just

this week has been schizophrenic. i seem to fluctuate between complete optimism to downright pessimism and back every few minutes. i must say that it is some of you that have been responsible for the moments of hope through your comments and, for that, i am truly grateful.

the one advantage of these silent, quiet times is that i am spending more time looking at life in terms of what i want to achieve in the long term and what the elements of my life mean to me. it is often said that we must look at what we are grateful for, think positive thoughts and it will all work out in the end. cliched but i am a believer... it is just easier to say than actually practice, so i exist in chaos.

anyway, i found a piece i wrote a while back (in one of the many notebooks that serve as reference points when i am struggling to write), which I would like to share. as part of my whole quest to find the perfect poem, but going 'back to basics' and exploring what has come before me, i have been browsing these notebooks in the hope that there is growth and also identify room for growth. this poem 'stereotypical mumbo-jumbo' was merely a release of emotion and so i do not consider it something that needs to be worked on. if i had not discovered the blogging experience, it would probably never has seen light of day.

writing great poetry, for me, is balancing the emotion, thought and feeling with the craft. i seek perfection in both but some words are meant to be pure emotion... i apologise for the language ... although i can cuss like a veteran sailor, i tend to feel uncomfortable when incorporating it in my poetry but... here it is:

what’s all this shit about failure?
this illusion that beginning and end
must follow some archaic plan
I start, I travel, I climb
the ladder of false success
or I stumble and fall

what’s all this shit about success?
pursuit of material wealth
the money, the fancy car and the girl
seems to travel down some linear road
to a where that has
no real destination

what’s all this shit about right?
implying that your way
is the only true measure
of options available
to exist

what’s all this shit about wrong?
blindly believing that any state of mind
that is beyond
your narrow minded comprehension
cannot be right

what’s all this shit about…. ?

writer's lock

in the attempt to redefine myself, as a poet, a writer and a human being, i haven't been writing much.... out of choice. let's call it "writer's lock". the occassional scribble does take place and, in the interest of continued sharing, below is a recent, incomplete, one. i committed to sharing to process as opposed to merely the final, polished 'product', and so:

throat clogged

heart choked

eyes glazed

mind hazed

hands tremble

spirit confused

early morning blues

i ... i ... i have so much to say

the words get in the way

i stutter

stammer

forget how to form structure

i know this

it's there

lurking

hiding

primed

i think

i can speak

i need a plan

i think therefore i am ................................................

i am cold

very cold ..................................

starting over

This dependency on an old PC and an extremely slow dial-up line is becoming more and more frustrating. Plus the cost of logging on and surfing the web is more than I can handle right now, hence my extended periods of silence. Having found / established a home within the Blogging realm, it is difficult not being able to speak one’s mind and share in one’s thoughts on a regular basis.

The one positive is that, during this period, I have spent a great deal reflecting on ‘the meaning of it all’, especially since lightening fried my telly. I am a member of two poetic electronic discussion spaces and the last two weeks have been riddled with extensive discussion on various aspects of poetry, particularly around performance and writing.

I do feel that, within the ‘movement’ I operate, I have reached a relative ceiling in terms of my ability and evolution as a writer and spoken word artist, and, as a result, have been looking for what could be termed ‘the next step’. The discussions I have been privy to, have given me a clearer idea of what I need to find that direction.

At the heart of this epiphany is that, for me to comfortably call myself a poet and a writer, I need to delve deeper into my forms of choice and create context from the wealth of work that has come before me. In doing this, I am in a stronger position to be able to define and identify what it is I do and how it fits into the general scheme of things.

There is a sad belief, especially among young aspiring poets in my space, that what we are doing transcends what has been done. The question that has come to the fore is ‘how?’, to which I personally have no answers. To answer, I need to know WHAT HAS BEEN DONE BEFORE.

These discussions are too lengthy to detail here by if you do a search for UCT Poetry Web, as well as visit E-Poets Network (link available on my Blog), then you might be able to access some of the discussion. How I am able to take the words ‘spoken’ and translate them into better writing and ‘performing’ will be the gauge from which my body of work, in years to come, is perceived. A scary, but exciting space, to be in, but that is how important it is. I feel like I am only beginning this poetic journey. Easy

fake celebrity

Lately, I have become fascinated with the whole concept of celebrity - probably from watching too much of that blasted 'Entertainment' channel. Celebrity, which my trusty Oxford dictionary defines as 1. well-known person 2. fame, seems to have become extremely tacky. How difficult is it to become a 'well-known person'? As a result of my forays into the poetic scene in Johannesburg (and the fact that I have friends in strategic spaces), I have had my fair share of 5 seconds of fame on the telly and radio.

Even today, I shot an interview for a TV show called 20something (don't tell them I am way beyond that), where I was given the opportunity to rant on about my theories on inspiration, poetry and life. I have done enough of these to feel comfortable with a camera in my face and people in my home town now believe I am rolling in the cash and living it up in the big city because of these brief appearances.... you all know how that is going (see previous posts). Oh, if you do want to see the interview (for those in SA), it is on Sunday at 1pm.

Anyway, the point I am trying to get to is in the form of a question: because I have been on telly a little bit, does that mean I am a celebrity, or is my level of decadence not up there enough. How is celebrity truly defined? Should it not be based on one's accomplishment? Today I was asked what do I feel my accomplishments are as a poet.... my answer - I still have a long way to go so I can't really answer that (okay, that and a nice spiel about contributions to the artform and the publishing of two books).

It just seems like celebrity has become the new religion, with American culture being the dominant feature. Very little is said about the people who are actually making things happen. I love film and music as much as the next person- if not more - but shouldn't we be celebrating the people who are in the trenches changing lives positively. How does 50 Cent's house party compare to an HIV/AIDS hospice run by volunteers in the middle of rural Uganda? Yeah, I admit that I am as guilty when it comes to where I place my attention, but I am trying to change that.

My new theory is that we all need a cause ... something to drive us beyond the triviality of this material physicality. Something concrete. I am searching for mine. One of my favourite poems is by Miguel Pinero 'Seeking a cause'. Easy runnings

another beginning

Greetings. We have finally made it through the usual festive madness and, tomorrow, everyone starts crawling back into the office.. well, everyone except for me. I am officially self-employed, following a few months of unemployment. The end and beginning of every year serve as periods of introspection, re-evaluation and resolutions for many of us. Never been big on the resolution thing, but I do try to take the opportunity to re-examine my life and determine where I am going. My biggest decision was that, the minute we hit 01/01/2006, I would re-define myself as self-employed. It is said 'we manifest our thoughts' ... this is my way.

Truth be told, that is as far as I have been able to go in developing a plan for 2006. In fact, I am probably more confused about my future than I have been in a long time. Is poetry in my future? Should I just get a normal corporate job? Am I on the right track? What am I doing wrong? It's the questions that define us. And I still struggle to find the right questions that will give me answers that inspire peace of mind.

Anyway, have been doing a little scribbling over the last month. Nothing complete, some things slightly coherent, but lots of ideas. Thought I would start off the year with this. May your dreams be fulfilled.

the answers are not in the lamentation

the tragic memories of yesterday

they do not come to us in blood

that runs through ancient rivers

or in the tears and pain that paint the sky red

coating the clouds with a twisted crimson

the solutions are not born out of repetition

recycled words of a past & present reality

history is not washed clean by a never-ending chant

babylon will not be defeated with hollow words or idle dreams

the revolution HAS been televised

and we missed it

fingering remotes

flipping through channels

the revolution had more than a cat's nine lives

and still it died

because tomorrow was never built on a lack of hope

hope implies looking into tomorrow and not yesterday

a future implies working towards something

not drowning in a past riddled with hate

living implies clarity & vision & dreams

beyond the haze is infinite discourse

the future is in the hands

of those who live the revolution in action

each brick carefully laid

each word carefully spoken

each battle ground carefully chosen

each action transcending reaction

when this happens

the revolution shall be reborn

and live again

home sweet home

I've been really quiet over the last few weeks, working through getting my life back, following the armed robbery at my house. They say 'when it rains, it pours', I am learning the power of the universe and its ability to push you in the direction you need to go, even if it is kicking and screaming. The last few months have been insane and I have been forced to re-visit life and my role in this madness.

I've been stressed... so stressed I got tired of being stressed and decided to relax and let things follow their natural course. The year started full of excitement and optimism and, in a very twisted way, I am re-discovering my enthusiasm for life. I threatened to quit the whole 'being a poet' experience but have found that, when I am not focused on poetry being the breadwinner, the joy and passion that comes with writing returns.

I have always tried to use this time of the year as a period of introspection, a period to look inward with complete honesty, a time to be true to oneself. I am now home in Maseru, Lesotho (look it up in a map if you don't know where that is), with family and am rediscovering what is important. I sometimes wonder why I punish myself by continuing to try to build a foundation in a country that is not my own at the expense of my own country... the answer is for me to build and develop both at home and beyond.

Never been one for New Year's resolutions but I have promised myself that in 2006, I will do more not only for my adopted country and my home country, but beyond too. We supposedly live in a global village and the only way we can ensure that we do have enough of a world to enjoy in the future, we all need to throw in our two cents. I am going to throw in mine.

I am writing a lot more, so there will be more poetry in this space in the future. Hopefully, there will also be more about poetry globally. I am one man, part of a worldwide poetic family and it is time we started sharing, talking, laughing, working and playing together.

If I do not make it back here before the end of the year, have yourselves a beautiful one. For Christians, Christmas has a particular significance. For the rest of us, it is time to spend with the ones you love and celebrate another year of happiness, success and fulfilment. You are still breathing ... keep it that way.

Easy Runnings

poetry pimp...

When it comes to poetry, I have a few categories for everything I write. There is written, performance, personal and pimped poetry, to name a few. Seems relatively straight forward but I am sure you are wondering about the pimped thing. Well, this is basically poetry for money, with no qualms about what it is for. As an idealist poet in search of perfection, this does fly in the face of the legacy I am trying to create, but .... sometimes .... it is just about eating.

Anyway, just found a poem I wrote and performed at an event for Amstel on a hot Saturday afternoon, on the top deck of a boat, with a band jamming in the background. A bit long, but thought I would share .... it does work better when heard but .... yeah .... here goes:


Shh, close your eyes and picture a place
I said, close your eyes and picture a place
A calm & soothing space
An peaceful, tranquil space
A space where everything makes sense
Free from the day-to-day stress

It’s dark outside
But you’re inside
And inside the feeling is just right

Do you see it?

Okay, now listen,

You hear music
Soulful, funky music
Passionate, real life music
The kind of music that crawls up your spine
And puts a smile on your face
The kind of music that has your soul dancing

Brown sugar music
Soulchild music
Let’s get it on music
I know you know the kind of music I’m talking about

In the background you hear voices and laughter
Faint traces of cologne and perfume tickle the air
Around you there is joy, and laughter, and smiles
That reach the eyes and break the shallow surface
Of a distorted reality

This is where you belong

Feel the clothes on your back
The ground beneath your feet
The cushions beneath your ….
Gently caressing your body
As you lean back in total rest

Reach out for your drink
Awaiting your embrace
It lingers
On a coffee table on your right

Pick it up
Let the chill factor engulf you

Take it slow, don’t rush it
Take a sip, just a sip
In your presence, in this space,
Time stands at attention
Slave to your direction
This is a moment of reflection
Introspection, resurrection

The liquid trickles down your throat
Count to twenty-one
And take another sip

Taste it, hold onto that feeling
Savour it
Feel the room around you
The atmosphere, the ambience
Feels good, doesn’t it?
The height of sophistication yet comforting
Classy and smooth
It feels slow brewed
Filled with kindred souls
All in the same space
This is home….

Now open your eyes
You’re on a gently swaying boat
As you glide seamlessly through the water
The sun dancing carelessly on the ripples
The breeze whispering dreams in your ear
The trees murmur and bow in your presence
Your soul is at one with the universe
Okay, now repeat after me

I’m still thirsty!

I had to write this around the brand characteristics of the product and incorporate those elements into the poem. I do think there are some nice elements in it that I would like to carry forward. Any suggestions on how I can remove the Amstel feel and build on this would be greatly appreciated.

passing through

I am caught in a labyrinth, crawling through the trenches of my twisted soul, seeking something I cannot define. Everything around me is familiar, and strange - all at the same time. Utopia is a worthy cause, but how can we truly appreciate light, if there is no darkness. I am lost only because I know what it is like to be found. I write nearly every day but on most days there is no comfort in the words because I know what comforting words sound like. Often I sit in prolonged silence just so I can find joy in the sound of a butterfly's wings flapping. Plus the sound of my voice sounds so much better when unused. I listen because I love to be heard. I ramble in those moments when I have so much to say, there is nothing that can be said. The letters and words choose themselves and I am merely a channel for madness and chaos that, in most places, would be considered normal. The world we live in is so abnormal it has become normal to be strange, and familiar - all at the same time. This is strange. We are strange. I am strange. I am normal.

more drama

I am writing this in a truly confused state of mind with 28 minutes left on the meter at an Internet Cafe. You see, I am at the mercy of this spaces for the first time in years, so it is really strange for me. I have always had access to the net. I have always functioned as a mobile office - as a writer, I love hanging out in coffee shops typing or scribbling away, coming up with new poems or new schemes for 'taking over the world. Today I realise how dependent I have become on technology, especially my laptop and cellphone, and now I am without.

At about 2.15am on Tuesday morning, the missus and I were awoken by a bright light in our bedroom. A man, of unknown origin, was standing at the bottom of our bed. He proceeded to silence us with a few strong words and the waving of a gun, also of unknown origin. After relieving our bedroom of our cellphones, jewellery and the missus' handbag, he told us to keep still and not move while he went back into the living room to finish up his night's work. Once he was out of the room, I jumped up, locked the bedroom door and we fled to 'safety' through our bathroom window.

As a result of this experience, I am now without two laptops and two cellphones, which means my ability to stay in touch with the world has become extremely limited. Ever the optimist, I am working on the theory that this state will only last for a week or two.

Not only can I not access the outside world, I have also lost most of my work from the last 5 months. I feel useless because I have always turned to the keyboard when bored, inspired, etc. That has been my source of income, joy and purpose. Now it is gone.

I suspect there is some great poetry in the experience but I am currently at a loss for words so please do forgive should I fall short in the next week or two. I shall recover.

I am now left with 17 minutes and need to attend to some other things before, so I shall be back soon. Easy

resuscitation

I have a problem. I suspect all writers have this, but mine is rearing its twisted head again. I have a tendency of writing anywhere, any place and anytime on anything. To avoid carrying scraps of paper around, I have a collection of little black books that I carry with me to ensure that I always have something to write on. Problem is that it ends up being a different book everyday so I have writings everywhere, that I never keep track of.

Actually, the one positive is that, like money in the pocket of a jacket you haven't worn in a while, finding them always brings so much joy. Anyway, a friend of mine, Ayob, who tends to be keeper of my writings - my hard drive once crashed with all my work in it so I send them to Ayob as offsite backups - recently found a few poems I wrote over a year ago. This has inspired me to start reading some of my old work. I even performed a few this weekend at the Blackword Poetry Festival in Johannesburg as well as at a gig last week for the Gordon Institute of Business Science. (Oh, I got Ayob into blogging so check out http://ispeakwords.blogspot.com - Revival of the Mentally Dead)

Thought I'd drag one out for you, which is from my book Voices In My Head, called 'listen to your footsteps' (why do I think I have posted this before? Must check & keep track):

i close doors
and hotbox minds with vocal dexterity
i twist meaning
and shade my ego from emotion
i lay my soul naked before strangers
and hide my heart with thick bush
i dance to god’s toe taps
and drown in the rhythm of doubt
i stand brave before giants
and quiver in the presence of children
i recite words repeatedly
and pray for salvation in affirmation
i listen to my footsteps
and search for the future in sound
i inhale weed smoke
and hope for spiritual clarity
i embrace confusion
and dream of normality
i keep both feet on the ground
and seek altered mind states
i see angels in every corner
and denounce ghosts in haunted houses
i live my truth
and epitomise hypocrisy
i justify lies with simple answers
and i am human
look into my shattered mirror
and listen to your footsteps

Latest news: I think I am starting to enjoy this poetry thing again... the last few months have been filled disillusion and frustration, but I think I am starting to remember why it is I write. As long as I do not depend on the Word as my passage to wealth, I shall be find.

Also, I finally got my books into a bookshop called Xarra Books. If you are in Johannesburg, or are ever in Johannesburg, do visit Xarra in the Newtown Cultural Precinct. While you are there, pick up Voices In My Head and And They Say: Black Men Don't Write Love Poetry.

That's a lot of words for one day.

Easy