Free Tertiary Education

 There has been nothing on radio and TV lately but Fees must fall protests. I may be thought a sceptic but it does seem as though the protests are timed to fall at the end of the academic year and so come at a convenient time to disrupt  exam schedules and this must be most welcome to those who have very little chance of passing.those exams.

 Contemplating the horrendous expense of three or four years at University,  I was struck by the thought that I myself  have been enjoying free tertiary education for the last few years. I have been taking advantage of the wonderful wealth of MOOC courses available online (for free) One can pursue almost any branch of learning just by getting onto the Internet. These days one doesn't even need access to a computer, a smart phone is all that is necessary,   Isn't the old model of residential universities very much outdated. Perhaps it is a good thing that protests are closing them down. Perhaps not much would be lost if they all closed their doors and instead broadcast lectures and discussions to those who really wanted to learn. If this happened, tertiary education would be much cheaper and could be within the means of most students. In fact it could  easily be totally funded by government. Many of the buildings presently used as student accommodation or lecture halls could be used for much needed sub-economic housing.

This week

Too much happening this month! Luke off to America, ,Danielle back from UK.,Launch of McGregor anthology. McGregor Poetry festival. How to fit it all in? But then I always  am quite busy. I used to think that when I was as old as I am now, I would be leading a dull and quiet life. How lucky to be living in the 21st Century! So many new and exciting discoveries. (I have just been reading about the discovery of two earth-sized planets in the Goldilocks zone of a cool (in temperature ) star only 40 light-years away.) So many new and exciting gadgets( although the technology is a bit beyond me) Of course the world is in a mess, with all sorts of disasters threatening it, but then hasn't it been threatened by  disasters for most of my life?  The difference is that now I am unlikely to live to see them come about. At McGregor Stephanie and  are doing a presentation entitled It's only being so cheerful..  At our age we might as well be cheeerful. There are not many years left. We should enjoy them as long as we can.

One of the exercises in the poetry course I have just completed, was to write an imagist poem describing a certain  object. I am not sure whether this poem fits the criteria and can be properly called imagist, but after making the  changes suggested on the course, I am quite pleased with it. The changes were mostly to do with the form -- splitting it into three stanzas and changing the line breaks. I was very surprised at how much such small alterations improved the poem.

Sharpened Visions

I have not visited my blog for more than a month. I have been so busy. with this Mooc, (Sharpened visions on Coursera). I can recommend it to any aspiring poet. Douglas Kearney, who conducts it, is a noted poet himself.  Although I can't make head or tail out of poems of his that I have read, he is an excellent teacher of poetry. He does not dictate,or criticise, but rather provides inspiration, by means of prompts for poems and suggestions for writing them. The most useful of his suggestions are those for re-writing and improving your poems.. As with all Moocs, peers review  your work and give feedback. In my case I found nearly all their comments were helpful and made for better poems.

Here are some of the poems I wrote on this course.

THE LAUNDROMAT OF LONELINESS

This is the place where single people come

from bed-sitters and rented rooms.

They sit on slatted wooden benches.

and listen to the whirring noise

of wash machines and tumble driers.

Avoiding one another’s gaze

they bury noses in worn paperbacks,

while faded towels and pillowcases

whirl round with unpaired socks and

threadbare underclothes.

TOAD IN A HOLE 

A shriek from Gairo, my domestic worker

A frog!  a frog! It’s in the shower room.

I run to see compressed there in a corner

a little shiny, round medallion, yellow

with blotch of  black and spots of scarlet.

 It is a tiny baby leopard toad.

A species, rare, endangered by the shrinkage

of habitat and threatened now by us.

We cannot leave it there, but do not wish

to squash with careless hand its softness

or let our fingers feel its slimy, toxic skin

I take a floppy, large spaghetti mop

and try to sweep the creature out the door

It doesn’t work; the mop is far too soft

I poke it with a canvas covered toe.

My foot is much too big to fit the niche

the animal is using as its shelter.

I take a kitchen towel and as it leaps away

I fling the towel over its elongated form,

grab it and wrap it tight, and then

I take it to the garden pond and let it go

and Gairo stops her shivering and startst

to clean all trace of frog out of the house

FROG LIPOGRAM

Boss off to loo

Frog on loo floor

Boss cross.

Oh! Oh!

Frog on loo floor

not cool.

Frog got to go.

How?

Mop no good,

too soft

foot no good

too gross

Stop! 

Cloth?

Throw cloth on frog

fold hold

boot frog to pond

Look Boss

Look Boss

No Frog

.

WRECK OF THE KAKAPO revised

We see the boiler and the rudder of the wreck

Between the ribs sand covers all the deck.

The rest of it lies buried far below.

She ran aground a hundred years ago

There was no loss of life, no dead.

The crew just jumped onto the sand and fled

The captain stayed for months alone on board

He hid for shame. He would not say a word

The captain knew that everyone would say

It was his fault the ship lay where she lay

He should have kept her safely as a son

Not see her wrecked before her voyage was done

The captain beat his breast; he tore his hair,

quite overcome by sorrow and despair.

Always as long as he drew breath

he would regret this day until his death.

That stormy day, the waves were big and wild

The wind wailed loudly like a tortured child

The surf pounded the shore, thundering aloud

The gale shook masts and rattled every shroud

To port a cliff was seen to rise up high

It’s shape was clear against the sky

The captain cried above the storm’s harsh sound

“Good helmsman, turn the ship around.

I see Cape Point behind it is False Bay,

and a harbour where our ship can safely stay

(but no one could have been as wrong as he)

Full-speed ahead the ship rushed from the sea

She dug herself into the sand so fair and square

That a century later she’s still sitting there

of Cape History just a tiny part

a ship’s wreck, a captain’s broken heart

DREARY DRAPES

(Note: In the Old Age Complex where I live we are required to have only neutral colours at all the windows.)

Twin censors of sight,

two lengths of  calico,

three metres up and three across

cover my bedroom window.

They cut out light and block the view

of trees and sky.

At the ceiling they deform

in pebbly gathers,

dirt-road corrugations from which flow

beige mudslides,

Cascades of silty ripples undulate sideways,

grow into waves and

billow at the floor

But at the centre where they meet,

they grudgingly allow

slivers of sunlight

to sidle through

and make the dust-motes

dance.

Home Affairs

On Monday I visited the Wynberg Branch of  Home Affairs.  On Tuesday I started to  write a long account of my visit but didn't finish it. I know I pressed SAVE, but now this post has disappeared.  I expected to find it in Drafts(sic) but found no sign of it. I shall just have to write up this experience again.
Here we are:-

I knew I had to change my ID document from a book to a smart card. I seemed to remember something in the newspaper about having to do this in my birthday month. As my birthday month was rapidly drawing to a close. (It was the 30th of May already, only one more day to go) I decided to take the morning off from my usual chores and brave the officials at the nearest Home Affairs branch. As I was about to leave my flat I remembered that I had ordered lunch at Evergreen's Restaurant, the Bistro. Should I cancel?. Ever the optimist, I think I would surely be back by then. It was only ten in the morning after all.

I was dreading going to Home Affairs. the very name conjures up newspaper pictures of hundreds of refugees crowding into offices, picketing at gates and languishing for days in long queues outside in the road. I was pleasantly surprised. There were long queues. It did take all morning so that I had to
ring to cancel lunch and get for a take-away instead. But, to my astonishment I had quite a good time and really enjoyed the experience.

At Home affairs you find a cross-section of Cape Towns very varied population. The offices were full of people of all shapes and sizes from all walks of life. Sitting waiting to be called to one counter or another, I struck up conversations with a Rasta poet, a young Xhosa mother and a middle- aged PR assistant, all of them very friendly and very willing to help this bewildered old woman.

I was impressed by the efficiency with which the large numbers of applicants were processed. It is all done by numbers. As you enter the atrium, you are issued with a number depending on what piece of paper you are applying for (ID, birth certificate, passport etc.) and sent to a queue where you are given another number. You are then sent to one or other side of a large hall to sit on a bench and wait. At frequent intervals  numbers are called out.. Number 173 to Photo booth 1, Number 156 to counter 11, number 142 to counter 3. etc.

In Photo booth 1 I was made to perch precariously on a swivel chair while an unflattering pic was taken and sent to be printed on my new card. After another wait, I was sent to counter 9 for fingerprinting. Everything had gone swimmingly up to this point, but now we hit a snag. I just don't have fingerprints. Long years of working my fingers, not exactly to the bone but very close to it, have worn them away. The charming young African gentleman on the other side of the counter was extremely patient.
"Just try once more, Gogo," he pleaded, holding my fingers firmly onto the glass of the scanner,   After several attempts prints of my fingers were captured,but my thumbs were just too smooth. I sucked them vigorously over and over again and the young man took them over and over again and  pressed them down on the scanner at every conceivable angle. No lover has ever held hands with me as long. At last he allowed me to go saying that I  would be advised when to come and collect my
Smart Card. Now I know what to expect I am almost looking forward to this occasion.  I just hope they won't try to fingerprint me again.

Franschoek Festival 2016

I nearly didn't get to the festival. I would only have been able to make the Friday sessions in any case because of proir commitments, but when my car's clutch started to give in and my friend Jenny was not able to drive us there, I thought I would have to give the festival a miss this year. I was bitterly disappointed. Then I wondered whether my friend Sindiwe, who was taking a major part, and would definitely be there on Friday, would like to take over the tickets I had bought. When I rang her, she refused the offer, (she  had been been given tickets for Friday) but she told me that her daughter, Thoko, was going separately and would like to give me a lift.  It meant leaving quite early, but other wise was the perfect answer. So I had a great birthday after all.

I went to five discussions altogeter and all of them were worth attending.
Schools Poetry: Write Read, Hear
Finuala Dowling  discussed how to bring poetry to life with Linda Kuomo, Isobel Dixon,and Wendy Woodward. Linda talked about the Badalisha Poetry Exchange a collection in which  poets are filmed reading their work and which makes African Poetry easily available. Isobel spoke about the many opportunities for hearing and sharing poems in the UK and Wendy spoke about the teaching of Poetry, how to read it and how to write it. All of the poets talked about how the were introduced to poetry at an early age and how much this has meant to them.

Paying Tribute to Sindiwe Magona.
Elinor Sizulu introduced Sindiwe, told us something of her life and conducted the interview.. I was not very impressed with her as an interviewer. She was lucky in her subject. Sindiwe is an excellent speaker and seldom at a loss for words and she was able, with the minimum of prompting to excite and captivate her audience. There were only a few tributes  from the floor, most of them very complimentary.  There were a few awkward questions, but these were ably fielded by the speaker
She really is a pro!I noticed that all the books put out on display were sold very soon after the session ended. Most gratifying.

The language of Poetry
Karen Schimke spoke to Mbongeni Nomkonwana, a South African poet, Jumoke Verrissimo, a West African  and Safia Elhillo, an Arabic poet who lives in America and writes in her own language as well as English. They talked about the problems with translation in getting across both the meaning and the feeling of a poem,but also the inspiration and richness that comes from multilinguism. I found that this was a very interesting discussion and I was disappointed to see how few festival- goers had turned up to hear it. I know poetry is not the most popular of subjects, but these were all people who were interesting in themselves. They all three had interesting histories and fascinating stories to tell.

Crime procedural
Jenny Crwys Williams interviewed Charlotte Otter, Liad Shuham and Mark Winkler.about their crime novels. I have read Mark Winkler and admire his work, but I had not heard of the other two. Charlotte Otter lives in Germany, but her novel is set in Natal and I think was published in this country, I considered buying her book but decided that the other two seemed more interesting.  Liad Shuham, is apparently a best seller in Isreal( and probably in the UK too). He was most entertaining. I just loved him. I am reading his book now. It is very good in the Police procedural  genre,( but not better than out local crime novels.). He said he was influenced by Scandinavian crime writers, but I llike his book better than any of those I have read, I shall look for his other books in the library.

Writers of Fewer Words
Karen Szczurek hosted this one.and Mark Winkler, Nick Mulgrew and Niq Mhlongo talked about the difficulties encountered in writing short stories. They all spoke well, Niq Mhlongu was particularly entertaining. I didn't like his writing as much as I liked Mark Winkler"s, (I am sure I have read stories by Nicjk Mulgrew, but can't bring them to mind.) but he was the star of this particular show. They all cane to the conclusion that short stories were more difficult to write than novels and poems were the most difficult of all. Obviously none of them is as lazy as I am. I have yet to fiinsh a novella, let alone a full novel,  I aked Nick Mulgrew about publishing short stories. He says Prufrock does publish a few. I am going to sen them one or two of mine. Can't hurt.

With much effort and after a fight with my new phone, which has a definite mind of its own,,I was able to contact Thoko and meet her at a cafe on the Main Road. Here I ended my day at the festival being treated to white wine and red velvet cake, kindly financed by Thoko.

Being Right-handed

I have been thinking about being right-handed and how limited I am compared to so many left-handed people, many of whom are  close to  being ambidextrous. My husband used to write with his left hand, but played Squash with his right. As a cricketer, he bowled left-handed, but batted right-handed. (as an aside, our family is a perfect example of Mendel's Laws of inherited characteristics, of 4 children, two are left-handed and two right-handed)

Left hand/ right brain, is there a connection?

A writer friend has broken a bone in her writing hand. What should she do? This would not be much of a problem for me. I never write by hand, everything goes straight onto the computer screen. My left hand can take over what my right hand usually does. Of course the piece of writing would take longer, but wait a minute. Would that be the only difference? 

Thinking about being right or left handed, I remember an essay by James Barry. He was afflicted at one time with a bad case of what he called “Writer’s Cramp”.( I think that it was actually a form of arthritis.) He was forced to learn to write with the other hand. ( I am not sure whether it was his left hand, but it probably was.) Something very strange happened. He found that what he wrote with his left hand was very different to the kind of thing he wrote with his right. A play or story written with one hand had a kinder, more gentle aspect than a play or story written by the other hand.

I have decided to put this to the test with my own writing. Up to now I have typed all my stories or poems with both hands,

NEW PHONE (left hand)

The girl behind the counter was so kind,

There was a long queue behind me, but

she took the time to tell me all about

the features of  the

model I had chosen.

Pity she didn’t tell me how to use it.

So

Don’t ring me. I can’t answer

Don’t text; I can’t reply

I am excluded from the Net,

I’m techno-gagged and

I’ve been

cyber-silenced.

TOUGH SCREEN( right hand)

My fingers are so clumsy, I can’t type

he simplest message. I do try

but why do o’s turn into p’s and why

does the whole message vanish

before I can press SEND.

Bring me someone young, I cry

Someone like the girl at our poet’s group

Who can read from her Smart phone

so many lines she has written with such ease.

I wish that  she were here,  but I reside

In an old-age complex. where technology left fogies  

far behind, a long, long time ago.

It’s no good asking them.

and all my grand-children have gone away.

The staff are much too busy

for such a trivial problem, and so

I am left lamenting, all alone, 

my new and shiny, useless, touch-screen phone

(I would say left hand does better than right.)

\

In Praise of the Men of Cape Town

Last Saturday I was at a poetry workshop where we share the poems we have  written during the past month. Many of these poems had the theme of violence against women, This was not surprising when you consider the shocking cases that have been recently reported in the media. I was feeling most depressed thinking about this as I was taking my dogs for a walk. But then I looked about me and what I saw lifted my spirits and made me happier.

The suburb where I live contains a mixture of large old houses, dilapidated tenements, gated
complexes and cheaply-built modern flats and the inhabitants are similarly mixed. It was late afternoon and there were  all sorts of people walking about. These were the happy sights I saw:
I saw a young man cheerfully helping his pregnant wife with her shopping, and an old man gently leading his disabled spouse over the road. I saw a new father proudly cradling his tiny month-old daughter. I saw a grandfather happily chatting to his daughter as he pushed a grandchild's pram. I saw a father smiling at his two daughters, who were jumping up and down with excitement because he was taking them on an outing to the beach. All around I saw these men, good men, strong men, real men.

You mothers and fathers of boys. Teach your sons to recognise  real men like these, to celebrate them, admire them and aspire  to be like them.