Filter Coffee and Abstract Poetry

By now I’ve written poetry, while doing many things. On the list would be the bathroom, studying, traveling, walking, crying, fuming, and waking up in the middle of the night. I’ve also learnt that not all poetry has to be written in a time of crisis.

The other day, I went and sat down in a coffee shop. I ordered one filter coffee and wrote a poem in between sips. It worked really well, the caffeine seemed to keep me alearnt and focussed. These poem might need a little editing, but here they are nonetheless. I’m never too shy with sharing my work (publishing online does that to you).

(These poems are untitled for the mean time.)

1

spider patch weave
thimble spark
leave long damp dark
to shiver.

nothing breaks, stumbles
starts, coffee, cure
memory, sugar, asks
hours, devours, one
tight handful
the end is the same.

2

only holes grope
the chances, which
finger flick away.
Hours turn cogs, that
grow into treasure chests
alive in our heads.

a bird battles to out live
the rest
(and escape itself)

PhilosopherPoet

Prayer for my Father

I will miss the me
Your broken shadow (creases)
the reflections in the window.
I can smell your dusty soul in
your study, between the books
and the bones.

The computer hums, I can
see your earnest expression
pressed into its blue face.

When someone leaves,
they leave behind the crumbs
of who they are.
I hold your books like
healing stones in my
hooked hands.

Your beard lies buried
in the bed. Curtains
whistle, and the blanket
folds onto me, as certain
as Skin.

PhilosopherPoet

Poetry Africa 2008: Bursts to life

An International Poetry Festival takes place in South Africa once a year, with Poets from all around the globe. This included the Netherlands, South Africa, Mozambique, USA and many more. The event stretches over a week, but unfortunately I could only make it to the finale (October, 4^th). The Finale that took place at the BAT Centre (a local centre of creative arts and music) was a huge success. I was honored to read there at the event. I represented a local poetry club called Live Poets Society (LiPS).

It is a truly amazing experience to watch creative people coming together and sharing their work. There was some powerful and some immature stuff read there. Unfortunately listening to what is there doesn’t always guarantee it’ll be your style, but nonetheless part of it is supporting others.

The event was predominantly attended by black people, so there was a slam/rap/off the cuff style that stood out. Themes such as: repression, ethnic violence, erotica, surrealism and traditional poetry were brought to life. It was also refreshing to hear some western style poetry, and some African Hip Hop right at the end. The Kenyan storyteller (Bantu Mwaura) had the whole crowd mesmerized. His reverberating sentences, and naked silences kept all of us entranced.

My favorite poet of the evening had to be the American Poet, Carlos Gomez. He performed slam. He performed with angst and fluidity. He spoke of xenophobia, expressing that we should all speak our minds.

It was hard to forget Marjolijn van Heemstra who spoke of a super market experience; the Netherlands poet first read in her own language and proceeded in English. There was Gary Cummiskey who read his famous poem “Voodoo”, Jitsvinger who dazzled all with his skill on the guitar, the wry Anton Krueger who remarked that he thought the BAT centre rehabilitated wildlife, and Rogerio Manjate who read a poem in Portuguese.

Poetry Africa happens every year in September/October. Highly recommended, it’s an experience you have to have, even if it’s the only one.

PhilosopherPoet

Schools, Throw out the USB

Nowadays you hardly have to wait a few months, and some kid is ripping up another in school. Columbine set a standard we’re all aiming for. A bunch of kids get picked on for no valid reason (as always), they get depressed, play lots of metal, and kill their tormentors. I’m talking about Universal Suicidal Boys. The USB…

What I’m also talking about, is a recent killing that took place in Krugersdorp, South Africa. One kid in high school (aged 18), smuggled three samurai swords into school, and killed a fellow classmate (aged 16). Fellow classmates decided it would be a good idea to stop this maniac, and were injured in the process. And at the end of it guess what happened? It was all blamed on Slipknot. Huh? I don’t get it. Yes, he was wearing a mask that resembled Corey Taylor, and yes he was a heavy Slipknot listener. To carry on going and blame a style of music for a death really baffles me. I’ve always believed that truth has many faces, and we can’t see all of them.

Here’s a hint to the ignorant dubbing Slipknot as satanic, and metal as evil. A teenager has far greater things to worry about than music. A good friend of mine grew up in that town, and he did mention that it was a town that listened to a lot of heavy music. Because why? It is a poor town. Now here’s a big hole in the Satanic theory already. Poverty places stress on you, this is why the lower class generally suffer from a higher crime rate. So next time you see parading ‘savages’ on the news demanding more pay, they don’t wave around clubs for fun…but rather because they are at their wits end.

Here’s reasons that may be stress our teenage killer out:

1 Being poor.

2 Being bullied (in and out of school).

3 Going home to parents who fight.

4 Bad results at school.

5 Being dumped by a girlfriend.

6 Being ostracized (this appears to be the same as bullying, although I believe it succeeds it.)

There could always be more on the list, I’m just limiting my debate.

USB being ostracized

Kids get picked on, then bullied and finally ostracized. The first time is pretty much someone taking a cheap shot at you. You really don’t feel anything, you’re just taking a cheap shot at someone. Here’s a rule of thumb in the playground. Bullies always have accomplishes. A bully is never alone, it wouldn’t be bullying then, more a personal grudge. The Second stage is when the victim has a herd chasing him. The victim is now made to feel inferior and an outcast. The last category, I put there because this is just about as extreme as racism.

Stress a killer?

I can’t blame stress as the cause for it all. Every situation has its own factors. All I want to say is that lets analyze the situation first. The media can be the worst at jumping to conclusions. They will exploit stories because that is what sells. I worked with journalists a few years ago. Being a journalists doesn’t always mean reporting the truth, but rather finding the most juiciest story possible. Some thing that will sell more papers

So yes this is a bit of a hobby horse of mine in case you haven’t noticed by now, but don’t go blaming things on a taboo of society. Also I think that bullying is an overlooked aspect of the play ground. Bad Parenting can lead to bullying but if teachers can grab a hold of kids first, that will be one more war conquered!

Just a thought fellow bloggers. Comments welcome as always…

PhilosopherPoet

Poetry Africa 2008

Poets Corner

Originally uploaded by BOOKphotoSA

Here’s a picture of me reading at the event, ot was amazing will share more soon!

PhilosopherPoet

More of my Autobiography – Tatooed Paper

12

 

I remember the old house we use to have. It was a double story. The rooms were small, and there was a wooden staircase leading to the top. The garden was the size of a postage but because we were at the end of the complex, it was marginally bigger.

 

During the time I was living there my mother had an operation on her toes. They had grown skew from birth. After my mother had given birth to my brother and me they had apparently got worse. This operation meant that metal pins, about 3 inches each had to be inserted into the front of each toes, and my mother therefore had to wear a cast on one foot.

 

Besides using crutched everywhere she went, she seemed to manage fine. I also just didn’t seem my mother’s frustrations as a kid, you just so lost in your own world. There was one thing that I remember my mother battling with, this was the wooden staircase in our old house.  When she was at the top she would shout “Coming down!” and slide the crutches down first. The crutches went thunkety-thunkety-thunk, and clattered on the tiles at the bottom. She would then plonk herself down on her bottom, and slide down each step until she met up with her crutches at the bottom.

 

13

 

One day my mother fetched me from school. It was like every other day, except we now had a dog. She opened the boot of the car, and showed us a small white dog in a carboard box. A colleague at work had found this puppy on the street, and now a new pet was born into the family, We already had a very large Siamese cat, Simba and now a small excitable dog entered the home. We called her, Duchess.

 

It took a while to adjust to this thing. It chewed my toy soldiers, and it decorated the carpet with piles of poo. When my mother found the feces she would take the dog aim its nose at the fresh parcel, and give it a hiding with her hand from behind. The dog gave a yelp and ran away, with its stumpy tail tucked away.

 

PhilosopherPoet

Stay Out Of The Water

We all have the potential to go to our darkest place. Most of us manage to leave a light on. – Sheriff Tom Underlay

 

We’ve all heard about aliens. Stereotypically they are anorexic, big-headed and have slightly pointy eyes. Then you get really scary bugs like the ones portrays in the Alien series with Sigourney Weaver.

 

Recently I came across aliens in a TV series, that are subtle and dare I say…beautiful. It’s a series called Invasion. The peaceful country town, the Everglades is hit by Hurricane Eve. Survivors are praised, and people start collecting their lives together. Although, these people are more than survivors, they’re what Dave (the sheriff’s brother in law) calls hybrids. Half of them is human, while another part is taken over by the alien, and beginning to change.

 

Russell and his wife Muriel are divorced. Russell (a park ranger) is married to Larkin (a local TV reporter), and his ex-wife is married to Tom (the local sheriff). Before I confuse you with names, here is the short version.

 

 

Russell and Larkin (they have two kids from Russell’s previous marriage.)

Tom and Muriel (they have one teenage girl).

 

In this series, aliens are dubbed EBE (Extra-terrestrial Biological Entities). The night of the hurricane, people reported yellow lights falling from the sky into the water. People that are attacked aren’t killed. There’s no flying saucer that sucks people up through a laser beam, just lights.

 

The EBEs grab people in the water them and pierce them with their legs. Family members report, that after this those infected seem distant and not themselves. More importantly the hybrids have an uncanny fascination with water. They’re mesmerized by it, and Muriel admits she can stay underwater for half and hour without taking a breath.

 

So, as events unfold in the first season, the more you learn the more confusing and mysterious it gets. Russell’s brother Dave is the only one who firmly believes they are aliens, and his daily blog soon gets the Military involved.

 

 

The concept is surely a refreshing one considering the genre. I’m about half way through the first season. The storyline is amazingly gripping, and this would definitely be my in top ten of TV series.

 

PhilosopherPoet

Garden

i walked into the garden
this morning

i looked into its face,

it said (nothing)
other than its leaves
calling my sleep-wet eyes
and naïve grass grabbing my feet.
it entered a song into my
sentences

(i rather not speak about)
except say that, not all
the bugs find you.

only the rabbit came, he
licked my feet
and asked to stay.

PhilosopherPoet

Song for the Insane

cow beans flower pat
snake trough tongue ties

bottom sugar rice dies
on
beans flower cow pat
lying, on ground slat

pond rat grows
becomes
snake head horse bin
rinse fingers green again
round tree die great

find sense grass mate
cows graze half wait
long time
rhyme dies drain drinks

slow time
nothing shivers,
come back
cow beans
flower pat.

PhilosopherPoet

Beneath

I knew a mole who lived

In a hole

And despite his dreams

He stayed there.

Its was warm for him,

And he liked the sound

Of the grass growing.

 

Time crawled by through

Better soil, and the mole

Stayed curled in a coil.

He did not want to know

What daylight would do

To dark fur.

 

The mole grew into his hole,

He would take a quick sniff

Checking the weather,

Then cover himself up again.

He couldn’t go, not knowing

The next steps, once he’d left.

 

I knew a mole, he buried something,

People call it a soul.

He couldn’t smell the scents ahead,

But I could tell (from an old bed),

Life was coming.

 

PhilosopherPoet