Vir Krotoa

sy het vele warmgebakte kranse ontdek langs die woude

het hul gevul met klippe, voetspore en uitgekapte wense

die dou lek sy vroeg-oggend van die boegoeblare

en vee haar wange met die sagte son wat deur die skeure breek

sing sy alomheen die liedere wat resonant oor die vlaktes aanrol

'n vrou soos hierdie mag nie stilbly

hoor hoe haar stem deur klip en geskiedenis breek

sien hoe sy vrouwees bevry

deur met grond liefde te maak

in haar skyn die hoop

wat nog by ons mense spook

en so bly sy opstaan, 'n ware vrou,

gevul met drome en verwarring

sy doen haar daaglikse pligte

met grond onder haar naels, borduur sy die kontinente aan een

sy is alleen, net sy en haar haar tong

praat sy vir die onthalwe van ander,

maar nooit vir die onthalwe van haarself

prinses die een dag, 'n pion die ander,

haar identiteit verskeur en verkrag

'n vrou soos hierdie word maklik misverstaan

hoor hoe haar stem deur klip en geskiedenis breek

sien hoe sy vrouwees bevry

deur met grond liefde te maak

in haar skyn die hoop

wat nog by ons mense spook

en so het sy oor die berge met haar aardsvlerke gevlieg

nakend soos net die veld en die lug daarvan hou

leerken sy die laaste helder paaie van oorlewing

dra vuur en klippe aan om die laaste vestiging te bou

waar lug nog diep ingeasem kan word

en grond diep gegtrap kan word waar groen lewe

uitrys uit water en klei en 'n nuwe wêreld aanbreek

hoor hoe haar stem deur klip en geskiedenis breek

sien hoe sy vrouwees bevry

deur met grond liefde te maak

in haar skyn die hoop

wat nog by ons mense spook

soms verloor sy haar kop, maar nooit haar hart

sy druk haar lippe en bors ferm teen die aarde

voel die vibrasie van minerale krag

grond is bly om te voel hoe diep hierdie vrou haar spoor trap

'n vrou soos hierdie kan nie stilbly

in haar skyn die hoop

wat nog by ons mense spook

 - Lara Kirsten

Zoe                                                    6\13

There was coffee
and few words.

The bill was split;
you insisted.

On the sunlit street,
you walked away.

- Quentin Hogge
---------------------
Nineteen sixty one –  school daze -  Fairlawn

Psalm 121

I lift mine eyes unto the hills – good idea,
beautiful, inspiring, purifying. Always loved mountains.
Then a moleheap memory spoils the view.
(towering, beefy, sadistic housemaster – I shall not beat
you. Instead learn Psalm 121 and recite it tomorrow
-  then, I’ll beat you -)
From whence cometh my help.
Oh good – I’m going to need help.
My help cometh from the Lord; so He must
be up there, in the hills.

That’s where the journey started.
Not the pain, it was the waiting,
knowing indistinctly
at nine years old it was not
possible to memorize religious text.
Knowing instinctively
that the sight of him would tie the tongue,
dry the throat and all concentration would focus
on not losing the bowels.
So, Lord, maker of heaven, earth
and that Dickensian bully, now, now
I know the psalm, fifty years on, and he is dead.
My foot has stumbled,
often missed the bridle-path;
sorry to wake you, Keeper,
I am humbly grateful that you kept the chasm
shallow, the pain so fleeting, the scars so small,
neither the sun by night nor the moon by day
reveal them.
Keep my going out and my coming in -
for memory is from this time forth and
now.

- Quentin Hogge

An Odious Ode to Writer's Bloc

Oh, how Cunning and Pernicious Thou art
Acting like a Real Despicable Upstart
You make me Gobsmacked and Tongue-Tied,
How dare you walk with such a Confident Stride?
You leave me Dumbfounded and Thunderstruck,
How can you have Such Incredible Luck!

Why oh why dost Thou on mine Battery Piss
and Hope I doth not see your Astutely Insidious Underhandedness?
Thou dare'st come Wam Bam sit right under my Nose
and Unshamefacedly keep up your Neat Little Pose
Admirable in your Sly and Stealthy Way
You force me into this Battlesome Fray

At first I was quite Delirious with thy Heavy Hand numbing my Skull
I could not believe that You Vile Creature could make me so Positively Dull
When I discovered that It wasn't due to Lack of Concentration
I fell into a Quagmire of Dire and Dreadful Desperation
I stood up from my Bed, the Anger licking at my Spit
Arrrrggh, come what may, I have to climb out of this Slippery Dark Pit!

By now I knew for Certain and Without a Shadow of a Doubt
- In Great Earnestness I gave an Inflamed and Vehement Shout -
that I must refuse to be His Damned and Docile Slave
And by mine Own Reason and Wit should step away from his Encumbering Cave
As much as He tries to keep up with his Plotting and Scheming
I will Tenaciously keep Scribbling, and Beware, I will do it Screaming!

- Lara Kirsten

Vlucht Nach Vorn
                                                              for Penelope

Frigid rooms at night take their toll
on a soul in arctic planes where music dies
and birds full of song cannot sing.
Daylight is no relief when night waits
in unavoidable ambush.
(Does the Lamb anticipate slaughter?)

The warmth of you,
busy, in and out of underwear,
the passing of perfumed flesh,
glimpsed by loosened towel,
and your smile, stir cold air,
ignite a spark in a frozen spirit,
a reminder of womb-warmth
comfort for a foetal mind.

 - Quentin Hogge

Holes

The funny thing
in the Eastern Cape
about pot holes

is
that the authorities prefer
to dig new holes beside them

for putting in signs
saying
pot holes!

rather
than straight away filling
the old holes.

All of Africa suffers
from pot holes,
but

in South Africa we can be proud
to know we make efforts to tell all
that

we
have
holes.

 - Silke Heiss, 1 April 2013

Ryp druiwe

die klavierklanke val

soos

ryp druiwe

uit

die lug

vol trosse kom lê soet-soelig diep binne my oor

draai om en om in

'n hemelse taai mallemeul in

die ingewandes

van

my siel

die rillings breek uit oor my kopvel

en die toppe van my skouers

ek is bang as

die stilte

gaan kom

ah, om verewig in die hand van klank te lê

daar waar dit resonerend warm is

vat my nie weg van hierdie klank!

kom klank,

kom val

soos ryp druiwe

in my oor

bederf my

met

'n oomblikse versadiging

van

hierdie

nimmereindigende

honger

- Lara Kirsten

Microscopic

On a wind-tormented morning

with life's dark clouds lowering

a sudden sunbird flirted with flowers.

A blaze of unexpected sun ricocheted

off purple, scarlet, malachite feathers

struck silver stamens and pink petals.

So vast a spectrum; a reminder ... 

-  Quentin Hogge

Poets in the audience

The Ecca poets at their newest book Unplanned Hour's launch 
in Grahamstown (back row, from left) Cathal Lagan, Silke Heiss, 
Norman Morrissey and Quentin Hogge. 
In the foreground Brian Walter (Photo by Ruth Woudstra)

Article of Ecca's book launch, 9 March 2013 - By Ruth Woudstra

Poets in the audience

Norman Morrissey is not put off by a small audience. Even less by the fact that the majority are poets. On the contrary, he welcomes the “very good number of fifteen people” who attended the launch of Unplanned Hour, the 17^th Ecca poetry collection.

“I don’t think we’ve ever had so many poets before,” says Morrissey of the launch held at Yellow House in Grahamstown on 9 March. As editor of the collection, he considers the evening to have been a very pleasant experience, because he felt the audience as inclined to “get what we’ve got to offer.”

But the Ecca poets didn’t start out with the intention of writing for poets. Named after the pass between Grahamstown and Alice, where founding members Norman Morrissey, Brian Walter, Cathal Lagan and the late Basil Somhlahlo were based in the eighties, the group identified an acute need to make poetry interesting for people who were unfamiliar with it. According to Morrissey, the four saw that English poetry could and did enrich students at Fort Hare University who were unfamiliar with the tradition. This sometimes happened against their own expectations. Walter adds that the poets were naturally writing for themselves, each other, and for the joy of collectively developing their own creativity.

Since 1989 they have published nearly one collection of poetry a year and have read for varied audiences, mostly in the Eastern Cape. The collective has expanded in number and gender to nine poets, four of whom are women. Eight of the poets contributed towards the latest collection, with five of them reading their poetry at the launch.

Environmental and reflective themes were very evident in the poems that were read, as well as the close relationships between the poets themselves who are clearly drawn together for the love of the art. Declining to place any emphasis on selling the collection to the audience, Morrissey closed the evening by simply thanking those present for “putting this last book of ours onto the waters.”

He was referring to a poem in Unplanned Hour entitled ‘To the audience’ by Silke Heiss, who joined the group in 2012. It was written in response to the audience reaction to an Ecca reading at the Wiles Gallery in Bathurst in October last year:

Your ears

made the boat,

and they made

the water –

your listening

rocked me,

and I thank you.

- - - 

Here the five poets in action at Yellow House in Grahamstown (photos by Ruth Woudstra) >

  
Brian Walter and Quentin Hogge  

Cathal Lagan 

Silke Heiss 

Norman Morrissey