The rumbles of age-weary motorcycles and vehicles drag on outside to mark the empty space between poets. And then this woman of living ebony effortlessly drowns out the rumbling to a hum with a steady stream of words. Uhuru waga Phalafala, a Limpompo native, unravels and unpacks line after line of verse. She is followed by Yoliswa Swa (Mogale) who had earlier in the day performed an a capella piece weaving the spoken word with her faultless Soweto twang. The poems she recites for the room full of ears at Koffie Huis on the corner of 4th Ave and 7th Str send soft vibrations through the bodies, and feet start tapping to the rapping of fingers on tables.
This place, hidden behind the manufactured towers of a metropolitan city, is as real as the truths delivered from the book shelves, street corners and roofs that the Melville Poetry Festival has brought together.
And on the topic of rooftops, Buntu, an Imbongi, perched atop the ex-Nike building lures passersby, diners and patrons outside with his booming voice. I’m reminded of home. The voracious onslaughts of Xhosa send the hairs on the nape of my neck reaching for the heavens. I think back to isibaya and oomadala, how days became nights around fires and the timeless clicks of my mother’s tongue. IsiXhosa asitolikwa.
Of course, there’s much more to this Festival. There’s Andries Bezuidenhout, Rennie Alexander, Lithal Li, Mac Manaka, Ron Smerczak, Pam Nichols, Wiseman, Angifi Dladla, Ahmed Patel and the Botsotso Jesters. Then there’s slam poetry, prose, music and the written word. And then there’s still more here. But, you see, that’s not just it. This place, this day, the performances, the discussions, books, recitals, the food and being in the company of two intriguing creatures inspires me.
And so I write.
A Poem
A poem is a song not sung,
a book not writ
and a word not spoken.
It is what it cannot be,
the obvious you do not see.
It is the is and the is not,
the known and the forgot.
A poem is.
Namaste
