Phillippa Yaa de Villiers

Poetry is writing me
into a corner of loneliness:
I weave my tiny web and wait
to be
visited by flies.
I hope they have
something interesting
to say.
I hope they stay.

Poetry is writing me
into the dust of half-forgotten rooms,
of violated tombs.
Ancestors walk the deep
wells of empty paper
with a message to decipher.

And at night instead of
languid sleep and simple dream,
poetry holds my hand, pulling me
to the edge and telling me, look!

For day is a drinking bowl where
poetry has illustrated all
the colours of my heart
and the landscape of my soul
I am climbing to the lip of it,
light-suffused I reach for
the next word:

poetry is writing me.

Run

Pound
the ground
with your
9
year old tackies racing
through the lightshadow
of your narrative
you are the hero
you control the earth
like the computer game
you played yesterday
green grass
everywhere green you
never get tired
you stop the
demons fall out
of trees you roll
to one side,
unsheathing your laser
ray you are invincible
the scars you have are there to prove

that you’re a survivor

A canopic jar contains the vital organs of an embalmed person. If you click on the jar, you will find words of some of your favourite poets. (Gabeba Baderoon, Isobel Dixon, Myesha Jenkins…) Read the entrails and discover your destiny. Dream.

Here is a sample:

African Queen

I am not an African queen, I am
the soil around the roots, eating the leftovers
from the palace kitchen, and excreting
my darkness into the earth, endlessly.
(more…)

This poem came to me on Wednesday, November 5, 2008 at 9:00am. It bypassed the security. My defenses were down – watching Jesse Jackson and Oprah howl, I too was tearful. So this is what came in words:

I say Mr even though you are also women
children people all reaching for the hero
you represent us to ourselves

a hero is only as good as his last quest
so you better be better
than your deepest wish

If you were a ship
I’d crack a bottle of bubbly over you
and send you into the wide ocean of the new day

each of us inherited the world
and the centre is always moving
today washington tomorrow dubai
wednesday new delhi one day yaounde

I like the way you hold hands with your lover
and how you talk to babies and
the way you smile and the certainty with which
you speak, you are on firm ground and
you remind me that
I am also important
I am not American but
I also want to be the boss
of the most important place in the world
and I can
right here
right now
I go and
look in my bathroom mirror
and say
good morning
to the president

Come to the Women’s Jail, Constitution Hill, on Thursday 6 Nov to hear me read poetry at the opening of Bongi Bengu’s new exhibition, ‘Emancipation’.

Rose Francis will be there, too – and Mzansi Productions. RSVP to christina@brownspice.co.za / 083 611 3508, and visit www.brown-spice.com.

Click the image to see a larger version of the invitation.

PHILLIPPA YAA DE VILLIERS & STEVE FAULKNER are is Off-the-Wall @ A Touch of Madness on Monday 29th September at 8pm

Don’t miss

PHILLIPPA YAA DE VILLIERS & STEVE FAULKNER

share words and wisdom.

*************** OPEN MIC ******************

BE THERE
IF YOU DARE
BRING A POEM
TO COMPARE
AND ENSNARE

TOUCH OF MADNESS
12 NUTTALL ROAD, OBSERVATORY
- –

http://otwtom.blogspot.com/

the earth turns its lip,
a sneer at the old city:
change is judgment.

Water, life’s blood bursts
over the construction site
endlessly. Is this

waste? Rainbows above,
dust below: heavy yellow
machines, sweat, quiet.

I was lucky enough to MC a unique event last week: the first press launch of Beyond featuring Gito Baloi, four years after his death. Family friend and producer and steelpan player, Dave Reynolds, kindly invited me to participate in what was a moving ceremony: part memorial, part jol, part unveiling of the legacy of an extraordinary man.

It was a family affair attended by Gito’s widow, artist Erika Hibbert, and their daughters Lorha and Tiva. It was painful and delightful to once again be bathed with Gito’s haunting voice and sweet bass lines.

I was reminded of the man and his art: deeply connected to a universal spirituality, Gito’s music was ahead of its time, transcending barriers and labels to celebrate unity and harmony.

Hosted by the tasteful and cutting edge restaurant Soulsa, and in the spirit of goodwill consolidated by the efforts of Sheer Sound and JT Communications, Beyond was ushered in by a small group of press. In his speech, producer Reynolds thanked the many musicians who had donated their time and creativity to bring Beyond to life.

The guests at the launch were entertained by a small group of magnificent musicians including the scintillating Paul Hanmer on keyboard, Dave Reynolds on steelpans, Bernice Boikanyo on drums, Makati Molekwa on bass, and the divine Pedro da Silva Pinto (ex 340 ml) lent his voice to the evening. To hear the music again interpreted and immortalized by such fine musicians was moving.

I felt Gito entering the room, placing his hands on the shoulders of each member of his family, before loping to the door to lean against the frame, bopping his head to the rhythm, his eyes closed, his broad mouth curved in an appreciative smile as he heard, once again, the tunes that he loved, carried forward by his brothers in music.

Heaven on earth

When you fell,
you fell into a melody
of your own making.

You slipped through the night
into a universe calibrated by
luminous music.

Long ago
when you were first
woven into flesh,
you heard the hidden harmonies
of your soul’s destiny.
And when the world opened itself up to you
you spoke them out aloud
you sang them
you played them

If you are a farmer,
plant me in the sweet soil of your music
and watch me grow. Transform me
till a thousand butterflies come to my
flower head
to eat my honey out.

(for Gito Baloi and all musicians)

During the first year of the Jacques Lecoq School in Paris, we were taught twenty movements. Our end of year exam was simply to create a movement piece, a choregraphy. Each student had the same elements. Yet each performance was unique. This simple pedagogy revealed our ability to relate stories, empathy and emotional journeys: our understanding of the human condition and our ability to translate this to vibrant theatre. Lecoq was a master who did not prune his students into a distinctive shape, but rather, like a gardener he allowed each plant in his care to emerge with its own style, colour and expression.

In the same way as every birth story has its bursting beginning, its struggling middle and its inevitable end, each individual’s contribution to the ‘world dictionary of love’ possesses its own intense vitality and necessary, distinct expression.

It’s with great pride and happiness I would like to confess to the delightful experience of having spent a day in bed with Sandra Dodson and Rosamund Haden’s anthology of birth stories, Just Keep Breathing. From the broad yet detailed account of Makhosazana Xaba’s account of her service as a midwife, to the quiet, heart-wrenching simplicity of her daughter’s birth, right through to Rahla Xenopolous’s touching journey, I was moved to tears and hilarity.

Why wouldn’t a couple of dozen accounts of births described by wonderful writers make compelling reading? It’s something that happens every day. So what? But it depends on who does the telling. I think that the editors have achieved their goal of raising recollections of birth to literary status. This is delicious storytelling that had me in tears and laughing. Each story is beautiful and the cover is remarkable! I am very honoured and proud to be involved in this project! Just buy the thing, please. Tell me if you don’t enjoy what you read.

The naked deeds of night are hidden behind trees, now dusted with green, their white trunks holding memory in their limbs. Now we all emerge into the white morning, our faces washed, our shoes all ready for the new dust of today. I hear him long before I see him. the metallic crutches syncopating his progress, then he is here, level with me, his long, stiff legs hanging in the air below his vital trunk. He is in a rush today, no time to even greet as he vaults confidently down the street.