Some things I did in January & February 2015

First I spent a couple of days in Hong Kong. For a long time I wanted to celebrate New Year's Eve in Hong Kong and I was finally able to schedule my trip to South Africa in such a way that I could be in Hong Kong over the end of the year, and hailing in the new year while standing at the Hong Kong Harbor. After a couple of days in Hong Kong I continued my journey to South Africa where I stayed for about six weeks.

I got to see many friends and family. My trip in South Africa started in Johannesburg where I stayed for two days with my friend Franco. I then went to Vanderbijlpark almost a week, and then on to a road trip with one of my best friends to Pinetown where I stayed one night with another one of my best friends, and returned to Sasolburg the next day. From Sasolburg I went to Potchefstroom and stayed there for about a week--after Potchefstroom I went to Johannesburg again, then Pretoria, and then Tzaneen, Polokwane, back to Johannesburg from where I flew to Durban and Pinetown again. Finally I flew to Cape Town, went to a small Western Cape town, again to Cape Town where I stayed for about a week to spend time with my brother and another of my closest friends. From Cape Town I flew to back to Johannesburg to catch my international flight via Singapore back to Korea. As always, my South Africa trip was not particularly relaxing. All the travelling was rather stressful, and many of the people I care about are going through difficult times. Nevertheless, seeing so many of the people I love dearly was a great blessing. Because of my PhD studies I wasn't able to visit South Africa in two years, so it had been a rather long time not to see many people I care about. Also, because a might have my graduation ceremony during my break next January/February, there is a possibility that I may not be able to visit South Africa then.

Below are some representative photos from the trip:

This last picture is the first draft of a poem I wrote while in Cape Town.

Five of My Random Favourite YouTube Videos

This is just a random post featuring five random videos that I've listed under "favourites" in my YouTube account.

Kwaai

Na 'n lang week is dit tyd om bietjie uitlating te gee aan kwaaigevoelens deur aggressiewe, melankoliese dinge vanuit verskeie oorde.

Heidevolk met mitiese-metaal uit Gelderland:



 
Die Antwoord se nuwe snit, "Pitbull Terrier" se musiekvideo is frieken friekie!




Uit Japan, Miyavi:




Kwaai K.O.B.U.S. sing oor hongerte:




En ten laaste, 'n Charles Bukowski gedig:

The Universe Spins -- an anthology of my students' poems

Last semester I taught a creative writing class. As part of my students' final grade, they had to submit a writing portfolio that consists of two short stories and five poems. With their permission I selected the best poems from their submission and edited them into an anthology. Finally, after quite some time I finished the anthology and the e-book was published today. You can download The Universe Spins for free at Smashwords.Com in a file format of your liking.

"Man Up" -- and some of the harms of patriarchy

A topic I'm quite interested in is the question of "Where have all the good men gone?" -- or rather, what has happened to masculinity?, or what does it mean to be a man in this day and age where men are either hyper-masculinised or emasculated? Having always been very sensitive, emotionally attune, I experienced a great deal of bullying as a child: "boys don't cry", "stop being a sissy", "you have no guts", "man up!" With this in mind, the following spoken-word performance was heartening to see.

I recently finished reading a very thought-provoking book on bisexuality, in which the author list a number of problems with patriarchy, and the burden and harm it does to boys and men. Below is a passage from Bi: Notes for a Bisexual Revolution:

Having internalized these patriarchal values, men learn to see themselves in terms of control, power, and domination. However, herein lies the sting: Since men are forced into the role of oppressor, they are expected to constantly be in control of both themselves and their environments. Kaufman writes: “We have to perform and stay in control. We’re supposed to conquer, be on top of things, and call the shots. We have to tough it out, provide, and achieve.” “Paradoxically, men are wounded by the very way we have learned to embody and exercise our power.” Men are expected to express their domination in various ways that end up hurting them. They are expected to be physically capable, strong, and able-bodied. Since early childhood, they are encouraged to engage in sports, be able to fight, be able to lift heavy objects, or otherwise physically manipulate their environments (build things, fix things, etc.). In certain cultures and groups, as they grow up they are also encouraged (or indeed, obligated by law) to become soldiers and to physically “fight for their country,” even to the death. By doing all of these things, men exhibit their ability to dominate their environments by exerting physical control. This expectation hurts the men who do not, or for any reason cannot, par with the standard. They get perceived as weak, or as having deficient masculinities, and therefore as lesser human beings (remember that fitting into the single standard of patriarchy is also the condition for being considered a valuable human). It also hurts the men who do engage in these activities, as the pressure and the intensity required of them often leads to physical injuries, permanent damage, or even death.

Men are expected to be able to provide for the physical needs of their (presumably heteronormative) families, to be the “breadwinner” or the one “putting the food on the table.” They are expected to do this by working hard, making money, and deciding what to do with it. By doing this, men prove their ability, status, and their domination of their families (women and children). They also earn respect for their work, and they control the money and its expenditure. This again hurts men who cannot fit into this standard, as they are perceived as lazy or incapable. The men who do perform this expectation get hurt because it means reducing their lives to working under capitalism, meaning that in most cases they feel alienated from their work and from other people (since they’re left with very little time for their personal lives).

Despite the fact that men are encouraged to provide for the physical needs of women and children, they are also expected to be emotionally distant from them, and from other people in general. As a general rule, men are expected never to act in ways that are nurturing, caring, or tender toward others. In fact, they are expected to never feel these things, want them, or admit to them. Their emotional distance is supposed to back up their controlling status over their families by showing that they are impartial and that emotional needs are insignificant in relation to the material needs that the man is obliged to provide. This hurts the men who do provide emotional support to their families by painting them as overcaring, overemotional, or even as being “pussywhipped” by their wives. It also hurts the men who do embody this expectation because it denies them of emotional intimacy and closeness to other people. In addition to maintaining emotional distance, men are supposed to be emotionally invulnerable and never to feel hurt, scared, or sad. Even if they do feel any of these things, they are expected to internalize them and never to speak of them or express them otherwise (“boys don’t cry,” as the popular saying goes). This expectation is supposed to be an expression of a man’s eternal and enduring strength, his ability to “take anything” without getting hurt or breaking down. Men who do express their emotions or indeed cry are often mocked or ridiculed. They’re considered to have deficient masculinities, or not to be “manly enough.” They are consequently derogated through comparisons to women, using nicknames such as “sissy,” “pussy,” etc. The men who do perform this expectation are hurt by it because they are forced into emotional numbness at best and into internalized negative feelings at worst. These internalized feelings might often lead men to self-destructive behaviors, hurting themselves as well as others since they can find no socially acceptable way to admit and express their emotions.

On par with the perception of men as “purely physical” beings, they are also expected to always want and be ready for sex. In fact, they are taught that not only does their masculinity depend upon it, but also their value as human beings. Sex is also supposed to be the only legitimate way for men to receive intimacy (since emotional intimacy is forbidden to them). The expression of sexual prowess is supposed to support the image of men as those who conquer and dominate women. Popular imagination compares men’s sexual encounters with women to imaginary notches on the belts of their masculinity. Men who do not fulfill this expectation are seen as losers or (god forbid!) as gay. Men who do internalize it learn to view women as objects rather than people, a distancing and alienating notion that might hurt their ability to create emotional intimacy.

[Trigger warning: general discussion of sexual assault and trauma] In addition, and importantly, this hurts men who have been sexually assaulted or raped. They sometime presume that, because they were hurt, then they were somehow “asking for it” or actually “wanting it.” It also leads society to question them and deny their trauma, because, as popular “wisdom” goes, “you can’t rape the willing” (presuming that men must always be willing). [End of trigger] 

Men are also expected never to do anything perceived as feminine. This applies to everything from clothing through body language to behavior, preferences, and beyond. A good example is external appearance: While women have fought—and still are fighting—for their right to wear pants, to not be required to wear makeup or shave their entire bodies, men are still strictly forbidden to wear skirts, jewelry, or makeup, to shave their body hair, or to otherwise “feminize” their appearance. Hell, even men who wear masculine clothes with colors that are too bright, or with the appearance of putting too much effort into it, are policed for their deviation. The complete ban on anything perceived as feminine is meant to secure masculinity’s status as superior and femininity’s status as inferior. (Famously, Iggy Pop said, “I’m not ashamed to dress like a woman because I don’t think it’s shameful to be a woman.”) Men who behave in ways that are perceived as feminine are regarded as “sissies,”“queers,” or “homos,” and undergo various forms of social policing and violence for their gender deviance. Men who act according to this expectation are denied a full spectrum of options for self-expression, creativity, and play, and are forced to limit themselves to a narrow standard of acceptable behavior.

Men are expected to be strictly and always heterosexual. As alluded to above, being gay is one of the most dreaded things that a man might be suspected of, and is often used as a derogatory term for policing men who have deviated from the sacred lines of manhood. That said, as American writer Greta Christina mentions in her blog post “Five Stupid, Unfair and Sexist Things Expected of Men ,” once a man actually comes out as gay, this message of “[ D]on’t be even a little bit gay” is replaced with “Well . . . okay.” More than anything, this tells us that men are allowed to be monosexual (however begrudgingly in the case of gay men), but are strictly forbidden from being bisexual. Heterosexuality for men enforces their compliance with dominant masculinity as well as their value as human beings. Monosexuality for gay men secures their masculinity by exhibiting perceived decisiveness and stability. Bisexuality, however, does not fit together with this framework because its perceived instability, confusion, and indecisiveness clash with those values expected of men. It is of little surprise, then, that male bisexuality is constantly erased and denied. 

Eisner, Shiri (2013-07-02). Bi: Notes for a Bisexual Revolution. Seal Press. Kindle Edition. 

Om 'n "ma" te verloor

Om 'n ma te verloor is nie maklik nie. Dit is nietemin deel van die natuurlike gang van ons gebroke wêreld. Om 'n ouer te verloor is vir 'n kind soos om 'n god te verloor. 'n Kind se hele wese, se heel gevoel van bestaansreg draai om hulle ouers, wat aan al hulle basiese behoeftes voldoen.

Ek het hieroor 'n gedig geskryf verlede jaar. In die gedig spreek die verteller die Dood aan, en bekla die feit dat moeders sterf sodat kinders kan "onderskei / tussen God en mens / tussen Hom en klei".


Ek het ook op 'n tyd 'n moeder gehad

ek het ook
op 'n tyd   
lank gelede
toe wolke nog diere en skepe was
'n moeder gehad

'n ma

'n mamma

wat soos 'n god
my lank lank gelede
gesoog en versorg en verknog het
wat in my die potensiaal gesien het
wat slegs God en moeders kan sien
wat die eerste vrou in my lewe was
die templaat vir al wat vrou is
van Eva tot nou is

ek het ook op 'n tyd 'n moeder gehad

en soos alle moeders het sy ook
onder jou koue lem beland
jou rypvingers het haar om die keel gegryp
en God het staan en toekyk
want dis die lot van alle moeders
dat hulle kinders kan onderskei
tussen God en mens
tussen Hom en klei

op 'n tyd het ek ook 'n God gehad
soos 'n moeder

My mooi ma

My ma was vir jare lank siek gewees en toe sy uiteindelik sterf was dit nie 'n skok nie. In 'n sekere opsig was dit 'n verligting. 'n Verligting dat haar leiding tot 'n einde gekom het. Die laaste keer wat ek my ma gesien het, het sy feitlik niks van haar vorige glorie oor gehad nie. Sy was eens 'n dinamiese, selfversekerde, sterk, pragtige vrou. Maar op haar sterfbed het sy in 'n patetiese bondeldjie verander -- 'n kindjie, sonder 'n moeder om haar te vertroos. Dit is vir my moeilik om terug te dink aan my moeder en nie gelyktydig terug te dink nie aan haar geweldige verval van die koningin wat sy op tyd was, tot daardie bewende prewelde bondeltjie op 'n bedjie in 'n tehuis vir elendiges.

Sedert my ma se afsterwe is ek geseënd met ander "moeders" wat my onder hulle vlerke geneem het. Een van hulle het ook onlangs gesterf na 'n tyd van siekte.

Ek het die volgende op Facebook met my bloedfamilie en hartfamilie (hegte vriende) gedeel:

Tannie Jenny en ek

'n “Ma” en dierbare vriendin van my, Tannie Jenny Streaton, is die middag voor Oukersaand (24 Desember 2013) oorlede nadat sy vir 'n paar jaar reeds met kanker gewroeg het. Alhoewel sy uiteindelik aan die siekte omgekom het, het sy as 'n vegter, 'n heldin in my gemoed, gesterf. Sy was 'n besonderse mens gewees vir wie ek baie lief is en wie baie lief vir my was—en my lewe is ryker daarom. Sy het my moed ingepraat (“pet talks” soos sy dit genoem het) wanneer ek mismoedig was, en sy het selfs op 'n groot mate finansiëel bygedra to my meestersgraad. Ek weet nie of ek my meestersgraad sou kon voltooi het sonder haar liefde en bystand nie, en ek twyfel of ek sou wees waar ek vandag is (besig met 'n doktorsgraad) was dit nie vir haar en die Streaton-familie wat my “aangeneem” het nie. Hulle het my op soveel direkte en indirekte maniere gehelp, dat dit te lank sal neem om hier te hervertel. Sowat drie jaar gelede het ek en Tannie Jenny lank gekuier en het ons kans gehad om formeel totsiens te sê. Iets wat sy geïnisieer het. Ons het diep gesels oor die dood, en hoe sy daaroor voel. Sy het prontuit en eerlik met my haar gevoelens gedeel—insluitende dat sy vrede het met die feit dat sy sou sterf. Sy het ook met my van haar bekommernisse gedeel en dit is 'n voorreg vir my dat ek na haar kon luister. Ek weet die dinge wat sy op haar hart gedra het, en koester dit, en sy het geweet die liefde wat ek vir haar, vir Oom Mike en haar kinders, Margie en Michael het. Sy het vir my gesê dat sy my lief het en dat ek vir haar soos 'n eie seun is. Twee jaar gelede het ek haar weer gesien en ons was bly dat ons nog so 'n geleentheid gegun is. En onlangs, enkele weke voor haar dood kon ek darem 'n kort rukkie met haar op die foon gesels en kon ek vir haar sê dat ek lief vir haar is en ander dinge wat ons gedeel het. Ek is jammer dat ek haar nie weer kon sien voor sy gesterf het nie, maar daar is niks ongesê tussen ons nie. Die wêreld was 'n beter plek met haar in dit—en sy het op haar eie, nederige manier mense se lewens aangeraak. Sy is 'n fundamentele pilaar in die konstruksie van my lewe. Dankie Tannie Jenny. As ek, 'n “aangenome seun” so aangeraak kon wees in die bietjie meer as 'n dekade wat ek haar geken het, kan ek my skaars indink hoe pynlik die verlies vir haar familie moet wees. My innige meegevoel vir julle verlies. Ek weet daar is nie woorde nie, en wil maar net dankie sê dat julle my altyd tuis laat voel het.

Baie liefde,

S

Mmm

"Do not retell in mediocre verse what has already been done in good proze." -- Ezra Pound

To a passing creep

This week we have been discussing the work of Walt Whitman in my 19th & 20th Century American Poetry class. We looked at three poems: "I Sing the Body Electric" (my favourite), "I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing" and "To a Stranger". It was while discussing "To a Stranger" today that it suddenly reminded me of a music video I saw long ago of Radiohead's song "Creep". The video illustrated the theme of fleeting encounters and lost connections. I asked the students if they believe in love at first sight. They responded inconclusively. I don't. Not love. Lust at first sight, yes, or infatuation at first sight. As I explained to a friend recently, I fall in love all the time, but I seldom lose my heart.

Whitman's poem is below and below that the video.


To a Stranger

Passing stranger! you do not know
How longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking,
Or she I was seeking
It comes to me as a dream)

I have somewhere surely
Lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other,
Fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,

You grew up with me,
Were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become
not yours only nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes,
face, flesh as we pass,
You take of my beard, breast, hands,
in return,

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you
when I sit alone or wake at night, alone
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

I translated this poem into Afrikaans a while ago.

On Writing Poetry (in English)

Image Source

I usually write poems in Afrikaans. The reason is simply that I find Afrikaans to be innately more poetic in its compilation and collocations. Take the word "hartstog" for example, which means passion. Directly translated, "hartstog" is heart's journey. In other words, one's passion is the thing that takes your heart on a journey. That is a poem by itself. (I have in fact actually used it as the theme for an Afrikaans poem once.) Or the word "versoen" which means reconcile and directly translates as to kiss. The Afrikaans word for reconciling is this intimate image of kissing. (This had also been the inspiration for a poem before.) With such innate rich and colourful imagery it is no wonder that I prefer Afrikaans as my poetic medium. This doesn't mean that I don't write poetry in English or that I'm not inspired in English. Actually, as far as reading poetry goes, I read mostly English poems and quite often too. In fact, I often have some anthology of poetry in my bag with me, and it is usually an English anthology. For instance at this very moment I have Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" in my one backpack and a translation into English of a selection of Tomas Tranströmer's poetry in my other backpack, and I always leave home with one of these two backpacks.

True, I do write much less poetry in English, but sometimes an English poem wants to be written. Like last night. I was walking home listening to the soundtrack of Spring Awakening when the phrase "good riddance" lodged itself in my mind and just begged to be used in a poem. When I got home I sat down and wrote it in one sitting. (Which of course means that it could probably benefited from more time and editing before I posted it.) Often poems I write in English feel like they want to be translated into Afrikaans, or sometimes an Afrikaans poem calls for an English translation. The "Good Riddance"-poem, which you can read on my poetry blog, has no such ambitions. It is a happy, thoroughly English poem. Well, mostly. It is not a happy-themed poem, so it is not happy in that sense. I mean that the poem is happy to be an exclusively English poem. Also, one of the words I used is quite questionable. It is not a properly established word in the English language, well not in the sense that I use it. It is the word "palateless", meaning "lacking in delicacy of taste", which, upon searching online, I could only find it used in this sense in Merriam-Webster's dictionary, and noted as one of their "unabridged words"; i.e. a very uncommon word. Palateless has become a slightly more common word to describe dentures as palate-less; that is, dentures that do not have an artificial palate (roof of the mouth) part -- not the variation of the word I had in mind.

In July I translated two of my Afrikaans poems into English: a homo-erotic / bisexually themed poem "and I wonder why" and "Percieve", a poem of romantic longing. The latter I also translated into Korean and is currently being edited by a Korean friend. In July I also translated an English poem, A. E. Houseman's "I did not lose my heart on a summer's even" into Afrikaans, and in May I translated those beautiful English lines (189-202) from the final scene of Beaumont and Fletcher's play “Philaster” into Afrikaans.

But since it has been so long for me to write an exclusively English poem I thought it worth announcing here on my main blog. And so it starts, as an angry confession: "If I should lose you, / I say: 'good riddance!' / I've already lost my heart, / what more is there to lose?" But turns into a sad revelation of unrequited love, and how life loses all its wonder and pleasures when one finds oneself in such a state.

Maya Angelou

I've mentioned before that my favourite poem in English is Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise". This year, while teaching 19th & 20th Century American Poetry I got to spend some time with Angelou's work again. The poem that my students seemed to like the most (based on the amount of essays that focussed on it) is the poem "Africa." It is quite a striking poem in which the African continent is anthropomorphised as a beautiful woman who is metaphorically ravaged by colonialists, who also "took her young daughters / sold her strong sons / churched her with Jesus / [and] bled her with guns". The poem ends with the woman "rising", "although she has lain" and "now . . . striding", suggesting that she refuse to submit and give up hope, but instead rise above her oppression and adversary. Like "Still I Rise" the poem shows the victim rising above her situation. The poem that really stood out for me this time, however, was "Phenomenal Woman". It might be because many people have asked me in recent months about my ideal woman, and while ideally a good figure does score some points, it is more her confidence in herself--her at homeness in her body--that makes a woman sexy. The poem "Phenomenal Woman" really captures this.

I just now saw this interpretation of Oprah Winfrey of "Phenomenal Woman" and "Still I Rise". Phenomenal! In the YouTube video below, Oprah starts to speak at 2:45 and begins with the excellent performance of parts of the two poems at 3:30.



The Canadian actress/singer Amy Sky did a pretty good job of putting "Phenomenal Woman" to music.




It is difficult to speak about Maya Angelou and not mention her poem "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings". Do read it. It is beautiful.

Wenke vir die skryf van gedigte

Image Source

Ek het verlede semester 'n kort seminaar gegee in die skryf van poësie. Hier is drie (en twee-derdes) van my hoofwenke:

• Maak abstrakte stellinge konkreet en konkrete stellinge interesant (deur die gebruik van beelde en simbole -- vergelykings en metafore).
• Kommunikeer gevoel, maar vermy sentiment en clichés. 
• Vermy (eind-)rym, tensy die gedig dit vereis. (Betekenisvolle binnerym skep 'eenheid' in die gedig en is wenslik. Daarinteen laat gedwonge eindrym die gedig na 'n 'rympie' lyk -- definitief onwenslik!)

Lekker skryf!

Sien my gedigte-blog: Ingelegde Lywe.

Ek skrik nie vir Afrikaans se "nieë" nie

Vroeër vanaand skryf ek 'n gedig. In die eerste reël val dit weg met 'n dubbelnegatief:  "Verewig is nie soos 'n leeftyd nie". Ek kyk toe bietjie terug na van my ander gedigte en kom op hierdie een af waar ek die nieë sommer so reël op reël ryg: "[wanneer jy sterf] gaan ek nie geboorte gee aan trane nie— / die Dood verdien nie geboortes nie / ek gaan nie eerbiedig knik nie / my huid formeel in swart omlyf nie / of lelies vir só okasie rangskik nie—".

Ek is nie bang vir Afrikaans se dubbel-nie nie. Baie digters vermy die dubbelnegatief omdat hulle dit 'n hindernis vind wat rym betref, maar ek glo 'n mens kan steeds effektief die dubbelnegatief gebruik in rym. Kyk bevoorbeeld na die eerste stanza in hierdie gedig van my:

My geliefde het die pad gevat,
opgerol en oor haar skouer gegooi.
Ek kan g’n spoor vind om te sny nie,
haar lyn is op g’n kaart te kry nie.

Die geheim is nie om die nieë tot eindrym te beperk en sodoende 'n inherente (en oninteresante) rym te bewerkstellig nie. In plaas van eindrym speel 'n mens met die binnerym. Die onderstaande versie getiteld "Versoen" is 'n voorbeeld van wat ek bedoel.

laat ons nie te haastig wees
om die liefde totsiens te soen nie –
’n gesoenery is in elkgeval bedoel
vir versoenery en nie groetery nie.

Alhoewel ons hier "nie" in die eindrymposisie in reëls twee en vier het, is die rym vroeër reeds gevestig as binnerym. Dit begin in reël een met die eerste van die twee dubbelnegatiewe, maar die binnerym herhaling vir daardie eerste "nie" vind ons in reël twee in die [ie]-vokaal in "liefde" en "totsiens". Die viertallige herhaling van "nie" word geballanseer deur ander binnerym, byvoorbeeld die herhaling van die [oe]-vokaal ("soen", "gesoen-", "bedoel", "versoen-", "groet-") en die [y]-diftong ("gesoenery", "versoenery", "groetery").


Hier is nog een vol nieë.

As ek sterf, grawe nie 'n diep graf
vêr van die son af nie;
grawe vir my 'n vlak graf
sodat ek nie koud kry nie.
Tot dan, hou nie jou hart vêr
van my af nie; bly vlak neffens my.

'n Mens kan argumenteer dat hierdie gediggie sou baat deur van die dubbelnegatiewe te verwyder. Ek kon die gedig byvoorbeeld geskryf sonder 'n paar van daardie nieë en onmiddelik beter eindrym tot gevolg gehad het:

As ek sterf, grawe nie 'n diep graf
vêr van die son af;
grawe vir my 'n vlak graf
sodat ek nie koud kry.
Tot dan,
hou nie jou hart
vêr van my;
maar bly vlak
neffens my.

Die gedwange eindrym dra min by tot die natuurlike vloei van die gedig. Dit lees, selfs met die reëlafkappings, lomp. Die natuurlike ritme wat ons in Afrikaans verwag in 'n negatiewe sinsnede ontbreek. Dit kan natuurlik die bedoeling van die digter wees om die verwagte ritme teen te gaan, maar sodoende dwing 'n mens 'n fokus op die noodwendige manipulasie van die taal in poësie, wat mynsinsiens die intuïtiewe kommunikasie van die gedig onderbreek.

My punt is eenvoudig. Daar is geen rede om te skrik vir Afrikaans se nieë nie, selfs nie in die digkuns nie. Om die waarheid te sê, ek dink dit bring 'n aangename eiesoortige ritme aan Afrikaans. Dit funksioneer ook as 'n wonderlike benadrukking van die negatief. Wanneer jy onnodig met die nieë begin peuter, vestig jy aandag op iets wat nie noodwendig aandag vereis nie, en onttrek jy daardeur van dit wat jy hoofsaaklik wou kommunikeer.

Sommer maar net 'n paar middernagtelike gedagtes. Aai, ek moes al lankal bedtoe gegaan het!

Don't Smoke in Bed & A Poem About the Assassination of a Heart

One of my favourite songs is "Don't Smoke in Bed." I'm not sure why this song resonates with me, because I do not smoke and am unlikely to be romantically involved with someone that does smoke. Nevertheless, there is something wonderfully touching about the lyrics of this song. Even as the narrator is leaving her husband, she still cares for him, she still reminds him not to smoke in bed.

My favourite version is of course the one by Nina Simone, whom I've mentioned on this blog before (see here and here).

Apart from Nina Simone, the other person with whom the song is probably usually associated is Peggy Lee. I especially like the instrumentation in this version.



Patti Smith, the musician partly responsible for the punk rock genre, also does a riviting performance of this old jazz classic.



A more upbeat version in a lounge jazz style is performed by the Eddie Higgins Trio. You might be excused for getting up and dancing to this tune. The trio consists of piano, guitar and bass.



k.d. lang with her beautiful voice provides a beautiful full sounding version, but I do miss the rawness that one hear in Simone and Smith.




In around 2008 my then girlfriend and I broke up after somewhat of a tumultuous emotional period in our relationship. Shortly before we broke up I wrote her the poem below. In the poem the narrator speaks of his lover as an assassin of hearts that will soon come to murder (i.e. break) his heart and in so doing be the cause of his death. At the end of the poem I realised that I needed there to be a personal touch--a loving "don't smoke in bed". After sometime I added the line: "Don't forget to water the flowers"--the idea being that flowers are a symbol of romantic love and by caring for the flowers she will keep his remembrance and symbolically keep their love alive after his passing. In a strange way this poem I wrote was influenced by this song "Don't Smoke in Bed". Basically they have the same themes and tell the same story of broken hearts and separation. Soon afterwards I moved to Korea.

Throughout the night I battle sleep
(my fists broken       my temples bleeding
my knees and elbows chafed from fighting)
lest, like a calamity, the morning breaks
open like an egg       a skull       a heart stuffed
to the brim with love (that undaunted
heartless threatening damned type of love).

And now, as the day comes crawling
(my heart’s assassination on the agenda;
it will, I’m sure, be done with a knife)
and I have little fighting spirit left, I beg you
my love, be swift. I have already
both my stubborn shirt and chest
ripped open (I trust you’ll appreciate it).

My love, both my heart and I am ready
on this day (please don’t torture me further!)
to die enthusiastically an enormous death.
The angels (my guardian angel and yours)
are standing on their marks for a farewell number
(a necro-duet) to call me to the Big Slumber.

Don’t forget to water the flowers.

bygestaande selfmoord / "assisted suicide"

'n Opinie omtrent bygestaande selfmoord

Ek nes my lewe in klam rooigrond:

'n pêreltjie—oënskynlyk leweloos—skiet
skielik 'n harige stertjie suidwaarts,
'n kordadige nekkie priem noorde toe;
die gevuisde lentegroen koppie
vou oop soos twee palmpies na gebed
of voor applous en glimlag vlinderlik.

Natuurlik, figuurlikgesproke het ek my lewe
so geplant en met die selfde aanmatigheid
wil ek, wanneer die tyd ryp is,
die pêreltjie weer oes—sagkuns ontwortel,
die lewensare se konneksie met die klam
rooigrond kortknip, die vlinder laat verwelk
en die korreltjie wat aan my geleen is teruggee.

Want, toe ek ontkiem het,
was dit 'n deftige—tog toweragtige—affêre
en daarom wil ek ook op 'n betaamlike
manier sterf—sans towerkuns natuurlik—.

My Talk . . . uhm sermon . . . no, talk on Romantic Poetry

This past Sabbath I gave a talk on Romantic Poetry at an international church (i.e. the congregation is English speaking) here in Seoul, Korea. The talk took around 40 minutes, and even though it started late, I didn't see anybody dosing off, which was a good sign. I got some very positive feedback including one lady who came to me afterwards, took my hand and responded with a "Bravo!" The pastor who invited me to give the talk seemed pleased. A couple of people requested the script. One theologian remarked that it was a very "useful" talk.

I can't really take credited for the success as I merely reiterated the arguments of such great scholars as Karen Armstrong (regarding "Mythos") and C. S. Lewis (regarding "Numinous"), both of whom I quoted in my talk. Also, since this was a talk on Romantic Poetry and Christianity, one ought not forget the possible impression of the Holy Spirit, regardless of the speaker's eloquence.

In any case, I've made the script available at my slightly more academic blog. You can read it here: Mythos & Numinous: Two “Profitable” Things for the Christian from Romantic Poetry

Wat is sexy?

Bono

Opsoek na my CV in een van my digitale laaie kom ek op hierdie af. Ek weet nie vir watter okasie ek dit geskryf het nie. Moontlik net om my eie gedagtes oor die onderwerp te orden, of dalk om op my blog te plaas, of miskien vir 'n ander doel. Ek verbeel my ek het dit reeds al op my blog geplaas, maar na 'n vinnige soektog blyk dit tog nie die geval te wees nie.

Ek is gefassineer deur “sexy”. Wat maak iemand sexy?

My vriendin vind byvoorbeeld Bono van U2 vreeslik sexy. Het jy onlangs ’n foto van Bono gesien? Hy het ’n reuse neus en ’n abnormale ken. Buiten vir sy interesante brille is daar niks wat ek as handsome sou klasifiseer nie. Tog vind derduisende mense hom sexy.

Seker so twee jaar gelede was ek en die vriendin by ’n Amanda Strydom konsert in Potch. Amanda, ’n vrou in haar vygtigs, wat lankal haar eens slanke lyf veruil het vir die mollige volumes van ’n middeljarige vrou, het ons verdronk. Sy was ongelooflik sexy. Haar sexyheid is nie in haar lyf nie, maar in haar selfvertroue.


Amanda Strydom (Source)

Sexy is baie keer gesetel in selfvertroue. Sletterigheid ook. ’n Sletterige vrou is vol vertroue dat wat sy uitstal aanloklik is. En ongelukkig werk dit vir party. Maar ’n ware sexy vrou weet dat haar bates te besonders is om aan almal vertoon te word. Sy steek dit verluidelik weg agter winkende klere. Ware “sexy” is ook uiters sensueel. Dis ’n bewuswees van die sintuiglike wat in subtielhede geprikkel word. Daar is min goed wat so irriteer soos ’n vrou wat ruik of sy in ’n bad parfuum gelê het. Gelyktydig is daar niks so lieflik as ’n subtiele geur, dalk jasmyn, wat sagkuns van haar nek af drappeer nie.

John Waters (bekend vir sy film Hairspray) vertel in ’n onderhoud: “I see some women in really scary redneck bars that I go to, that truly look shocking. Like a three-hundred-pound woman with extreme cellulite in a tiny mini-skirt working a bar and strutting her stuff. Is she sexy? Yes, in a wierd way. People who have that confidence and that nerve are really sexy. And if you think you’re sexy, someone else will. You can look really sexy covered up. So I think the women who have knock-out bodies are the ones that should wear Japanese fashion, Commdes Garcons and so on. But they never do. That’s why they all look the same. What I am alarmed about is that all women feel they have to show full breasts all the time.”

Ek dink dis makliker vir mans om sexy te wees. Die “vrou” is al so misbruik deur media dat dit moeilik is vir die gewone vrou om haarself te laat kompeteer. As sy maar net besef dat sexyheid is in die unieke subtielhede. Soveel vrouens probeer die abnormale maerheid van catwalk modelle na-aap. Maar die kunsgeskiedenis is dit eens, die vrou is mooi in haar kurwes, nie in haar reguit lyne nie.

"Blue Nude" -- Henri Matisse

Mans aan die anderkant is mooi juis in die reguitlyne. ’n Man in ’n ordentlike pak klere is gewoonlik aantreklik. As daar een geslag is wat kan baat by gewig verloor is dit mans. Kurwes pas nie by mans nie.

Colin McDowell skryf: “...photography advanced too far and erotical gradually changed into pornography—its vulgar little sister—which is, sadly, all that is left for us today. Top-shelf magazines, DVDs and websites are not about eroticism. They deel instead in quick fixes. Whereas eroticism was predicated on the belief that sex was a pleasure increased in direct proportion to the time spent on it, today it is all too often seen as a form of instant gratification, to enjoy briefly and then forget about. Pole dancing, lap dancing, erotic cinemas and bars have devalued sexual pleasure by blurring the boundaries between eroticism and pornography.”

Ek moet saam stem met McDowell se beskywing en Waters se lament. Seks en sexyheid het goedkoop geword – dis verlaag tot kitskos. En blykbaar is kitskos goed genoeg vir die meerderheid mense om op te leef. Kyk byvoorbeeld na die sexy odes in die Bybelse boek Hooglied: “Jy is so mooi, so bekoorlik, liefste, met soveel wat geniet kan word. Jou slanke gestalte is soos ’n palmboom, jou borste soos druiwetrosse. Ek dink ek gaan teen die palmboom opklim en sy trosse gryp. Laat jou borste vir my soos trosse druiwe wees, die reuk van jou neus soos die van appels, jou mond soos goeie wyn wat glad na binne gly vir die man wat jy liefhet, wat tussen sy lippe en sy tande deur vloei” (Hooglied 7:6-9).Die erotiese, of ware sexyheid, is iets waarin God goedkeuring vind. Maar hoe tragies dat ons dit verniel het tot kitskos.

“Eroticism is about titillation – the slow awakening of sexual pleasure. It involves the gentle interplay of the mind, sense and emotions. It is to be treated as something special and valuable” verduidelik McDowell. “It’s a choice we all make. Intellectual involvement or animal gratification.”

Die essay eindig effe stomp; dit kort nog bietjie werk, maar aangesien dit nie nou juis 'n prioriteit vir my is nie, plaas ek dit maar hier, sommer so ongeredigeer. Die essay is ook op 'n manier 'n tipe manifes vir my liefdesgedigte. Ek hoop dat mense in my gedigte 'n sin van die erotiese sal kry eerder as pornografiese.

Chopin's Funeral March and the Numinous in Romantic Poetry

I've been asked to give a talk at a church on Romantic Poetry; i.e. the poetry of the Romantic period. The body of my talk will consist of three parts; for each I plan to have a short musical interlude. The last part of my talk will concern the Numinous, for which I want a section from Chopin's Funeral March to be played.



At present I'm still looking for someone who can play my three interludes -- each short pieces by Chopin. The talk is on May 14th, so I still have a few weeks to find someone. If I can't find anybody, I'll just have to play recordings of the music, but that will definitely be less than ideal.

Gedig: Wie?

 Image Source

Wie, hier, kan vir my sê

waar die westewind

haar kop neelê;

waar die oostewind

haar skuiling vind;

waarom my mooi liefling

weggegaan het,

waarom sy my hier

agter gelaat het?

Wie?

'n Gedig aan my X

Image Source

Toe jy verwagtend was

Ek wens ek was daar
toe jou maag volmaan rond
en vol lewe -- nuwe bloedjonklewe -- was
en jou borsies sappige geswolle
melkvrugte -- vrugte van die Boom van die Lewe -- was
en jou heupe oorlopens toe vol lewe was
en jy soos 'n amoeba te veel lewe gehad het
en twee lewens -- jy en 'n splinternuwe jy -- geword het.

Ek wens ek was daar
en dat ek daar saam met jou -- albei van jou -- gelewe het.

my vrou is 'n boervrou

my boervrou spit in die tuin

sy spit die aarde in klowe oop

groot vrugbare oopwondklowe

met haar groot ysterspit

soos Agdistis is my vrou

my boervrou bevrug Moeder Aarde

kloof haar oop en stort haar saad daarin

my vrou is 'n vrugbaarheidsgodin