t-1£§NHZHN -NO ZC/5Special South African Issue

SUMMERILLUMINATIONS

1989

The Rathasker Press

Copyright © 1989 by the Rathasker Press

Editor’s Note

This is a very special issue of Illuminations. No previous issue has been so devoted to the writing of one particular area, and no issue has been devoted to such an emotive area as South African writing. As in previous issues the aim has been to allow the work of new writers to appear alongside already established ones, but in a South African context that split between new and established is perhaps less important than in politically “ settled” countries where publishing is governed either by Party decree or by commercial motive. In South Africa at the moment writing proliferates, particularly in the genres most closely linked to the oral tradition — poetry and drama; it does so despite (or perhaps in response to) government ordinances imposed under South Africa’s press laws and fourth year of a State of Emergency. More relevant splits in South African writing might therefore be on the lines of legality, political intention, language, class, race, oral/written, exile/insider. However, there are already plenty of polemicists on the issue, and whilst the selection of poems cannot in this instance be politically neutral, its main aim is to provide an illustration to non-South African readers of the enormous range and vitality of current South African output: of the urgency and engaged nature of the overtly political writing; of the oblique codes used by those who might be seen to have more conventionally aesthetic values; of the roles of organisations such as trade unions, universities, and magazines in ensuring that literature in South Africa reaches its audience.

Editing this selection from Tanzania has been awkward and 1 am profoundly grateful to all those contributors who, although in potentially sensitive positions, were unfazed by undertaking correspondence with us. 1 am particularly grateful to Dr David Bunn, Andries Walter Oliphant, Nadine Gordimer, Douglas Reid Skinner, Mike Nicol, Gillian Slovo and the ANC Cultural Committee, for spreading the word about us and soliciting material; also to Reginald Gibbons of TriQuarterly for addresses and a copy of their excellent South African anthology (no. 67, edited by David Bunn and Jane Taylor). I would also like to thank Dennis Brutus for inspiration in Islington, and Hilda Bernstein for encouragement, advice, and her engraving.

On the financial side, this magazine owes enormous thanks to the International School of Tanganyika for a very generous grant — the first institutional money we have received since 1984. Without their munificence we would have been very hard pressed to put this collection together. As always, though, we are still looking for new subscribers/patrons and contributors.

Editor: Simon LewisAssistant Editors: Bernard O’Keeffe, Stephen Walsh US Editor: Tom DabbsAdvisory Board: Peter MC Millan, Ashley Brown, Stephen Spender

Subscription rate: £10/$15 for three issues. Please make cheques payable to Simon Lewis and send to:International School of Tanganyika Ltd P.O. Box 2651 Dar es Salaam Tanzania

CONTENTS

Don Mattera This Land, South Africa 1Dennis Brutus Untitled poem 2Douglas Reid Skinner The View 2Kelwyn Sole Jazz 3Ari Silas Ethekwini 5Mi s ’Dumo Hlatshwayo The Workers’ Trail 7Alfred Temba Qabula The Small Gateway to Heaven 8Nise Malange Nightshift Cleaner, Nightshift Mother 9Msizi Kuhlane The Boots 10Farouk Asvat Possibilities for a Man... 10Keith Gottschalk Petition to My Interrogators 11James Matthews The Day I Was Taken 13Ann Oosthuizen from Call Sarah 14Giles Hugo from Blood Is the Rose o f Mysterious

Union 17Andries Walter Oliphant At the End of the Day 19

Childhood in Heidelberg 20Lerato Kumalo Childhood in Soweto 21Rebecca Matlou For My Comrade 23Keorapetse Kgositsile New Age 23Farouk Stemmet Untitled 25Chris van Wyk The Reason 25Patric de Goede Musician’s Melody — Klopse Lied 26James Twala Family Planning 26Thabo Mooke Nowhere to Hide 28Wilma Stockenstrdm Old Building 29Kobus Moolman The Boy Who Went Out Too Far 29Sally-Ann Murray For Poppa 30Ruth Keech Psychiatric Out-patient 30Robert Berold Two Meditations on Chuang Tsu 31

Light and Travelling 32Phil Davey Whispering Palms 33Themba ka Miya I Am 34Charles Mungoshi Burning Log 35Francis Faller The Weapon Melody 35Humberto Diaz CasanuevaThe Child of Robben Island 36Louis Bourne Walking near Wilderness 39

Cover design features an engraving, “ Landscape of the Dispossessed” , by Hilda Bernstein.

Don Mattera

THIS LAND, SOUTH AFRICA

T h is land, the whole landeach grain of sandnorth to south, east to westthe given earth, th e best landthe h ills, the valleys, the m ountainsth is beautifu l country m ust be freedw ith all the blood it takes to pump a heartand fill it w ith a dream.

T hese robust rivers, the tim id brooksthe dams the lakes the lagoonslimpopo ventricles that feed the soilum folozi tugela orange and vaalm em ories of battles against settler steel,these w aterw ays m ust be washedw ith all the tears it takes to cleanse a stream .

T hese cornfields and faces of sunflowersprawling farms, crawling grass and treethe vineyards the orchardsbursting fruit and grazing grainbram ble bush, defiant cactus in desert dunesflashing swords against pretorian knaves,these gifts of earth m ust be reclaim edw ith all the pain it took to fill a m illion graves.

T hese brazen cities, the stolen m inesthe m ineral of our sweatthe teem ing ghetto the dormitory celltin s tow ns and squalid squatter campswhere hope sm others in the m ire,these furnaces of indifference m ust incineratew ith all the heat of an avenging fire.

T h is land, the whole land the best and beautiful land WILL be freed.

Dennis Brutus

UNTITLED POEM

M y father, that distant man, grey hair streaked w ith silver, spoke of St. Francis of Assisi w ith a special tim bre in h is voice: loved h im not, I th ink, for the birds circling h is head, nor the grace of that threadbare fusty gown but for h is stigm ata: the blood th at gleam ed in the fresh wounds on his palm s and insteps: in m y iso lation cell in prison, th e bullet wound in m y side still raw, those im ages afflicted me.

Douglas Reid Skinner

THE VIEW

Rain. T h e colours deepen. T h e light goes early and the lights go on.And the bay 's interm inable grey stretches all the way from

em pty wharves and idle cranes, past the island of impounded days, past the tanker heading westward loaded down w ith oil. All the way

past the coastlin e 's slow curve to the blurred lines of horizon w here an aeroplane slow ly rises in widening circles beyond

m ountains covered w ith cloud.It flies to th e north and away.Words d on 't stop w hat is going on. They are what has gone wrong.

2

Kelwyn Sole

from JAZZ

(Based on an in stru ction to G erm an dance bands, 1940) 1

P ieces in so-called foxtrot rhythm (so-called swing) are not to exceed 20% of the repertoires of light orchestras and dance bands:

2

in th is so-called jazz type repertoire,PREFERENCE is to be

givento com position in a m ajor key and to lyrics expressing

joyin liferather than Jew ishly lyrics

gloomy

3

as / to tempo ?preference is also to be given to briskcom positionsoverslowones (so-called BLUES)

however the pace (you break m y heart) m ust not exceed (when you're away) a certain degree (my m an has gone) of allegro (w on't com e back till day)

com m ensurate

3

w ith the Aryan sense of d isc ip lin e /&. m odera­

tion.

(wa wa)

O n no account w ill N EGRO ID excesses in temposo-calledhotjazzorinsoloperform ancesso-calledbreaksbe

allowed.

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strictly prohibited (don't forget, now, baby) is the use of instrum ents

alien to th e Germ an spirit i.e . so-called saxophones of all keys

as w ell as m utes w hich turn the noble sound of WIND (?)

and brass instrum ents in to a Jew ish-Freem asonic yowl

(you got that, cat) so-called wa wa and hat.

8

plucking of the strings is prohibited

since it is damaging to the instrum ent and detrim ental to Aryan m usicality

9

m usicians arelikew ise

forbidden to m ake vocal im provisations (so-called scat)

10

skoo-bee-doo!

4

A ii S itas

T here is

there, here,

there, here

From here

ETHEKWINI*

an expanse of green and dust hem m ed-in

by cane and a stitchw ork of hills

th is expansespat at by waves pum m elled by sunblasts

stew ing in sweat yes, liquidyes, waves: whose necks are

th ick set w ith corrugations

is th is expanse that claim s me:m y Hell.

from th is h e ll's odours— tom ato street, guava avenue, m olasses valley steel-shavings tow nship, glue location,

m assala h illm elting and boiling —

there is no stench of heaven left to prize there is a sky: yes- blue-like, grey-like, alien-like

weighing downwards pouring

sweat at dusk

downwards riveting all aground

downwards, yes, w ith only sideward escapades.

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T here, here,m echanical bullfrogs and cicadas grind away

and som etim es wounded cars cough by pierced by assegais

and som etim es surfers emerge from the m ouths of m icro-wave ovens

and always life continues like the sound of

splintering glass.

T h is hell,hem m ed-in:

its forced geom etry of concrete boils spreads outwards

sidewardsin its rashes of sackcloth of shack, of specification m atchbox to tou ch the stitchw ork of hills

as near the docksthe boss drives by in h is Shepstone Benz as h is "b o y s " load C etshw ayo's skull as cargo

here, there,confined

where visions of heaven subsided long ago w ith the arrival of sails creaking

under a hyperload of sparrowshere,

there,in th is m aze of splintering glass

in th is expanse that claim s me in these infernal flam ew aves tanning m y fate

I was lost there sm iling

porcelain sm iles and waving

ox-hide kites.

•Ethekwini: the Zulu name for Durban.

6

M i S ’D u m o H latshw ayo

from THE WORKERS' TRAIL

(Tribute to the Dunlop W orkers and their leadership)

VIII

Sons and daughtersforged and crafted in the struggle

follow the trail that leads through the th icket

ride the w hirlw ind's crests le t them carry you hom e

to our long awaited homestead!T h e homestead

— prophesied by Raditsela the hom estead

— prophesied by Bikoand then abandoned

the hom e— prophesied by Mabheda

and then abandoned!Here runs the m ystery-trail towards home!T h e trail

w hich baffled the employers and rulers!

And now they look at it and trace it to Fidel Castro of Cuba

— the great revolutionary and trace it to Karl M arx's scriptures

— for he wrote of the struggle of the rich and the poor

as if our struggledid not start from our hearts.

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A lfred Tem ba Qabula

from THE SMALL GATEWAY TO HEAVEN

T h is is the sm all gateway to Heaven, for th e electfor th e old m en turned to anim als and the young m esm erised by promises.And I rem em ber:w hen the recruiters invaded our homes to get us to w ork the m ines they would say:"c o m e to M alam ulelaat M lam lanku zi w ith its h ills and valleysthere are m ountains of m eatthere a m an 's teeth becom e loose from endless chewingand there w here the w alls are grumblingwhere the stoneface is singingprom ising bridew ealth and m errim entwhere sorrows disappear at the w ink of an eyecom e to the place of the Hairy-jaww here starvation is not k n ow n ."And we joined the queues through the sm all gate to Heaven.

And we found the w alls of our custody and degradationand of w ork darkness to darkness w ith heavy shoes burdening our feet w ith worry for nothingat the place of the Hairy-jaw away from our loved ones

And I have seen th is prison of a Heaventhis kraal w hich encircles the slavesand I saw it as the heart of our oppressionand I saw the w alls that separate us from a life of love.

N ise M alange

NIGHTSHIFT CLEANER, NIGHTSHIFT MOTHER

Left w ith a double load at hom e

m y children left uncared.

A nxiety at work

m y boss insists we should be grateful for the opportunities he gives w om en to be exploited.

Anxietyand I am stranded w ith these loadsth is "w o m an 's jo b " w hich brings hom e pittance

and I am forced to take on nightshift cleaning because I have no other training

and I feel forced because the years just passed m e by and it is too late for any other jobs

and I feel forced because I am a single m other w ith no place to place m y children in the day

and I feel wornas sleep is a long lost m em oryas I have to care for the young ones each and every day

and I w ork wandering on m y kneesthrough these deserted and desolate spaces

tiny groups of us lost in these vast buildings forgotten and neglected

exploited as you sleep

and weunm arried m others, widows,

older w om en, m igrants, but always m others,

w e arecleaning and learning

that we m ust jo in hands, lift each other off our knees

and fight our exploitation.

9

M sizi Kuhlane

THE BOOTS

She sat in the sunAnd she gently polished ...She polished the army boots Belonging to her boss.

By now they were shining And they were a m irror She im agined in that m irror A son and a daughter.T h ey m ight have been her children.

T h e boots were k icking him T h e boots were kicking her T h e boots were kicking T h e door of her house, because T h e boss didn’t know O r care w here she lived.

She thought about this Bu t she had no other way Bu t to polish those boots.

Farouk Asvat

POSSIBILITIES FOR A MAN HUNTED BY SBS

T h ere 's one of tw o possibilitiesEither they find you or they don'tIf they don't i t 's okBut if they find youT h ere 's one of tw o possibilitiesEither they le t you go or they ban youIf they let you go i t 's okBut if they ban youT h ere 's one of tw o possibilitiesEither you break your ban or you don'tIf you d on 't i t 's ok

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Bu t if you break your banT h ere 's one of tw o possibilitiesEither they find out or they don'tIf they don't i t 's okBut if they find outT h ere 's one of tw o possibilitiesEither they find you guilty or not guiltyIf they find you not guilty it 's okBut if they find you guiltyT here 's one of tw o possibilitiesEither they suspend your sentence or they jail youIf they suspend your sentence it 's okBut if they jail youT h ere 's one of two possibilitiesEither they release youOr you fall from the tenth floor

Keith Gottschalk

PETITION TO MY INTERROGATORS

Baas,w hen you com e for me tw o hours before dawn, there w ill be no lightning or earthquakes,nor even, in these busy tim es, an entry in the occurrences diary,

butit m ight cause som e trouble,

no Baas,i d on 't m ean trouble w ith the confession.i'm sure that can be fixed up in the usual businesslike m anner— a few sleepless days & nights standing, helpful coaching of fists, encouragem ent of boots, perhaps; at m ost, a touch or two of electro-convulsive therapy w ill tidy up any contradictory adm issions (you can always keep m y cell light sw itched off to hold the power bills down).

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so there w ill be no serious problem getting my signature at the bottom of a blank affidavit form, or, if you prefer, a voluntary self-w ritten confession to Terrorism , High Treason, Sabotage,Eating m y great-aunt, Inciting political strikes, causing the T w en tie th Century, desecrating the Sabbath, or w hatever Security and the State require that week.

no Baas,th a t's n ot the trouble.w hat i m ean is: i d on 't w ant to inconvenience you w ith th e problem of garbage disposal (i m ean m y post-m ortem and inquest)

i could go on a hunger-strike,but the socialists know i'm a bit of a glutton,so the underground would never swallow that one.

perhaps i could be found hanged in m y cell,but the liberals know i'm an atheist, w ith no afterlife to look forward to, so am nesty international would sarcastically query a verdict of suicide.

naturally i could always fall from a tenth-floor windowsill or down a staircase or two,but m y friends know i'm a m em ber of the m ountain clim bers club, so th e press would never believe it.

of course, i could break m y neck falling over a chair,or h it m y head against your office wall,but m y fam ily always complained i was stiff-necked,& m y teachers all said i'v e got the th ickest skull they'd ever seen, so who would th at convince?

if pressed, i could try to slip on a bar of soap,but the board of jew ish deputies is as frightfully touchyabout bars of soap as over tattooed lampshades,so in these tim es of unusual diplom atic alliancesthe foreign affairs m inistry would not consider it very tactful.

lastly , i could attem pt to die of a strokebut having norm al blood pressure &. being a blood donor,m y doctor-father would never accept such a death certificate.

so perhaps Baas(to save you all th is inconvenience) why not ju st leave m e alone?

12

fam es M a tth ew s

THE DAY I WAS TAKEN

T he day i was taken from m y office was as inauspicious as any other day except being th e end of the m onth and a little hotter than usual

T h e m orning newspapers read that three more people had been detained — two wom en and a m an. Perhaps w om en 's lib has asserted itse lf in the struggle for liberation

News of the arrest didn't startle m e. It has beenhappening w ith regular m onotony. Our oppressor-doctors trying to cure our political fever w ith doses of detention; failures consigned to the disposal ward

Francis, our office typist, fright-filled face, said that two m en wanted to speak to me at the reception desk. Her face told m e that it was m y turn. My fever m ust've reached a critica l stage

I w ould've know n them even if they hadn't identified them selves. T heir odour wrinkled m y nostrils. T he oppressed can distinguish h is oppressor even if he sends h is hounds and the hounds have the sam e colour as the oppressed

T heir voices droned as i was informed that i had to com e along.I was to be detained under Code 100 of the Eternal Safety M easure to safeguard the fatherland from com m unists and agitating thoughts

M y period of detention started from then and was to end six m onths later. I was to be held because the oppressor-doctors had decided that m y sym ptom s were alarming and i would infect others if i rem ained outside

H ealth lectu re com pleted i was escorted by the hounds. An alm ost new car was parked at the kerb. I sat in the back. They didn't bother to lock the doors. A writer seem s to have status among the hounds

13

Booked, listed and particulars taken, i was deposited in a cell tw ice the size of m y tow nship toilet. T he sm ell of prison cells has becom e fam iliar and i concentrated on six m onths in solitary confinem ent w ith an occasional visit from an oppressor-doctor

Ann Oosthuizen

from CALL SARAH

Mkhuseli spotted the roadblock ahead, halfway down the long straight stretch into Cookhouse. There were two police vans pulled up on either side of the road, their lights intersecting across it. As he drew closer, he could make out figures, and a man with a powerful torch slowed him down.

There was a heavy, sick silence in the back of the car. Sisa Njuza had asked him to fetch his wife from a farm near Middleton where they had been staying with her parents. Sisa sat in front. Two teenage girls, a six-year-old boy and a baby were with his wife in the back seat, together with her mother, who was coming back to Fort Bedford to live with them for a while. They didn't have permission for her to stay, and had hoped, by hiring a taxi, that it would all happen so quickly that no one would be the wiser.

"Your pass." The white policeman shone the light onto Mkhuseli's papers, and then took them away. He came back after what seemed much too long a time. There was trouble — he wasn't returning the passbook.

"O u t."Mkhuseli turned to Sisa and put up his hand as if to say, " I'll try to deal

with this. I'm sorry." He glanced into the back of the car. The two girls sat straight up, their faces taut with apprehension. Behind them, the women had effaced themselves, camouflaging fear.

Mkhuseli climbed out slowly, giving his eyes time to accustom themselves to the sweep of the veld under the night sky. He avoided looking into the headlamps and the torches. He could now see another car, a pale sports car with a Port Elizabeth number plate. There were two plainclothes men in it. The one in the passenger seat was getting out and walking towards him. He knew the set of those shoulders, the short, thick neck. Closer, he recognised Gouws's sleek brown hair and small, mean moustache. Gouws wore his sports coat casually unbuttoned, to give himself the relaxed pleasure of putting his hands into his pockets as if he were merely strolling around his garden after lunch.

"W ell, well, if it isn't my old friend James Khumalo."Best not to reply. Mkhuseli was six inches taller than Gouws. One punch

would send Gouws in an arc right into nowhere.As if sensing Mkhuseli's thoughts, Gouws stopped a few feet away from

him.

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"O r should I say M khuseli Khumalo, hey?" The voice implied that using his Xhosa name had been a subversive act.

What was coming?"You're up to something, Khumalo. Don't think we don't watch you. Who

are your passengers?""Sir, it's just a family who've been to see relatives on the farm. I'm taking

them home."Gouws looked briefly into the silent car. "Check their papers," he ordered

with a sideways twist of his head towards the people inside it. There were five policemen now; two very young, not more than seventeen or eighteen, collected the pass books. They were joking, asking how old the girls were.

"Look, Hannes — she's quite well-developed," one laughed and pointed towards the shrinking girl. "You got a boyfriend?"

"They're only ten and twelve years old, Baas," Sisa objected, begging them to leave his children alone. "They're too young for such things."

"Ag, that's what you all say — we know you better, hey? Hey, girls?" The policeman had blond curly hair and a pink tongue which licked round his lips as he put out a chubby hand to tweak the elder girl's ear. She pulled her head away sharply. "Naughty!" he laughed, delighted.

" I like them to have spirit," commented the one he'd called Hannes, approvingly. "You know it will be worth it, then."

The three older policemen laughed indulgently, as if they were watching a show-jumping competition. Why didn't they clap? They're animals, Mkhuseli thought bitterly. He was angry that Gouws was taking his dislike of him out on such a powerless family, but Gouws wasn't finished with him yet.

"You're too much in the newspapers, Khumalo. You know what I'm saying? You think you're clever, don’t you? I'm telling you now, you'd better watch it ."

"Sir?" He put all the hatred he felt into that word. He kept his body completely still though, so the man couldn't accuse him of anything.

There was something glinting in Gouws's hand. He bent down and there was a sigh as the blade of the knife sliced into the front tyre.

"O h dear. I think you have a puncture, Khumalo.""Please can I have my passbook, Sir." Mkhuseli spoke each word heavily, as

if they were rocks he was throwing.Gouws had already jack-knifed the blade and slipped it back into his pocket.

He clicked his fingers and the blond policeman ran over to him."This ka ffir wants his papers back, m an." Gouws's voice teased like dirty

water running out of a blocked sink. The policeman loved it. "H e's got a puncture too. Looks like he could be here all night."

"Hope he's got a spare." The others were listening. They teach them everything, thought James. The men laughed as if they couldn't control their delight.

"I've been waiting for you, Khumalo. Just for you." For the first time, Mkhuseli knew how much Gouws hated him. It was personal, much more than part of his job. Or perhaps they were the same thing. Perhaps the hatred and the job were so mixed together that you couldn’t do the one without the

15

other. The words poisoned the night air. "This is just a warning. You're getting too big for your boots — you understand?"

Without giving Mkhuseli time to reply, Gouws returned to his car and bent down to say something to the driver, who started the engine. They accelerated away with a zoom of the exhaust, skidding on the rough ground before they hit the tar.

The policemen were preparing to leave also. It's as if the whole thing was set up just for us, thought Mkhuseli. Who told them we'd be coming this way tonight? The police seemed subdued now, perhaps feeling the loss of Gouws's demonic energy. One tossed the four passbooks in a bundle at Mkhuseli. They weren't going to do anything about the old lady's visit to Fort Bedford.

Mkhuseli and Sisa were lifting the spare tyre out of the boot, when the vans drove off. As they passed close to the car, the blond policeman lobbed a teargas canister neatly through the back window.

“Dis vir julle, blerrie ka ffir hoere!” (“That's for you, bloody ka ffii whores!") he yelled.

Mkhuseli and Sisa jumped to open the car doors. The white smoke was spreading at an alarming rate. Mkhuseli helped out Mrs Njusa and her baby, while Sisa bundled his children onto the ground, and pulled his mother-in-law free. Only then could Mkhuseli cover his face and grope for the canister, which he threw as far away as he could into the darkness. His eyes were burning, and his skin felt as if it were melting. How could they have done this thing?

The old woman had collapsed, and Sisa was trying to get her to sit up so that he could rub her back. Mrs Njusa was wiping the baby's eyes, and jiggling it up and down, while her own tears ran freely. She had such a sweet, gentle face! The three older children were sobbing and coughing.

"I'm sorry, friend," Mkhuseli shouted above the wailing and choking. He did not know whether his voice was hoarse from rage or from the gas. "I'm sorry, Sisa. It's my fault. They were waiting for m e."

"Brother, n o ." Sisa's tears glittered in the moonlight. His face was scored with pain. "W e were lucky they were pursuing you. It's a miracle our girls are all right. It's already happened to the daughters of my friends. The army takes them away ... when they come home, they can't even walk! This tear-smoke ... we can get used to it, but not to the other."

Sisa spoke gently to his mother-in-law and, reassured by her murmured reply, got up to help Mkhuseli.

" It 's not far to go now," Mkhuseli was pumping up the jack. The car windows were wide open to let in fresh air. The veld was quiet again, peaceful. Five miles away, the street lights of Cookhouse were like the eyes of small creatures, hares or meerkat, watching them.

16

G ile s H ugo

from BLOO D IS THE ROSE OF MYSTERIOUS UNION

I drink sacraments of water and handfulls of pills. In the blood of the rose the fragments linger, hand upon hand upon hand.

Concrete and cool silence.I close my eyes. Remember the short story I wrote about the guy who plans

this elaborate and sussed-out suicide — gases himself with the exhaust from his beloved motorcycle in a small room, with Lennon's "Tomorrow Never Knows" — "Turn off your mind, relax and float down stream, it is not dying, it is not dying..." fade into a million Buddhist monks chanting into space. Maybe I never wrote it. At least I got the song right.

Everything slowing down, a wall of fog.Blood is the rose of mysterious union."Why did you do it?"Voices through the fog."Wat m a k ee i hom l"“ Te v eel draad trek."Voices and faces through the fog.Late afternoon with the wet wound of the sky dripping and a ring of boots

and higher up faces around me, lying on the lawn outside."Why did you do it?""I wanted to die, it's in the note where I was lying, I can't tell you.""You'll get six months in detention barracks for this — it’s a crime and

you're damaging government property by trying to kill yourself."I close my eyes, who wants to know?The ambulance waiting."M e le k k e i, n e," the gloating nurse grimaces as she coils this greasy orange

tube down my gullet, pumping me full of soapy water to wash out the pills.And into a whitebed ward with pale faces. A doctor gives me a sedative and

tells me to crash out. Just before I sleep there is this highveld thunderstorm — blue-black velvet and golden jags of lightning and the rush of pain and the peace.

Errol is also tall and lean, with dark hair and kind of wolfish eyes. We understand each other, we're both in here for the same malady — the wish to not exist. He has these bandages on wrist and throat, where he hacked himself with a razor blade. He's dark and intense and the only one in the ward who knows. We sit writing black poetry together. One of the day nurses asks me to write verses for a kitchen tea — is it some kind of test?

There are permanent force guys being treated for "strain", one is a cracked- up computer operator who is partly responsible for my being in the force thanks to computerised balloting. But you can’t help feeling sorry for him, feeding all the shit into this machine, switching on the programme and then getting it in the neck if the programme doesn't run right. All the army is the same, dog eat dog in regular progression.

17

We sit in the sun out on the stoep in our pyjamas and talk of the various individuals' hassles.

"You'll be sent back to your unit for light duties.""You'll go before a psychiatric review board and they’ll decide whether to

send you to Weskoppies or not.""They'll send you to D B.”"They might discharge you."The military shrink is a little, metallic-voiced, white-paper man who asks

stuff like: Do you believe in God?The night of darkness and stars."You say in this note of yours that you don't want to kill people."I don't want to kill black people — but I don't say that."D o you believe in life after death?""Why did you do it?”A rose is a rose has thorns and bleeds dark beauty in the night.Then a question that reduces all to the comic strip surreal, "Do you hear

voices?"The trees whisper and the concrete cries in anguish.Back in the ward Errol has just come back from having his cerebro-spinal

fluid tapped from his spine — white ghost voodoo sticks aztec jewel needle between the bones and draws out soul liquid for black jungle mass mind rape insulin shock electric shock "treatment" and he's sent off to Weskoppies with his Bible all scribbled in red and blue underlinings. He's one of those evangelic blood of the Lamb nuts, but really the only guy in the ward who understands me.

The medical board is really quite straight and serious, brass and flashes, iron grey balding.

Me in my thin pyjamas and no cap to salute even."Why did you do it?"The sky is falling."Would you do it again?"Blood is the rose of mysterious union.Several nights later, one of the orderlies serving supper says kinda sideways

outta da mouth, "See me just now in the shower room."And I'm wondering if he's going to proposition me or something, so I go in

quite defensively, "Yeah?""D on't tell anyone, hey, but you're going to be permanently discharged."

His face breaks into a warm grin, "Min dae, hey?"Just like that.The concrete sighs relief. The steel rose breaks open.

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Andries Walter Oliphant

AT THE END OF THE DAY

At the end of the dayW ith sm oke pushing into scarlet highveld skies I m ake m y way from the railroad tracks Towards a m igrant hostel.I pass tw o m enUnwrapping their supper from newspaper.I wander aim lesslyAmong the barracks of a crowded transit camp.

T he m elancholy of dusk.Is there nothing m ore to it than the rustic texture Of red-brown dust and fading light?W hat aboutT he early stars above this oval planet?

I prepare m yself for the im m inence of night by pocketingBad m em oriesAnd checking m y thoughts.I follow the awkward flight of the first bats.I th in k of bread.T h e sharp bark of a dog Som ew here in the gathering night Probes m e to ponder O n the physics of m ovem ent,T h e perpetuity of tim e and people always turning towards the light.

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CHILDHOOD IN HEIDELBERG

I was bora in a house where ancestors were suspended from the walls.O n hot afternoonsthey would descend and w alk silently through the cool passages of the dark house, slowly as if strolling through a womb.

T h e roof is a vantage point for birds and pigeons. O n the stoepin an ancient folding chair m y nam esake sits.There is a giant gumtreeat the gate in w hich the sun sets.T h e stars are candles w hich m y grandmother has lit.

Every m orning father wakes to find a manw ith a hole in his headsleeping in the driftsandof the furrow w hich runsalong the creosoted split-pole fence.I go in search of the orchestra of crickets.

In the k itch en m other cries as she turns the toast on the black plates of the W elcom e Dover.W hen father packed my pigeons into boxes,I ended up w ith Rover and the catson the back of a truckw ith all the household goods.I thought, if th is is part of life, it 's fun.

At the end of the truck 's journey through the sky, we arrived in a toy tow n of m atch-box houses, lined up lik e tom bstones in a graveyard.At once, I understood why my m other cried.

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Leiato Kumalo

CHILDHOOD IN SOWETO

There are no playgroundsno parksbut plenty dustchildren competecars b icycles hungry mongrelsnarrow streets and garbagethere is no childhoodin Sow eto

There are no starsto tw inkle little eyesno rocketslaunch dreamsno new year resolutions risethrough the th ickblanket of sm okein Sow etodust aplenty

There is no poverty of sirenssprinters' footstepscoattail-ends w hisk awayjack-boot doors howlm en w om en children terrorizedhuddled in raidsbundled in ragepasses passes passesthere is no childhoodno adulthoodin Sowetoonly plentydust

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Bu t I have seen new plays in one actannouncing the birth of childhoodgrenades clearing the nightof blinders of sm okeand hurdlespassing the childinto star-grappling teensadulthood w ithout passesin Sow etoin tow ns and citiesnorth and eastgrowing fromSow eto

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Rebecca Matlou

FOR MY COMRADE

comrade, i see pain in your face settled deep below your eyes i can see your heart bleed pain your heart bleeds for Africa and the land blood bum s your being

transcend the flood sing reed m usic home continue sing sound w ith feeling of real you ch ill those walls barbed in wire disturbing the destined road of the scarred nation bleeding (salt) wounds

transcend the flood you are a slave no more to the world sculpture your wishes harness the slim y paddle this wave is harsh it rocks the boat to limp on stone the road is slim y the road shakes all it trem bles all it thunders all

transcend th is flood live soundleave clear prints of our healing tim e

Keorapetse Kgositsile

NEW AGE

T he questions w hich have always been hereJump at us im patient loversO f nights w hich cannot be numbedN ot even by spirits departed from bottle or land

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W hen fogs of despair jump up th ick in our heads W hen struggle becom es the next bottle Or the w arm th betw een a w illing w om an's thighs Sucking in to her our hasty greedR em em ber O comrade comm ander of the ready sm ile T h is is pain and decay of purpose

Rem em ber in baton boot and bullet ritual T h e bloodhounds of M onster Vorster wrote SO W ETO over the belly of m y land W ith the indelible blood of infants So the young are no longer young N ot th at they demand a hasty death

T h e past is also turbulentAsk any traveller w ith m em oryT o tam e it today is our m issionW ith liberty ham m ered to steel in our eye

R em em ber O PoetW hen som e of our colleagues m eetT hey do n ot ta lk the glories of the pastO r turn their tongues blackwardsIn platitudes or idealistic deliriumAbout change through chance or beautyOr the perversion you call loveW hich be nothing nothingB u t the W estern pairing of parasites

T h e young w hose eyes carry neither youth nor cowardiceT h e w orkers w hose song of peaceNow digs graves for the goldfanged fascist m onstersW ith artistic precision and purposeNow know the past is turbulentWe m ust tam e it nowAsk any eye fuelled w ith liberty

T e ll those w ith ears to hear te ll them T e ll th em m y people are a garden Rising out of the rancid rituals of rape and ruin T e ll them te ll them in the dry season Leaves w ill dry and fall to fertilize the land W hose new flow ers b lack green and gold Are a w orker's song of fidelity T o the land th at m othered you

24

Faiouk Stem m et

UNTITLED

another just-too-short weekend draws to a close whileanother m uch-too-long week loom s aheadand like all faithful cogs in the unstoppable m achineI w ill take m y place.W henever I canI quietly slip outof the unstoppable m achineand lodge m yself into the new one:the one not quite com plete,the one only just starting to move,but the one w hich promises, once in m otion,to not m erely stop the unstoppable,but to put it out of existence —

totally , com pletely, once and for all! I feel com fortable in this new m achine — for it is not of iron and steel, but of flesh and blood....

Chris van W ykTHE REASON

T he reason whymurderers and thievesso easilybecom e statuesare made into m onum entsisalready their eyes are granite their hearts are made of stone

25

Patric de Goede

MUSICIAN'S MELODY — KLOPSE LIED

D oof doo doofD oof doo doofna na nah na nahna na na na nah na naYour criesour ancestorsrise up to our earsfrom w ailing saxophonefrom the cow hide drumYesterday w ill not dieYesterday lives onT h e ghettos quakeas your spirits mergew ith the m u sician 's melodyand hug the cold stone wallsof these our hom es, our lanes and streetsBokaap, Salt River, W oodstock,G uguletu, Heideveld, M annenberg and Elsiesgiving us backour ripped out heartD is tric t Six

James Twala

FAMILY PLANNING

Row upon rowLike w inter-shaken stalks of m aize,T h e barracks stretch from one M iserable end to the other.

W ith in the enfenced hostelNo gay children bounce and romp about,N o busy housew ives colour T h e washing line once a week.Here there is no hom ely sm ell of food T h at wanders in the air during the day.

26

Sunset gathers the half-castrated inm ates Like stale crum bs from the city.They plod through the large gatesWeary, bent: and shutT h eir fatigued m inds, eyes and ears.For them the day is over.T hey are banished to a tw ilight life.

T he silence that they left behind At the breaking of the dawn is Rippled as if it was a calm lake By laughter as they buzz about Like newly-wedded women.

They strip off their vests Em balm ed in a day's sweat.Yesterday's tripe and porridge are H astily warmed up for supper again.

One by one,T hey enjoy their naked showers Splashing their rigid bodies in the water, And return to their stuffy rooms.

An inm ate belches like a sea-rover.It echoes in the far-flung room.He raps his full stom ach T h at is large as a m ole-hill:"E xch oose m e you bastards!" he thunders.

They slip into their stony beds,Clasp their baggy and sw eat-reeking Pillow s as if they were their Beloved ones left in the homelands.

They look at their shirts,Overalls, trousers, jackets — all ragged, Hanging aslant on the damp walls Like faded, dusty fam ily portraits.

27

Portable radios are sw itched off,Candle flam es flicker and die,D arkness and silence covers T hem all like a large blanket.Alone,T hey quietly succum b to sleep.

In the night,An inm ate 's untroubled sleep is interrupted.H e sits on the edge of h is bed H alf dozing,Gazing from darkness to darkness,And th en h e spills the seeds of natureAll over h is slovenly sheet w ith half-satisfaction:"F am ily p lan nin g ," he whispers to him self.T hen the m usical snoresO f the sleep-drowned inm atesSlow ly lu ll h im back to sleep.

Thabo M ooke

NOWHERE TO HIDE

G irl w ake up,T h e m orning sun has caught us napping.W e cam e out here, sneaking to this place last night T o quench our desires — and it was wrong, we both knew.He was out of tow n, you said,V isiting h is old folks down in Giyane.W e could not go to your hom e'C ause the curious eyes of your neighbourhood would spy on us, N either could w e go sneaking into my bungalow:Jabu, N tom bi, Sipho and Zodwa would see us.It is wrong, they all know.W ake up girl,T h e little birds are singing in the trees,T he m orning sun has caught us napping And we have nowhere to hide.T h e world is w aiting outside.

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W ilm a S to c k e n s t io m

OLD BUILDING

W eathered building, exposed on a busy com er,I lean back w ith blue-reflecting eyes,defenceless against onslaught of pedestrian and m otorist.

I'd rather follow life in broad outline. Ice-cream-colouredcars around crooked churches. Lorriespiled w ith carcasses or cabbage. Convoys of recruits.Signs of prosperity. Som etim es a sum m erstormof convulsing plants in parks. D ailythe counterpoint of swings. Signs of peace.

I have learned not to look down: only those still young look boldly into people's faces.

Oh that the w reckers knock out m y eyes!I have seen enough. Superfluous m usings I storein m y room s, I, archive of nostalgia,old and rickety under my th in layer of plaster.

(Translated from the Afrikaans by Rosa Keet)

Kobus M oolm an

THE BOY WHO WENT OUT TOO FAR

T he boy who w ent out too farw ent out over his head and over his arms over his fingertips.

He thought he was light and free and happy

As he lay on the bottom of the ocean looking up.

29

Sally-A nn M urray

FOR POPPA(1899-1983; DSM 1917)

So th is is it. Your struggle for survival —O nce fought against bullets, gas, hunger, mud — now shrunk T o a crocheted rug. Such thoughts aren't said, of course. Anyway, you can 't hear well; can 't even tell It 's m e. T he rocker's slackening rhythm fills T h e bedroom; bloodred at your feet, glowrock H eaters throw ashy roses pale uponYour nerve-thom ed face. Bunched w ith dying. Crumpled As never before, Nana nurses you.Finds her place w ith phials, keeps to the pledge For better or for worse, although she knows.Som ehow she carries on, knit one slip one,M aking tea for tw o. No sad cries to sound Its slow passing, the marriage circle narrows T o a clin ica lly cortisoned zero.Before I leave, in fact, before you go,O ne question: why are you fighting so to stay,W hen everything is over, passed away?

R uth Keech

PSYCHIATRIC OUT-PATIENT

O n quilted h ills his m ealie field Presents the single threadbare patch.T h e skinny beam s begin to thrustO ut through his h u t's slow-rotting thatch.H is children 's bodies sw ell like gourds;H is w ife 's com plaints collect like dust.

T hey s it h im out to catch the warm th T h at fills the aloe-circled yard.He drags h is chair off to the trees And leans to hear the voice of God;W ith each m ove he spreads the scene T h at m akes the map of his disease.

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R obert B e io ld

TWO MEDITATIONS ON CHUANG TSU

1

Evening. T hatch of sunset.From the W est End Record bar: mbaqanga. And the dry wind bum s w ith sound. D lam ini, pretending m adness, howls in front of his brazier.W ashm an stum bles from M alawi into the neon fires of hell.Sow eto, Joburg's shadow, sleeps: th in walls, you cannot trust your neighbour. And do not believe in history ...

In ancient tim es, wrote Chuang Tsu,m en were happy w ithout "doing good",they helped each other w ithout "loving their neighbour"they did not distinguish betw een great and sm all deedstherefore they had no history.

T h e last star trem bles.T he last train edges out.T he last wind weaves the lights.M orning, lighting up the leaves, w ill set alight the windows, shining for an instant on the history w ithin us, the ancestors w e've banished to the skies.

2

January. A Monday. Of the turning year.Everyone's gone hom e already in Tshayingw e's bus.In th e golden light, m e and W ally rake the weekend for insights.N othing but the sam e slowtrudging to the light. T o the imagined light.

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Chuang T su , in M erton 's version, wrote:T h e purpose of the n et is to catch fish.W hen w e have the fish, we may forget the net.T h e purpose of words is to catch ideas,when we have m eaning we m ay forget the words.I'd like to m eet the m an, he said, who has forgotten words.

I quote th is now to W ally as we lock up, sw itch on the alarm . Driving hom e, the veld grass has the sheen of autum n tw ilight.I speak to Chuang across the centuries:what would you have made of th is place and this centurywhere everyone's so certain of their ideologies?H e does not answer. In the greying light the veld ablaze w ith feathery abundance, of itself, for everyone.

LIGHT AND TRAVELLING

Y ou 're a w om an who becom es w hite light and touching you I feel the weave of light unravelling

A w om an so faithful to yourself you can turn light in to stone to hold the heat of day so it can travel into evening

W om an of light and travelling! so m any stream s inside you flow your raft of night and feathers w ill never fin ish journeying

I know because I've drunk your plenitude tireless as m idnight changing into spaceI know because I've m et you in my arms on your way back to m orning

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P hil D a v ey

WHISPERING PALMS

1

At noon perhaps a ham m ock swung one inch too far for captains' dreams and starting eyes w ith hunger seized a beach of bliss, a paradise:

trees w ith whispering wings, resurrected land of gold, everything the priests had told rewards such faithful

navigation. Nor did he trust it: cannon primed and treachery charted he ordered up a fort called Jesus.

2

Vasco da Gam a of Whispering Palms tickles the ear w ith the clip of a wallet, c licks h is fingers, praises the waiting of the w aists in waiting; and later

he w ill lick the sweat, remove the huge bath-tow el from around his w eight, withdraw his w allet from beneath his

feelings, u n til he is feeling w hat he is feeling:a needle of paradise soft in his thighs.

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Themba ka Miya

I AM

Som etim es I gaze defiantly Back at th is blinking soulless C ity of m any eyes

I even refuse to com e near Its parks for I've never Sm elt the fragrance of its RosesM y blood boils in m y veins

T h en th ere 's th is voice T h at keeps telling m e T h e sun never sets I t 's the earth turning

W hen I go back to m y reality I see m y Sow eto Its scarred soul lying helplessly Beneath tabernacles of the law

BelovedEvery tim e I rise to fight D efending w hat rem ains T h e ru ins I treasure Yours, m ine, ours I feel I can k ill W ar w ithou t term s

Bu t then — here I am I com e to you as I am:H opeless

34

Charles M ungoshi

BURNING LOG

i ama burning log my history being reduced to ashesw hat i rem em ber of yesterday is the ashy taste of defeat m y hope for tom orrow is the fire

Francis Faller

THE WEAPON MELODY

W hat shall the poet do? Enrage the mob?Or hold a m irror to his tongue?Shall he lob h is lines like m olotovs, or squeeze his throat until h e's dumb?

T here 's tragedy in a voice fuming alone, locked in an etiolated room, and tragedy enough in brazen stanzas that bellow down the silence of the tomb.

A scrupulous weapon is melody: a honed knife that keens the heart, an edge to broach the toughest grief, to cut the m ourner's gloom apart,

to split open the shell of privacy and carve the oblivious street a name, to scrape anonym ity from joy, to sharpen anonymous pain.

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Humberto Diaz Casanueva

from THE CHILD OF ROBBEN ISLAND

Brother,I g ive you back your h u m a n ity restored in m y forgiveness.

Bishop W inter of Nam ibia

A w hite boy w ith a b lack boy unsuspectingguided by an absorbing faith ... foreseen w hen w e are rocked by a huge hand

N ot know ing how ... they slow ly enter the big cityw alk am idst gardens ... m ansions ... shrines ... graves th at gild w ith elegance

Voluptuous figures com e and gochildren decked inliliescurly-haired dogs yelp w ith pleasure

And suddenly w hack!a th ick axe of bronze splits the world intwo

T h e policem an separates the w hite boy from th e b lack boyslaps the b lack boy and handcuffs him roughs h im up ... forces h im to kneel m akes h im bleed

Blood m ade of tears of blood ... dew of blood vom iting a l ittle birdim m em orial blood m ilked by lovely relentless murderers

Pity the Easter child ... pity us scorched to the depths

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There is no scab to assuage this blood thirsting foritself ... in the deeply humanpool of blood into w hich the w hite childhurls a cup of m ilkw ill w e n ever ever shake handslT h e tiger gulps down the raw tender flesh and no one beseechesfrom afar ... a gnashing of teeththe child is m ocked ... they call h im a bastarda son of a b itch

T he haloed boy ... the terrorist boy ... he who dared m asculate the exalted race

H e is led o ff to the prison on Robben IslandThere they throw h im onto the dung heap the flies swoop down and drink the droplets of blood

M aybe I am wrong ... it had to be that way why did it have to be any other? then ... over m y facethe heavy wing-beating of a scarlet rooster

N ails pierce the cross that clim bs and clim bs

O ther children stop nearby petrifiednone dares whisper a wordthough they feel sorry w ith bitter ragea bell proclaim s horrible vespers

Every head shedding tears is a fiery globe over the th in creature barely trem blingtatter of a sunken shadow

A ll is shadow ... ligh t is a sun ken shadowHeart ... dig dig ...cut up the w olf w ithin that seemed curtailed

37

Fourteen b lack boys from eight to ten are dyingand w hat ... w hat does it matter?they eat crusts of bread drink their own urinerifle-butt blows

the whip w hines above stiff backs they huddle together ... shivering ... they how l ... w rithethe sulphurous sea pounds w ith tails and teeth

In the night ... a thousand m ice dead sailors th at were never buried go by w ith big strides dawn sm iles like a hyena

At the foot of the w all ... m others shriek desperately they hoist little bags of flour and sugar but they d on 't let themthey tear their clothes ... bury their nails in their breasts

They rise cold and naked ... riddled by a roasting wind

D ipheko!

W hy have you collapsed and developed a spasm and your eyes are tw o little ovens going out wellsprings of another world? god of w rath !... where are your em bers... the thunder held tight in your teeth?

T h e torture ceased ... they sweep the first-born away to the gates of the Abyssyou could never depart from there com pletely Ay!you didn't die from life but from death death

O ut of th e prison on Robben Island com es a black boy in a w h ite coffina w hite coffin becom e a splinter soars above all of us

38

Soars ... reaches the fu ll moon in the sacred woodw here the b lack child is ad m itted a m anger appears and rocks him

Angry hands stir the ashes of the G reat Fire

(translated from the Spanish by Louis Bourne)

Humberto Diaz Casanueva, one-time Chilean Ambassador to the UN until the fall of Allende in 1973, has been for some years a member of the Group of Six United Nations World Experts that studies the effects of apartheid in South Africa. This poem first appeared in Spanish in the Antologia poetica (Madrid 1986).

L ou is B ou rn e

WALKING NEAR WILDERNESS(El Maranon, La Mancha, Spain)

to the poet, A lfonso Carreno (1932-1988)No one w ants th is field out here For anything but wheat. T he stubble m oans For m onths in grey-white sheen, maimed Leavings of a sloping womb, and above:Crow ns of tangled growth. Birds Forlornly call in cruising breeze,And in the bone-blue sky a cum ulus trail Snakes slow ly through the fort of breath- Less void.

These fields are som eone's bread.W ho know s whose? Bu t right here A beauty stagnates in the whispering Of stones, broken copper crust O f fallow land. T h e convalescent dreams In shorn flanks for next N ovem ber's Engines to lift her rocks once more,Plough the dead stalks under, and drop T h e virgin secret: germ ination.

39

Som ething of angels snowing rests in trees. T h e air is celestia l feathers Left in latticew orks of foam O n the growing sw ell of skeletons O f wave. In squares of surf,A lternate buds, rose w ith hurt,U nearth w h ite faces to the wind,Longing to enclose in endocarp Enrichened m eat of soil in drying fruit.

W hatever grows is w aiting for its picking Or its cutting , and its drift.T h e nature of m an is in a stem ,And w hat he cultivates Is the greening of h is flesh,T h e m im icry of being in his blood.

Som eone's threading the valley to the grove.

An ear of grain that found no hom e remains

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Don Mattera, whose work was banned in South Africa for many years, still continues to write ringing poetry. His reputation, he says, maintained despite the ban, “ belongs to the struggle for human freedom wherever people are in bondage” , but it is South Africa that sets him singing. Keorapetse Kgositsile has been in exile from South Africa since the ’sixties, and has spent most his time subsequently teaching at universities in the Front-line States. “ New Age” is reprinted by permission of the ANC Cultural Committee from the magazine, Dawn. We are also grateful to Gillian Slovo of the ANC for permission to reprint the work of Lerato Kumalo and Rebecca Matlou from the collection of ANC women poets, Malitiongwe. One of the most notable exiles from South Africa is poet and former president of SANROC (the South African Non-Racial Olympic Committee), Dennis Brutus; he now lives, writes, and inspires in Pittsburgh where he is chairman of the University's Department of Black Community Research and Development.

Andries Walter Oliphant is editor of the influential Staffrider magazine which recently celebrated its tenth year of publication. The poems printed here are from Oliphant's collection, At the End o f the Day (Justified Press, 1988). We are heavily indebted to Staffrider for allowing us to reprint poems by Farouk Asvat, Keith Gottschalk, James Matthews, Farouk Stemmet, Chris van Wyk, James Twala, Thabo Mooke, Themba ka Miya and Charles Mungoshi; these poems all appeared in the anthology Ten Years o f Staffrider 1978-1988 (Johannesburg, Ravan Press, 1988).

Also an editor, of the Cape Town-based Upstream, is Douglas Reid Skinner; he has published three collections, of which the most recent is The Unspoken (1988). Robert Berold was active in running the Chumani Writers' Group in Grahamstown, from whose magazine, Umgqala, Msizi Kuhlane's poem comes. Berold himself is acutely aware of a gulf in South African writing between the popular and the literary, and he strives to hold what he describes as the "painful middle ground" where form and vitality are integrated. Kelwyn Sole has worked as journalist, editor, teacher and academic; he was deported from Namibia in 1980 and has been without a passport since 1976; his poem, "Jazz", transposed from the introduction to Josef Skvorecky's book The Bass Saxophone, might be used to illustrate what Berold sees as a kind of retreat by white writers into post­modernism, but the deliberate subversion of repressive content by the freedom of the poem's form seems to me more of an advance than a retreat — a positive, if necessarily oblique response to the kinds of restriction placed on South African writers. In fact, it seems perfectly in keeping with another feature of contemporary South African cultural activity — the "orature" of the poets associated with the Durban-based trade union poets of Black Mamba Rising — Alfred Temba Qabula, Mi S'Dumo Hlatshwayo and Nise Malange — who have transformed traditional oral forms, either of the im bongi (praise-singer) or of religious gatherings, into their own powerful performance poetry, singing the praises of workers and union activists. We are indebted to Ari Sitas for excerpts from these poets' work, which, although it clearly suffers in translation and without the accompanying songs, chants, ululations, and other popular responses of performance, nevertheless gives a sense of an important cultural activity.

41

Of the other poets represented in this issue, Francis Faller won the 1986 Vita/Adriaan Donker Poetry Award for his collection, Weather Words, while Durban-based Ruth Keech and Sally-Ann Murray have had their work published in a variety of anthologies and magazines, including Staff rider and Upstream. Also from Natal is newspaper sub-editor and free-lance writer, Kobus Moolman. One of the few Afrikaans writers represented in these pages is Wilma Stockenstrom; bom in the Cape, but now living in Pretoria she has published three collections of poetry as well as prose, and a play. Her work has been translated into Dutch, French, Swedish, and English. The issue of writing in Afrikaans is a vexed one given the language's extremely close association with the very notion of apartheid. This has not prevented the growth of a strong and critical Afrikaans literary culture, traceable back to Breyten Breytenbach and the Sestigers (writers of the '60s), continuing through the efforts, creative and academic, of Andre Brink, J.M. Coetzee and the recently-deceased Richard Rive, and currently emanating through the writing of Hein Willemse, Antjie Krog, Ingrid Scholtz and others. Although English may appear more "innocent", especially for Black writers, and although it may serve as a pragmatic lingua franca for Kgositsile, Matlou et al., it too can be seen as the language of imperialism and colonialism. The history of white domination in South Africa, enduring from the first Portuguese "voyages of discovery" through the razing of District Six, to the present State of Emergency, lies at the heart of the poems by Phil Davey and Patric de Goede.

The two prose sections in this issue are both the work of recent emigrants from South Africa: Anne Oosthuizen, who now lives in London, is one of the founders of Sheba Press and editor of a collection of South African women's writing, Som etim es When It Rains; her friend, the free-lance writer and photographer Giles Hugo, lives in Tasmania. The extracts printed are from as yet unpublished novels — Oosthuizen's Call Sarah, and Hugo's The Leper’s Kiss.

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m a t t e r a / b r u tu s / s k in n e r / so le / sitas, h la tsh w ay o / q a b u l a / m alan sie / k u h la n e / asvat uottsehalk m a t th e w s / o o s th u iz e n / h u so , oliphant stocken stro m m o o l m a n / m u r r a v / k e e c h / b c ro ld / d av ey / taller m iv a / m u ngo sh i / k u m a lo / m ailou ksiositsile s t e m m e t / van w y k / de c o c d e tw ala / m o o k e c a s a n u e v a / b o u r n e

£3 S5 ISSN 0736-4725

Collection Number: A3299 Collection Name: Hilda and Rusty BERNSTEIN Papers, 1931-2006

PUBLISHER: Publisher: Historical Papers Research Archive Collection Funder: Bernstein family Location: Johannesburg

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This document is part of the Hilda and Rusty Bernstein Papers, held at the Historical Papers Research Archive, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa.