Thursday, June 30, 2005
STUDY OF POEMS IN FORM [August]
1. Bloom, Harold, ed. Shakespeare's Sonnets. (sonnet)
2. Keats, John. The Complete Poems of John Keats. (ode)
3. Shahid Ali, Agha. Call Me Ishmael Tonight: a book of ghazals. (ghazal)
4. Shiffert, Edith, ed. Anthology of modern Japanese poetry. (haiku, tanka)
5. Turco, Lewis. The New Book of Forms. (a survey of forms)
6. Young, Kevin. Jellyroll. (the blues poem)
USE OF MYTH IN THE POETRY OF WEST AFRICA [September]
1. Anyihodo, Kofi. A Harvest of Our Dreams. (Ghana)
2. Banyiwe Horne, Naana. Sunkwa: clingings onto life. (Ghana)
3. Ojaide, Tanure. Poetic imagination in Black Africa: essays on African poetry.
4. Ojaide, Tanure, ed. The new African poetry: an anthology.
5. Segun, Mabel. Conflict and other poems. (Nigeria)
6. Soyinka, Wole. Idanre: and other poems. (Nigeria)
STUDY OF POEMS IN SEQUENCE [October]
1. Clifton, Lucille. Mercy.
2. Eady, Cornelius. Brutal Imaginiation.
3. Gluck, Louise. Wild Iris.
4. Ostriker, Alicia. Volcano Sequence.
5. Stern, Gerald. Odd Mercy.
SURVEY OF CONTEMPORARY AFRICAN-AMERICAN POETS [November]
1. Alexander, Elizabeth. The Black Interior: essays
2. Eady, Cornelius. You Don't Miss Your Water.
3. Harper, Michael. Dear John, Dear Coltrane.
4. Hayden, Robert. Collected Poems
5. Jess, Tyehimba. Leadbelly.
6. Jordan, June. Haruko: Love Poems
7. Lorde, Audre. Sister Outsider.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
A tail -
yes, a tail.
See how it winds & wraps
the green curve of the earth?
Yes, a tail. Whish-whish, it plays,
lapping the lush hills of Zululand.
No, it's big,
as all in Africa is big. But don't worry,
the king cat no longer prowls these banks.
Lion is for bigness - like the river's crocodiles,
who've grown stout on their diet of tigersnakes.
No, they bathe.
Yes, they bathe. The lions climb
from the sky 'cause Africa is hot.
& they splash as they daydream
of bones for whetting their white knives
Can you hear that?
That's no river's roar.
It's the growl of all the lions'
empty bellies. They've keen noses -
especially for Americans.
It's suppertime - we're ALL starving,
& looks like we're having
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Ascertaining Truth in South Africa’s Truth & Reconciliation Commission: Ingrid de Kok's "The Transcriber Speaks"
As my life has been a whirlwind of deadlines lately, I'm scrounging for material to post. Here's another essay from the semester I just concluded in the New England College low-res MFA program. It examines White South African poet, Ingrid de Kok's poem, "The Transcriber Speaks." As usual, it probably helps to read the poem first.
(_ei__, I promise I''m going to generate a new entry.)
IT IS 1996, JUST TWO years after the fall of the apartheid regime. From 1960 to 1994, the South African state was an absolute censoring, torturing, and killing machine. Of the innumerable crimes committed by the government, perhaps the most brutal was the suppression of ideas: How many dreams deferred in 30 years? For one man? For millions?
Which creates a direct issue of voice. During apartheid, White citizens, who made up less than 12% of the country’s population, received a full vote in national elections; Indian and Coloureds (citizens of mixed ancestry) counted only as 1/3 vote. Blacks, comprising 80% of the population, were not considered citizens and thusly received no vote at all. Add to this, the systematic censorship used to dismantle the African National Congress and other anti-apartheid organizations and it becomes obvious why the Mandela-led administration had to create a forum where all South Africans could vocalize, could “come to terms with their past on a morally accepted basis and to advance the cause of reconciliation,” Dullah Omar, former Minister of Justice – a forum to detonate these volatile dreams before peace-building could begin.
Which brings us to the 1996 Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the scene of White South African poet, Ingrid de Kok’s “The Transcriber Speaks,” from her 2002 collection, Terrestrial Things. The purpose of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission is to pave the way for forgiveness, so that bombs could defuse within the safety of government chambers and not out in the open streets. What horrors? What unspeakable terrors would await? So it is that here the silenced get to speak – except for the one person whose duty it is to remain silent and neutrally record the speech of others – the court transcriber. This becomes becomes de Kok’s poetic conceit.
Ingrid de Kok’s technique for this exercise is to employ the first person perspective, creating a dramatic monologue to give the transcriber voice:
I was the commision’s own captive
Its anonymous after-hours scribe,
Choosing the words captive, anonymous, professional, and blank-slate, the poet creates an opening tone which is pink-collar, passive, and controlled, as if the transcriber is merely a cog in a corporate machine. De Kok furthers the mindlessness of the transcriber’s work in line 4 with the droning “Word by word by word,” a device which she repeats in line 10 with “Word upon word upon word.”
In lines 5 thru 8, the poet invokes the mechanical - “from winding tape to hieroglyphic key” and stresses the sense that this is work being performed without feeling:
Like bricks for a kiln or tiles for a roof
Or the sweeping of leaves into piles for burning:
Here, the poet juxtaposes the notion of building something with “bricks for a kiln or tiles for a roof” against destroying something, “leaves into piles for burning.” Which is she, in fact, doing? But in the true spirit of a peon worker, in line 9, the transcriber remains unquestioning: “I don’t know which.” Which is to say, whether it is creation or destruction, the transcriber is not here to offer her opinions or feelings, but to simply take sounds and equate them to letters and syllables.
But then something pivotal occurs in lines 13 – 16:
But how to transcribe silence from tape?
Is weeping a pause or a word?
What written sign for a strangled throat?
And a witness pointing?
After successive declarative statements for the first half of the poem, the transcriber rattles off four successive questions. This turn in the poem symbolizes awareness, a change in consciousness. If we look more deeply at the nature of these questions, we see the speaker raises greater issues about the nature of objectivity and truth – especially in the context of this Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Is truth simply a literal transcription? Or is there more to it?
If the transcriber is transcribing literally - as neutrally and objectively as a machine - the silence in line 13 would be indicated by no keystrokes, blank space on the transcription page. But such a system quickly deteriorates in line 14:
“Is weeping a pause or a word?”
It is a legitimate concern. How does one transcribe the sound of tears? And once that tide has started, it leads to lines 15 and 16:
“What sign for a strangled throat? ... a witness pointing?”
The more visceral the communication becomes, the more challenging it becomes for the transcriber to communicate its truth.
The poet’s plain-spoken, almost childlike, diction in these questions indicates a yearning for a simple truth, an essential truth; but can this be arrived at using the mechanical tools in the transcriber’s hands?
The answer is, No. And so in line 16, the transcriber crosses a line:
“And a witness pointing? That I described.”
As the transcriber’s duty is essentially to take dictation – not to provide commentary - she breaks the fourth wall. This again challenges the notion of the telling of truth. What limitations are there depending upon one’s chosen medium of recording? In text? In video?
Which raises another question: Is there a truth beyond “the spoken truth” in these proceedings? It certainly suggests that there is a truth beyond what the constructs of conventional language can bear.
And so the poem turns to an examination of negative space and what pregnant truths are held there:
But what if she stared?
And if the silence seemed to stretch
Past the police guard, into the street
Away to a door or a grave, or a child,
Do these questions lead to more truths (“a door”), a truth with an end (“a grave”), or a truth which continues to grow and change (“a child”)? Rather than answering, “The Transcriber Speaks” raises more questions about the impossibility of ascertaining truth – that truth is an ideal, that it is larger than life, that it defies transcription, especially when it is as suppressed and horrific as that of apartheid.
Ingrid de Kok articulates this in her conclusion - not with the mechanical tools of the transcriber, but rather with the empathetic and ironic tools of the poet:
Was it my job to conclude:
“The witness was silent. There was nothing left to say?”
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Arrival in Johannesburg airport: So many
White faces: I must be
in the wrong country!
That is, till I see
the baggage handlers, who all look
just like me.
STANDARD TIP IS 5 RAND! the airport sign
says, ONLY TIP THOSE WEARING ORANGE
The woman with
bare breasts, looks like she has
something to say:
I refuse to die
Zulu must be the loveliest sound
to ever caress my ears: Soft.
Percussive. Music. Click-Click!
when spoken. For example,
ngqongqoza, has two
clicks & means
to knock. Ngqongqosha has two,
too & means
to carry a child on one’s shoulders.
so tall, yet balance
so much: a woman's work.
Such bright scarves sing
as they are beaten
against the rocks.
Is such a shade of purple possible? -
The locusts look like they're painted
by an Artist's hand.
Yebo, Mr. Cow,
are you coming or going
down this dirt road?
The skyline's teeth
will swallow your eyes!
the sangoma sez.
This Xhosa girl is taught
not to look
me in the eye,
But when she sings
I feel the floor
Where have all the diamonds
gone? Certainly not
on her black hands.
When he leaves for the mines,
the moon is full. It will fill again
before he returns.
As he flaps among the clouds,
the shrike's impossible tail
drags through the acacia trees.
Zulu lightning show: How do
our bones, the sky, the earth
rumble so & not fall apart?
another lion -
Zululand is greener than
even Ireland: No wonder they came
& would not leave.
Tea time for one
is work time
End of the day, 25
kilometers home: Left.
Right. Left. Right...
just like it sounds:
Night here is so dark
I cannot even see
my own skin.
Radio deejays transmit
in eleven different languages: What
a wild dial!
With my 2 left feet
can you teach me
the latest township dance?
How odd it is to be suddenly aware
of the American accent
coming from my own mouth.
BIGGER! STRONGER! LONGER!
the witchdoctor's promise -
Named after apartheid's architect,
Verwoerd Ave. still runs through the heart
The letters on this park bench
have faded from use.
Another expired goldmine,
another horizon of ghetto: WELCOME
Heavens! Is THAT mammoth
yellow thing really a tank
the Afrikaaners used?
How can one man's heart
hold so much
How long can this
red clay withstand
so many buried