Phillippa Yaa de Villiers

One of the greatest joys of attending poetry festivals is the exposure that one receives to the lives and works of poets, and if you are also a poet, the bartering of books. Having just finished Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje I am hungry again. I like to nibble on poetry, keeping the plates next to my bed. Looking forward to Uche Nduka, who’s like a meatball with a spicy sauce on the side and the little angel cakes spiked with Cape winds and tinsel of Loftus Marais. The warm velvet of Cinnamon and Winter Skin of Seni Seneviratne and finally the midnight snack, edged in black of Megan Hall’s Fourth Child. In my Morning Break in the Elevator, I snuck a snack of Lemn Sissay’s rich vanilla and black chocolate surprises, and I anticipate the spanspek downhomeness of Malika Ndlovu’s Womb to World: a Labour of Love.

And this calorie will not count for me. make me rich and lean with inspiration, leaning to the left to the right, up and down leaning into the wind and away with the mountains leaning into the rotten garbage the skeletal hopes the abandoned and the forgotten what we left behind anyway i better stop writing so i can read!