Sunday, May 24, 2009

The cover of my book...

Covers of two of the four new Modjaji Poetry books unveiled

May 22nd, 2009 by Colleen

Helen Moffett’s collection Strange Fruit and Fiona Zerbst’s Oleander are both at the printer. The covers are voluptous, mysterious, rich, textured and vibey. I can’t wait to get the actual books into my hands. See what you think…

The final two books to be launched in June, are Sindiwe Magona’s Please, Take Photographs and Joan Metelerkamp’s Burnt Offering. These will be unveiled next week.

All four books are being launched at the Cape Town Book Fair on Sunday June 14th at 5.30 to 6.30 pm at the DALRO space in the Exhibition Hall.

Strange Fruit - Poems by Helen Moffett

Strange Fruit - Poems by Helen Moffett

Oleander poems by Fiona Zerbst

Oleander poems by Fiona Zerbst

Sunday Independent poetry reviews

Recent outpouring shows poetry is alive and kicking

March 09, 2008 Edition 1

Review by Fiona Zerbst

A slew of poetry volumes published last year shows that poetry prevails in South Africa despite the vagaries of the economy. This is heartening. Most of this poetry is good, some even excellent, showing that South Africans are taking stock of our changing history with intelligence and, in some instances, wit and irony.

The four volumes I have chosen to review reflect a diversity of tone and theme, but all claim for themselves a confidence, a conviction, with regard to their visions.

Syntax seems to gain importance in succeeding volumes of Stephen Watson's poetry. It may be that, as a poet, he is recognisable as much for his syntax as for his treatment of the themes of love, despair and redemption.

In his latest volume, The Light Echo and Other Poems (Penguin), the urgency of his language seems further heightened. Long lines, clauses and sub-clauses build up in intensity to apparently muted conclusions, which in fact reveal more than one at first expects them to. So even though one may find Watson's images en route to be lovely - "… the lamp left burning, its mellow/glow, winter aureole, the colour of a ripened pear" (The Light Echo); "… the ear-bone of a whale, or head-gear of the Herero - this section of the universe mounted in a light-box" (Two Occasions) - he has become, or seems to be, less a poet of image and object than of idea: whether his poems traverse familiar Watson territory (the Cape's changing landscapes; lovers together or apart) or reach into new avenues (antiquity; illness) for self-expression.

These ideas are developed slowly, surely, painstakingly, through syntax, which renders Watson more opaque and complex than, say, a poet preferring short, declarative sentences. A reader need not be daunted, though, and The Light Echo offers much for old and new Watson readers alike.

Whether inside, looking out, at the lives of others, at the errors and foibles of those much loved, or observed with disdain or compassion, or outside, looking in, at the mysteries of self-knowledge and the self's placement in a landscape like Italy or the Himalayas, Watson's poems are exquisitely crafted, tender and moving.

There is a dusky plaintiveness in the volume that is given off like a particular scent. It suggests, to me, a poet's need to wander, geographically and linguistically, or stagnate. However many domestic interiors Watson paints with a faultless hand, there is a sense that his canvas is much, much wider, if we could but see it. This reaching is as much a task for the reader as the writer, and it is a pleasurable one.

Immanuel Suttner puts me in mind of Billy Collins, a poet of apparently haphazard and informal speech.

Collins is perhaps one of the most enjoyable, and enjoyed, poets writing in the world today, for the reason that he is both modest and accessible. Suttner, too, is of this poetic ilk.

Still, under the flippancy and lightness of tone there is something profound and dark.

The strongest poems in his volume Hidden and Revealed (Snailpress/Quartz Press), such as Ma (Carpe diem, 15th September 1953) and Jerusalem, offer moments of humour and levity, but the weight of the poems rests in their crevices; the darkness spoken and the even darker unsaid. Jerusalem is one of the finest poems I've read in a long time. Suttner, a Jew, speaks to me, a Muslim, about beauty, atrocity and ambivalence in a way that bridges gaps, despite our differing political affiliations:

"Jerusalem/it's not working, I still don't feel happy about your arms sales to/Pinochet or Apartheid"… "Jerusalem here's your sickness:/The ones who covet you/put stones before blood/and that's why your stones are so stained with blood/starting way back with the psalms").

Suttner also reminds me of Jeremy Cronin, largely thanks to his experiments in language (De Jerusalem dub), his political musings (Joburg 1994), his vital way of teasing truths out of everyday phrases, different ways of speaking, other languages.

The book is a joy to read (though Suttner's and my politics differ, an overriding sense of compassion is what I have retained from my readings of the volume) and the poems are fresh, vital, wholly without dullness and pedantry, as one can expect from books produced by publisher Gus Ferguson.

Two other volumes deserve a mention. Mark Espin's offering, Falling from Sleep (Botsotso), is spare, thoughtful and, for the most part, beautiful.

Though I feel some poems are not as "finished" as they could be, and some are a little flat, pieces such as Water and Solitude and Self-Portrait have a crystalline loveliness that one looks for and longs for in poetry.

Inheriting Eccentricity and Inheriting Rage are wonderful vignettes. Poems that pay homage to Joseph Brodsky, Wislawa Szymborska and Miles Davis are also highlights. This is an accomplished volume that repays a few careful readings.

Mike Alfred's volume Poetic Licence (Botsotso) is predominantly a razor-sharp look at Johannesburg, old and new, with its urban decay and its merciless modernity.

These nervy, ironic, descriptive poems tell it, as they say, like it is, whether we're shown "Sandton City's heart fibrillated/under a constriction of/credit cards" (Collapse) or the "sudden, unbidden/memories" (Kite) that make up one's life.

Among the bitter musings there are some gentle poems about love and family (such as Visitation) that show another side of the poet's vision. South Africans would do well to dip into this volume and recognise themselves - the good and the bad - with a wry smile.