow of yourself, deep
within the shadows. There where
it is smelly and shattered with shards
of nastiness; there where you fear to look
in the mirror; there where you dare not
voice your thoughts. There where you imprison
your monster, bound in chains
of chastity, submerged in a dark, dank cellar. There
you must search to find your voice. It is hoarse,
parched, croaky. It trembles in fear and shakes
with rage. It needs tenderness, warmth, light,
and kindness. It needs ears, a mouth
to voice. To find your voice, seek
the deep wells of deceit, search
the pools of isolation hung with knives
of despair. There you will find
a solemn child, hidden
behind the waterfall in tattered skirts. You must
embrace the child and feed her
chocolate till she smiles and leads you
to the light. To find your voice, you must climb the jagged
cliffs, then leap off naked with butterfly wings on
your ankles, and your heart on your sleeve. Trust
that the winds of fortune will carry you safely
into the meadows. There you will stalk,
roar, and pounce on all resistance. You will gallop
with breasts hanging comfortably. You will
sit with your legs open,
unashamed. You will speak silliness
to magistrates, with authority, and find the rudeness
hidden in poppies. Shine the butterfly wings on your ankles and keep them
close. To find your voice, you must breathe
in musk, pain, jasmine, fear, coffee, vomit and charred flesh. You must eat
your monster, then belch, fart loudly and spit
out the rose petals. You must embrace the darkness
to find your voice.
Sotto voce
She agonised about being acceptable, about seeing herself
through what she thought were the eyes of others, and then
failing, always failing! Don’t
stand up – it is so inconvenient,
so conspicuous when the rest of them are sitting
down. Ignore that angry little voice that wants to shout out about
injustices like when Beatrice, smiling, slapped her
through the face. She never told, because
she’d long since discovered that somehow she would
get the blame anyhow. For the sake of convenience.
For the sake of convenience she disengaged, until
years down the line and miles off the track she traced her way
back, but found that her footprints had become hidden
by layer upon layer of sediment and she needed a pickaxe
to uncover them. Or was it just a tiny chisel
like a small voice, saying actually, inconveniently, I’d rather
not? Is that what you are trying to say to me and in the chaos
I am finding it so fucking hard to hear amid the hurt,
the hate,the humiliation? So I fight the urge
to plug my ears, and for the sake of inconvenience,
listen
for your voice.
The first line
I sit on the white couch
opposite the large picture window
looking at the green grass
turned grey.
The bougainvillea tree, flowerless
with its lanky branches
stretching out like an untrimmed beard.
A line softly sputters from somewhere
It lays itself down on the white sofa
beside me, tentative like a butterfly,
a blue butterfly
it folds its wings.
I reach out to this pale blue line
quivering beside me
but its wings flash out and it is gone –
across the room
to the wooden window frame.
Winter darkness falling
deepening charcoal grey, midnight sky
and a wisp of blue butterfly
on the window frame.
The line that sputters
from somewhere
sinks slowly into my head
blending with the full moon
now hanging heavily in the sky.
This moon was there before –
Last month
Last year
Two years ago when you left me
‘The moon was bright tonight
as it shone upon
the scattered splinters of my love’.
The butterfly alights
on my forehead.
In my head, someone presses the ‘enter’ key
and moves on to a blank clean line.
meditation
it’s quiet here, closed up in this small room
leaving the safety of the mind’s shore.
I once met a swami with a quaint name
sitting in the lotus position
detached. deep inside himself.
The square of light drops
beyond the window pane.
I bundle my body into a ball
maybe winter is not the time to begin …
Backing out already…?
the ego smirks red-lipped
with the grace of a bag lady on acid.
I remember the swami
still as stone. The glow of incense.
enlightenment – yin and yang.
I feel my skin unwrinkle
soft as tissue paper.
Detach … detach …
On the surface of my mind
my breath is a bubble.
I watch to see where it will take me …
deep into the void that beckons …
It is quiet there
Travel to a distant place – it is quiet
there. My voice is waiting
in this quiet place.
My voice
has power, the power
to break through
this quiet place.
My voice wants to be heard.
I am tired
of listening, tired
of a quiet place. I will shout, stamp
my feet, throw my arms up
in the air. ’Listen,
listen to me. Time is running
out.’ My voice
will be heard through the words
I write. Remembering how
I felt on horseback with the wind
rushing by. Remembering
the scent of wild
flowers in the veld at
Springtime. Remembering
dancing by firelight,
my sun-bronzed body
supple and firm. Not constricted
by old age and pain.
My voice will be
loud and filled
with laughter –
not judgemental or critical. My voice
will create miracles.
Tussenwees
Stuck between
languages woorde
elude me trane
roer die binneklam
touch the moist inside
tears rivers to be
navigated na die bron
van weerloosheid
alle trane nie
mismoedig joy surges
tides of tears trane
roer die binneklep
die onvanpas wat
uitbars in ’n lagbui
spat jou tragedie
gedagtes my grap
words elude me
trapped between tale
tears touch thoughts
damp die binneklam
verlies lê in holtes
van pyn hol gewetens
wat pla voel-voel aan
die rowe wat groei
lawastrome woede
rivulets crest eye
craters running brine
binne-in die mond
trane lig die binnemis
van tussenwees
I resist
‘Don’t clam up,’ they say.
I clam up. ‘Don’t’ hold it in.’
I do
not want these nerves
unsheathed; denizens of recesses, dark
and folded spaces
released. I do not let them come
crawling to the surface, coated
in the slime of past
regrets, caked in if onlys and should haves.
Does promise unfulfilled crave scrutiny
under the light?
Doors stay closed for a reason
on places of terror and shaking,
night-sweats and blood-
curdled dreams. Monsters live
there. They breathe fire. In the sludge of dead
dreams and yesterdays I have lost
keys to closed doors - I cannot
plunge my hands into the morass.
Allow me
to cave the dragon. Let me
accommodate the mud-dwellers,
the bottom-feeders, the wizened
things that never change. I will not drag
these creatures to the light. They have
no earthly chance.
They are my fossil lives. Let them lie.
