I am delighted to share that I have joined SubscribeStar1, a platform enabling one to support a creator through a subscription. My reasons for doing so are to create an opportunity to support what I do, and to establish a space where I may experiment with ideas. Whether on matters philosophical, sacred or secular—in the form of essays, musical and poetic sketches or photography—it shall be my studio; a creative laboratory, if you will.
The artistic process is complex; the thinking of the artist obscure. On SubscribeStar, I shall clarify my process and thinking in the company of sympathetic minds with whom I hope to deliberate. I shall treat it also as a journal wherein I may share the updates, observations and discoveries hitherto contained in the monthly digests. My goal is to create a subscription section on this website, but until then, SubscribeStar will perform that function.
I reflected upon this blog
Ever since I joined social media in 2016, I have devotedly shared there distilled ideas and updates. These I then assembled and elaborated upon on the blog, particularly over the past year, in the “This Month” posts. So consistent have I been, it has become an observance. Now that I have joined SubscribeStar, I can better investigate subjects without burdening followers with the bombardment of posts that will inevitably result from my doing so.
This then is the last “This Month” post. It does not mean, however, that I shall no longer be active here. On this blog, I intend to share at the appropriate times what emerges from SubscribeStar. I shall make official announcements and present work and ideas in their developed form—that is, not the works in progress or the extemporary rumination that will be characteristic of my SubscribeStar activity. SubscribeStar will be messy; the blog will be neat.
I wrote this, my 100th post
Glancing over the development of the blog reminds me of my enthusiasm when I started this project in 2016. Armed with an iPad and no idea how to compose experimental music, my love for airships was all the encouragement I needed to learn. I was amazed that the blog attracted any interest at all and I did my best to present to readers what I considered engaging and interesting; 100 posts later, I hope I have succeeded.
Whenever there is change, one is reminded of what one values in life. This February, I appreciated anew your faith in my work. I may give form to a theme in music and poetry, but what joy is there in beholding the outcome alone? For proof of my work’s merit, I rely on you. Your judgements—your comprehension, appreciation and criticism—help me evaluate my own; and I assure you, I would be all the poorer without them.
Whilst out among the hills, I was amazed to see three separate flights of swifts and swallows along the route! The biggest of these I filmed, a flock of at least a hundred birds: Alpine and African Black Swifts and White-throated Swallows. Though swifts look very much like swallows on the wing, they are in fact classified as hummingbirds; even so, they behave much the same. Watching them mill high and low about me was otherworldly! They do this to feed on flying insects, but I like to think also for the pure exhilaration of flying.
I watched a crane leaping in the wind
On another occasion, I saw two pairs of Blue or Paradise Cranes (Grus paradisea) among the hills. This time of year, they are watching their eggs, laid directly on the ground, usually in the stubble of harvested wheat fields. The first pair was at the summit of a gentle hill. At one point, the male spread his wings and leapt into the air on the wind! Blue Crane males dance to attract a partner, but since he was already paired up, I presume he was simply enjoying the flow of air. The second pair was more serene, quietly pacing in the stubble.
I started composing “Over the Mountain”
“Over the Mountain” started out as a caption to a photograph I posted to social media1 in late 2017. It showed the open skies, rolling hills and distant mountains so typical of the region in which I live, the Overberg2. Accompanying this impromptu photograph was the line “The fields become the hills and the mountains become the sky”. Not long after, it occurred to me that it may have poetic value. Initially, I thought to explore in “rolling” lines the undulating landscape of the region, and a rough sketch titled “A Vista” was born.
At the end of 2018, I began developing the draft. My intention was to compose one verse extolling the beauty of the landscape, but as I reflected on the photograph—and the frame of mind that prompted the original sketch—it became clear that this would not be adequate. There is so much more to the region than the distinctive patterns and colours of agriculture upon the land: splendid creatures dwelling in the valleys and mountains! I sought therefore to encapsulate my admiration for the Overberg in a kind of poetic “song”.
Inspired by the name of the region, “Over the Mountain”—a play on Overberg—slowly took shape, resulting in a number of amusing verses and refrains, amongst others: “Over the berg! / Over the berg! / Over the berg I go! // No more ’scrapers, / No more papers, / Over the berg I go!” This, of course, did not align with the style and tone of the collection, and it was clear that I had to write from a different perspective. The “song” route was not entirely fruitless, however, for it provided the raw material for the approach that would replace it.
Instead of composing a lighthearted “ditty”, I chose to think of the poem as a “hymn”. Consequently, it became more solemn—though no less exuberant—each verse painting a vignette of the Overberg, scenes I would not trade for the world: the hillsides where the Rhebok3 watches, the fields where the wheat blows in the wind, the heavens where the buzzard4 circles, to name a few examples. The poem is now in its final phase where I must select from the many verse variations I developed, those most promising for the final composition.
I learnt about the plight of the rhebok
“Over the Mountain” naturally lead me to research the Rhebok. I was dismayed to discover that it was declared endangered in September 2017. This is mainly the result of hunting and a loss of habitat. Hunters consider them a great prize since they are difficult to find, stalk and shoot. You see them very rarely; they are shy, cautious and fast. Hunting, in addition to the expansion of farmland and the use of traps set for other animals, has devastated their numbers; and thus they join the Blue Crane on the threatened species list.
The unfortunate news brought to mind my earliest encounter with the Rhebok (or Ribbok5, in Afrikaans). It was not a sighting, but a song from my childhood. “Die Oukraalliedjie” is a well-known Afrikaans folk song (about a song) about a farm called Oukraal6. In one of its verses, it mentions “’n ribbok wat daar teen die rantjie staan”7 (“a rhebok that stands against the hill”). Imagine my delight when decades later, upon one of my rambles, I should see a Rhebok for the first time in just such a scene: quietly grazing against a hillside—
Incredibly, at first, my presence did not disturb it. It was only when I produced my camera that it lost its nerve and bolted swiftly up and over the hill. I was fortunate to capture this flight in a series of photographs which I later used to confirm that it was indeed the Grey Rhebok, Pelea capreolus. Though I pass that area often, I have not seen it since. There was one evening I saw a buck darting by the wayside in the bushes; I suspect it may have been a young Rhebok, but in the low light, I could not tell. I wait patiently to see one again.
A chiefly agricultural region in the Western Cape province of South Africa. “Overberg” (pronounced “oowuh-fiR-beh-R-CH”, a trilled “R” and a guttural “CH” as in “kccch” or “kgggh”) is Dutch for “over the mountain”.
The Rhebok is a medium-sized South African antelope.
Incidentally, the buzzard is a large bird of prey resembling a hawk. I photographed it early in 2018 and posted it here (Twitter). As you will see, it is not a vulture, as American English suggests. It is often seen circling high above, something I was able to capture (by complete accident) in 2017, which can be watched here (Twitter).
Pronounced “Rh-bock” with a trilled “R” and the “o” a shortened version of that in “or”.
“Die Oukraalliedjie” (pronounced “di oh-kRaahl-likki” with the “i” in “it” and a trilled “R”) is Afrikaans for “The Ol’ Pen Ditty”. “Liedjie” (pronounced “likki” with the “i” in “it”) is Afrikaans for “ditty” or “little song” and “Oukraal” (pronounced “oh-kRaahl” with a trilled “R”) is Afrikaans for “Ol’ Pen” (“ol’” as in “old” and “pen” as in an enclosure for animals), the name of a farm.
Literally, “a rhebok that there against the little hill stands”. The line appears at the end of the first verse around the 0:20 mark. You can listen to the song as recorded by Groep Twee (Afrikaans for “group two”, pronounced “CHRoup tweeuh” with the guttural “CH” as in “kccch” or “kgggh” and a trilled “R”) on Apple Music, Spotify or Youtube.
Although December is the beginning of the South African summer, it is yet spring on the mountain slopes with scores of wild flowers in bloom. I had the pleasure—nay the joy—of wandering upon just such a mountain slope late one afternoon, discovering to my amazement even more species I had not encountered before! Most notable among these were the pink Kalossie (Ixia scillaris)1 and Wild Hibiscus (Hibiscus aethiopicus). I saw a number of the former scattered about the slope and one of the latter in the middle of the track!
I took precisely one hundred and thirty photographs, some of which I have included in this piece. Of the utterly delightful Kalossie, I could not get enough. New to me, I dubbed it the “Field Ballerina” for its little pink tutu-like flower and its light sway in the breeze. So enchanted was I by everything I saw that I resorted to poetry, composing three new sketches praising the red Bergpypie2 (Tritoniopsis antholyza), the violet Fine-stalked Lobelia (Lobelia chamaepitys)3 and the pink Kalossie. I grouped these under the title “Wild Flower Trio”.
I had also the pleasure of encountering a Toktokkie4, a Darkling beetle that knocks its rear end on the ground in order to attract a mate. To demonstrate this, I made a video recording5 of it doing just so in response to my knocking on the ground with a knuckle. I could have sat there on the ground watching it forever, so engrossed was I by the creature and my silly little knocking trick! As I wrote this paragraph, I conceived of a little poetic sketch—“Tock-tocky”—which I have since added to my list6 of poems for the collection.
I completed “Boy in the Field”
In the “Boy in the Field” poem, I recount a sighting of a Paradise Crane7 last November. The graceful pale-blue animal is the national bird of South Africa, indigenous to this region. I have photographed it on a number of occasions before, usually in a group of two or three, or as a herd on a hillside; but here was a solitary bird, quietly watching me from a short distance. The moment was dreamlike: the world about me vanished, and the crane was to me the very embodiment of Nature’s every virtue—in its presence, I beheld the divine.
How I would express the experience in poetry—or any other art form, for that matter—I had no idea. The initial draft I sketched at the time seemed unworthy; I was beset with the fear that I may have to abandon the poem! Then, a breakthrough came—as it often does, whilst out in the fields—in the form of a single line: “The hills were brushed with gold, early in November, / No more the vivid green it was in September.” It was clumsy, but nonetheless the catalyst for the first verse around which I could then construct the rest of the poem.
Four verses were the result, together describing the scene and what it evoked within me—and surely any other moved by the loveliness of nature—in a musing lyrical ballad. Where I thought grandiloquence would be necessary to convey the sublime, modest language sufficed—with a flourish here and there—and the poem is now complete. As it evolved, so did its title, changing from “Boy in the Field” to “The Boy and the Crane” (inspired by the couplet composed for The Zephyr and the Swallow8), to the final “A Crane at Eventide”.
I realised the value of veracity
One of my favourite Afrikaans poems is “In die Hoëveld”9 by Toon van den Heever10. Confined in the mines and suffering from consumption, the poet longs for the expanse of the highveld. So convincingly does he lament his lot that I assumed the poem must be autobiographical. It was not. The poet was no miner, he was a magistrate! His poetic brilliance notwithstanding, I was outraged to deduce—with no evidence to the contrary—that the scenario that so captivated me was nothing more than the most eloquent of inventions.
I felt, however irrational it may be, that I was somehow deceived by the poet—I say “irrationally” because there is, of course, in poetry every liberty and encouragement to indulge the imagination—but it is precisely because the poem had struck such a chord within me that I felt so, dare I say, betrayed. In poetry, it has always been my intention to be true to life, to capture scenarios as they were, emotions as I experienced them. “In die Hoëveld” strengthened my resolve in this regard: factuality is more precious to me now than ever!
At first, this approach was a subconscious one. It became deliberate a few months ago whilst composing a sketch titled “A Pear Tree”. In it, I was tempted to place the tree in question on a hill for dramatic effect. I checked myself immediately: the tree is not in fact on a hill but in a valley, the last that remains of what once was an orchard. However much the image of a solitary tree on a hill appealed to the Romanticist within me, I realised that it was infinitely better—for me—to look for the wonderful in fact rather than fabrication.
I did a little reflection
This year, I isolated myself on social media by unfollowing everyone. There were a number of reasons for doing so, but a deciding factor was the need to escape the incredible reaction of artists to the political events of 2016. Two years later, it still echoes through timelines like an untuned string11. It was particularly tiresome to me—if The Political Compass12 is to be believed—a “Centrist” with a slight leaning towards the “Libertarian Right”13 (somewhat of an oddity in the artistic community, if there can be such a thing).
Regardless of this isolation, I enjoyed posting to social media14 and also to this blog. They are invaluable tools of clarification and crystallisation. When I share a thought or any part of my work, it may be scrutinised by all. This helps me view what I have shared from the perspective of those I imagine are scrutinising it, and gives me a deeper understanding of the thing than I would otherwise attain. It is especially enlightening when I share something in which I am invested, and so it performs an important function in my creative process.
Therefore, in the year to come, I shall continue to post to social media and write monthly digests on this blog. It is of great benefit to me to reflect periodically upon my work and the essays allow me to do just that: to consolidate my ideas, discuss my process, evaluate what I create and document my progress—in fine, to diarise my artistic endeavours. Whether this has any value to a reader, I do not know—the kind of person who takes an interest in my work is unlikely to be forthcoming on the subject—but I must proceed regardless.
I take great care to produce what is meaningful to others: whether inspirations, ideas or the results of these. Were I to fail in this quest, nothing would displease me more. That notwithstanding, the goal of this project remains unchanged. It is still an expression of everything I have come to value and a task I find deeply fulfilling. Its purpose is not to generate wealth, accolades or fame, but something nobler: to celebrate Beauty. And what better way to celebrate than with others? Grant me then the honour of celebrating with you.
Afrikaans vernacular for a “klossie” (“little skullcap”), which the flowers resemble. In some dialects, there is a brief gap between the “k” and the “l” in “klossie” (pronounced “kh-lossy” with a short version of the “o” in “or”) and “kalossie” (pronounced “kah-lossy”) is the result.
Afrikaans for “little mountain pipe” (pronounced “b-eh-R-CH pay-pi” with a trilled “R” and “CH” the guttural “kccch” sound in “loch”, that is, not the “ck” in “lock”, and the “i” in “did”).
It is possible I am confusing this with Lobelia tomentosa, they are incredibly similar.
Afrikaans for “knockety-knock” or literally, “little knock-knock” (pronounced “tock-tocky” with a short version of the “o” in “or”).
Grus paradisea, also known as a Blue Crane or a Stanley Crane and colloquially as the Vyf-sent Voël (pronounced “feyf-sent foo-wil”, Afrikaans for “five-cent bird”) since it appeared on the now obsolete five-cent coin (ZAR).
“The Zephyr and the Swallow” couplet is the poetic concept around which the titular EP (Bandcamp) is built.
Afrikaans for “in the highveld” (pronounced “ihn di hoo-uh-felt” with the “ih” in “sit”, the second “i” that in “did” and the “e” in “felt”).
In “This November” and on social media, I referred to this poet incorrectly as Toon van der (not “den”) Heever. Toon van den Heever (pronounced “toowin fun dihn yih-fihR” with the “ih” in “sit”, the “y” in “year” and a trilled “R”) is not his real name. Toon is a nickname attached to him when an annoyed rugby teammate, whom he had nicknamed Duimpie (Afrikaans for “little thumb”, pronounced “duhimpi”), snapped at him with “Ag jou groottoon, man” (which literally translates to “Oh your big toe, man”, pronounced “ah-CH yo CH-R-oowuht-toowin, munn” with “CH” the guttural “kccch” sound in “loch”, not the “ck” in “lock”, and a trilled “R”, an Afrikaans retort taking the form of “oh your [insert relevant epithet, typically a bodily reference], man”, used either affectionately, teasingly or derisively). Toon’s real name is François Petrus van den Heever (Petrus is pronounced “peeyuh-tR-uhs” with a trilled “R”). Whilst I knew that Toon must be a nickname, I thought it was short for either Anton or Antoon (respectively pronounced “ahn-tonn” with a short version of the “o” in “or” and “ahn-toowin”), both Afrikaans for Anthony.
Manifesting itself in every smug, patronising, self-righteous (and outright petulant) affectation bourgeois pietism can muster.
The indigenous heather of South Africa is known as fynbos1 (Afrikaans for “fine bush”), a plant kingdom unique to the Western Cape region with a multitude of species. From the tiny Lobelia chamaepitys (Fine-stalked Lobelia) scattered in drops of violet about the heath to the deep pink Phaenocoma prolifera (Cape Strawflower) igniting the heather. From the pale Edmondia sesamoides (Everlasting) and orange Leucospermum patersonii (Silver-edge Pincushion) adorning the hillsides to the salmon-pink Tritoniopsis antholyza (Bergpypie2) and blue Micranthus filifolius (Comb Flower) brightening up the waysides.
In late November, the eve of the South African summer, it seemed the very rocks would bloom if they could. After a long dry season, we had an excellent winter and the earth has responded with a profusion of flowers the likes of which we have never seen. Plants have appeared that have been dormant for years. Wherever I went, there was occasion to stop and photograph some wonderful instance of form and colour, some new species amongst the familiar tapestry to discover. To walk upon the mountain slopes was especially rewarding. If like me you enjoy flora, there is nothing like fynbos to enchant you!
I visited the past
Having recently written about the two years I spent as a boy in the Babilonstoringberge valley3, I decided to revisit the area. I had done so a few years ago. I saw then how the valley had changed, much of my childhood paradise lost to modernisation and neglect. Today, of the little farm school, there is only the crumbling foundation, but the old fig and apple tree still huddle together beside it, though now without the windowed wall. The pit toilets remain, roofless on the edge of the grove. As I balanced upon the rubble that was once my classroom, a cuckoo4 called from the poplars, and a kite5 passed overhead!
All the happiness of my eight and nine-year-old self returned. I stood in all the places on the grounds to which there is attached a memory: by the old foundations where there used to be a ledge upon which I would attempt to sidle on the tips of my toes as far as I could, until it became impossibly narrow; upon the verge of the gravel road passing the site where I would pretend to be a superhero, soaring above the road; in the spot beneath the oak trees where on clear winter days we would sit about a fire and have our lessons in the open air! For a moment, it was all as it was then.
I then went to the little cottage where we lived during the week at the time, not far from the school, following the road winding along the hillside. There it stood, stripped of the past, unrecognisable after its renovation. I knew this would be what I would find from my last visit, but in light of my recent recollections, it felt especially disappointing. It was now someone else’s home. Gone were the two small front-facing windows that neatly framed the downs, the old chimney of the fuming wood-burning stove, the haunted draughty shed once attached to its side. I took no photographs, as I did of the school.
I wondered whether the ditch I loved so dearly still ran behind the cottage (where I would marvel at dragonflies) but had not the heart to see if it did. I left feeling disillusioned, regretting in that moment that I went there at all. So much had changed in the intervening time, I thought it best not to trace the old route6 we pupils used to walk, once a week, to the second school building elsewhere on the farm—a path that led through a poplar forest where brambles used to grow (red on one side, black on the other, my sister reminded me later). Nonetheless, I was pleased I returned to the valley—one last time.
The past visited me
“Of a Summertime”, a poem I recently completed, eulogises fleeting moments from that very valley: dragonflies in the ditch behind the cottage are among them. How astonishing then that for the very first time (at least that I recall), a dragonfly should appear in the garden: a blue Cape Skimmer (Orthetrum julia capensis). Most of its one wing was lost, yet it darted effortlessly about the shrubbery. I could hardly contain my excitement! I suspect it must have come from the stream in the nearby forest where the slopes of this valley meet; an area so overgrown, no wonder the dragonfly visited the garden to sunbathe.
Then, a few days ago, no less serendipitously, my father called me outside to ask what I made of a little green light in the grass; and what should I find but a firefly7! Only days before had I thought of a poetic sketch I had abandoned, “The Last Time I Saw Fireflies”. So faint is my memory of the moment in question that I failed to compose anything worthy, but faced with this luminous wonder—another first for our garden which in my ignorance I shall ascribe, dragonfly included, to a good winter—my interest in the sketch was revived. As I mulled over the memory8, the muse was kind and granted me three verses.
I was lost in poetry
After my recent discovery of South African poet Toon van der Heever9, I found amongst his contemporaries Jan F. E. Celliers10. In “Dis Al” (Afrikaans for “that’s all”, pronounced “diss ull”), he describes in pithy fashion a scene of nostalgia and grief. A handful of words and skipping metre is all he requires to cut right to the bone. It moved me to compose a sketch of my own, not on grief but on joy. Its (unoriginal) working title is “That Is All”. Whether it becomes a final work—and to what extent it will resemble Celliers’ poem in the end—remains to be seen. I do not usually compose homages, but this may be the first.
Then, unsurprisingly, following my October encounter with the Aandpypie11, I composed a sketch titled “Little Evening Lily”. If ever a poem was inevitable, it was this one. What was surprising (or rather, unexpected) was another new sketch, “The Wind!”. It was born of a note written to clarify my meaning in a line praising the wind in “Most Sublime” (previously “Give Me the Fields!”). I saw immediately within it the potential to become a poem. In my ongoing quest to revere the wind, I leapt at the chance to add it to my litany of verses on the subject as a fourth invocation (not counting instances in other poems).
I have now begun work on “Boy in the Field”, a sketch I am somewhat fearful of editing. It was inspired by an event in November last year when at nightfall I walked in the fields and saw but metres away, a lonely Paradise Crane. This pale blue creature is so graceful that I liken it to a god, and so overcome was I at the sight, silence and tears were my only response. When at last I regained my composure, words came. Alone on that hillside with only the Zephyr about us, the moment was sacred. As I tentatively begin work on the lines, I find myself almost unwilling to return to that holy hour, but such is the poet’s work.
I looked inward
My mother is a primary school teacher. Raised in abject poverty, it was her ambition to escape it—a course interrupted by my birth. From my earliest years and for most of my childhood, I was not in her direct care. My father wholly absent, it was left to my late grandmother (my mother’s adoptive mother) and later my nursemaid (who to this day refers to me as “my kind”12) to raise me whilst my mother pursued teaching. I romanticise my time in the Babilonstoringberge valley because they alone are untainted by the latent sense of abandonment that marked the years that preceded (and followed) them.
My mother’s absence created within me a vacuum, which I attempted to fill with “Beauty” (to me, Art, Nature and Solitude) and every modification to my behaviour I imagined would please her. The goal of my existence was to earn her affection: a hopeless task, sabotaged by the beginning of my school education when I was sent to board with a family in order to attend Grades One and Two at a school of my mother’s choosing. At this time, my mother began teaching Grades Three and Four in the Babilonstoringberge valley where my stepfather and infant half-sisters stayed with her during the week13.
A primary school teacher herself, my mother knew which teachers to trust with my schooling. Though I appreciate her strategy now, it filled me with dread at the time, for it meant that I would have to board with other families for most of my primary school life. I would see my family on weekends and during holidays, but eventually started distancing myself from them, because I knew that come Monday or a new school term, we would be separated again, and I would have to return and adjust anew to a family not my own. Over time, I developed a longing for home14 so intense, I felt it even when I was in fact home.
Respite came at age eight when I was set to enter Grades Three and Four, the grades my mother taught at the Babilonstoringberge valley farm school, and I joined my own family there. It was as if my life had at last begun! In the two years that followed, I thrived like the valley itself; but at the end of Grade Four, boarding resumed for the rest of primary school, and in high school, I lived completely alone. By then, I had internalised the alienation I felt and became disconnected from those I longed to love. Beauty, always of the kind that reflected my sadness, was my salvation, a barque on a capricious ocean.
That melancholy shaped my conception of the world, it is irrevocably cast within my psyche—I cannot escape it. You hear it in the plaintive melodies and read it in the wistful verses. I see it in the “lonely swallow rushing through the sky”15, the crane on the hillside, the wind in the grass. It is there in “forgotten fields”—the distant places always out of reach, the impossible hopes we abandon and banish from our thoughts. I cherish those two years in the Babilonstoringberge valley because there, for a while, my childhood hopes were fulfilled, surrounded by all that mattered to me: the hills, the fields and my family.
Pronounced “feign-boss” with the “o” in “or” cut short.
Afrikaans for “little mountain pipe”, pronounced “behr-kg-pay-pee” with the “eh” in “bet” and the “kg” sound in “loch” (that is, the guttural “kccch” sound, not the “ck” in “lock”).
In “This September” and “This October”. Babilonstoringberge is pronounced “bah-bee-lons-twh-Rhng-beR-gh” (the “o” in “or”, the “e” in “wet”, trilled “R”s and the “gh” in “go”), Afrikaans for “Tower of Babel Mountains”. The range is named after its most notable feature, a great peak resembling, from some viewpoints, Pieter Bruegel the Elder and Lucas van Valckenborch’s conception of the tower from Biblical mythology.
A Red-chested Cuckoo (Cuculus solitarius), known here as the Piet-my-vrou (Afrikaans for “Pete-my-wife”, pronounced “piht-mey-fRo” with the “ih” in “it” and a trilled “R”) after its “wiet-weet-weeoo” call.
A Yellow-billed Kite (Milvus parasitus).
I shared a little more about this route in a social media post here (Twitter).
I filmed a short video of what is either a firefly larvae (a glow-worm) or a female of the species and shared it here (Twitter).
Incidentally, the last time I saw fireflies, I was either five or six years old. We were at the seaside camping and I saw them in a bush. By the invitation of a friend of my mother’s, we attended a religious event. It was itself a tented affair, the kind with enthusiastic singing, clapping, preaching and donations to match.
Pronounced “yunn eff eeyh sil-yeaRs” with a trilled “R”.
In “This October” I wrote about this wonderful flower that opens at nightfall.
Afrikaans for “my child”, pronounced “mey khnd” with the short “kh” sound at the beginning of “kid”.
I would stay during the week with a teacher friend of my mother’s who taught at the school in question. It was a characteristically pragmatic decision on her part, oblivious to the negative emotional impact the arrangement would have upon my well-being.
The Afrikaans word for this yearning, “heimwee” (pronounced “haym-veeyh”), is not unlike the Welsh “hiraeth” (pronounced “hee-Rye-th” with a trilled “R”) in that it conveys, in its simplest sense, a nostalgia for what one holds dear: home, a loved one, a memory.
Every poem I complete leaves me at once exhausted and invigorated. The former for the mental and emotional exertion of wrestling with poetic lines and the latter for the joy and newfound enthusiasm success in these endeavours, however modest, brings. “A Dream of Summertime”, three verses recalling pastoral details from my childhood, is now complete. Its final title, “Of a Summertime”, is the last line of the poem.
I began revising “Give Me the Fields!” on 13 October, fortuitously exactly one year after composing it as a spontaneous tweet1 in 2017. I enjoyed the verse so much that I added a second, third and fourth! It is now in that dabbling phase where I explore different ways of expressing the ideas behind the poem in rhyming verse. This eventually produces a range of poetic possibilities which I refine into a final composition.
“A Sunbird” is an earlier poem I had completed but since edited in parts, altering its structure somewhat and rendering it unfinished once more. I returned to it unexpectedly in October to fully implement the adjustments. As a result, the poem is more vivid, flowing and succinct. This is why I think it worthwhile to live with one’s work for a protracted period, returning to it anew with a better understanding of its essence.
I bought an atlas
In my last post2, I wrote about the two years I spent in the valley between the Babilonstoringberge3 (Tower of Babel Mountains) and Kleinriviersberge (Small River Mountains)4. There I attended a small farm school where I was taught by my mother, a school teacher. Naturally, she cultivated in me a love for her favourite subjects, Afrikaans and Geography. My love of poetry comes from the former and of maps from the latter.
I remember drawing copies of my atlas, poring over the markings and lines, and inventing maps of my own! A few weeks ago, I purchased a Reader’s Digest Atlas of Southern Africa published in 1984, the very year I entered my mother’s class. It shows South Africa as it was when I was a boy with the provinces and names as they were then. The purchase was a nod to my eight and nine-year-old self, who is, of course, thrilled!
I admired a lily
We are in the midst of the South African spring and the countryside is in bloom, from the common Limonium perezii with its purply papery blossoms to the rare and unusual Gladiolus liliaceus. It was the latter I hoped to find a week ago and was delighted to discover by the wayside! Gladiolus liliaceus is a protected indigenous plant, know to us as the Aandpypie (Afrikaans for “little evening pipe”, pronounced “aah-nd-pay-pee”).
It opens at sunset and perfumes the air with an intoxicating (and unmistakeable) scent, an event that causes the lily to change its earthy daytime hues (when it is closed) to purple at night. The purpose of this transformation is to attract nocturnal insects but also, I fancy, to delight its human admirers. The lily is another connection to the time I spent in the Babilonstoringberge valley where I was introduced to it by my mother.
It is one of her favourite wildflowers. Watching sheep as a child, the Aandpypie, then still abundant, was her companion in the pastures, growing in the mountains and marshes in flocks of their own. It was there she learned to revere Nature, a virtue she passed to me. As I knelt to admire my wayside discovery, I felt it was a transgression even to behold it… Compelled to capture its beauty, I took my photographs reluctantly.
I wept before a poem
My mother was recently a surprise guest during a television interview with my youngest sister about her ventures in the South African wine industry5. Thinking she might be asked about this region, my mother resolved to include in her answer two lines from “In die Hoëveld”6, a poem by the Afrikaans poet Toon van der Heever7 (1894–1956): “[W]aar dit oop is en die hemel wyd daarbo, / Waar kuddes waaigras huppel oor die veld…”
The Afrikaans translates roughly thus: “Where it is open and heaven wide above, / Where herds of grass skip across the field…” Only once before have I encountered a description so vivid of a sight so sublime—one that lies at the heart of my poetry and music—that of Eugène Marais (1871–1936) in “Winternag”8 where he likens the windblown waving grass to beckoning hands. I loved Toon van der Heever’s poem instantly.
I had not encountered it before my mother told me of it some days after her interview. I read the whole poem the next day. In the verses, Toon van der Heever longs for his beloved fields… There he played as a child, there his little house awaits him, there the wind makes waves of the grass… Ah! It was as if every string inside me was suddenly plucked! I was that boy! I am that man! I wept as I read because I understood every word9.
October Interests and Inspirations
I thought I would include here some of the things that interested and inspired me during the month:
The House of Small Cubes (2008), an outstanding short animated film by Kunio Kato exploring the unstoppable advance of time;
Calluna (2015) by Andrew Chalk and Tom James Scott, a delicate and meandering album with fleeting melodic fragments;
The term of venery “a loveliness of ladybirds”, which delighted me no end;
Carles Viarnes’ handwritten notation for his contemporary classical piano album Schematismus (2016) which I purchased; and
An insightful review by Doug Thomas of Origins by Affan, the inaugural release of Lonely Swallow, my micro label.
I posted it first to Twitter here and the day after to other social media platforms.
Babilonstoringberge is pronounced “bah-bee-lons-twuh-Ruh-ng-beR-guh” (the “o” in “or”, the “e” in “wet” and trilled “R”s).
Kleinriviersberge is pronounced “clayn-Ruh-fee-Rs-beR-guh” (the “e” in “wet” and trilled “R”s).
Under the aegis of a local wine farm, she owns a wine brand named after the hamlet in which we grew up and where I live now.
Afrikaans, pronounced “ihn di hoo-uh-feld” (the “ih” in “sit”, the second “i” as in “did” and the “e” in “meld”), meaning “in the highveld”.
Pronounced “toowin fun dihR yih-fihR” (a trilled “R”, the “y” in “year” and the “ih” in “sit”).
Marais is pronounced “mah-R-ai” (a trilled “R” and the “ai” in “air”). “Winternag” is Afrikaans for “winter night”, pronounced “vihn-teR-nah-ch” (the “ih” in “sit”, a trilled “R” and the “ch” in “loch”).
I wrote briefly of my own longing for the fields in “My Pastoral Romance”, which goes some way to explain why Toon van der Heever’s lines affected me so!
“A Dream of Summertime” began as two stanzas, originally titled “Verses”. They were inspired by recollections from my childhood when (between the ages of eight and nine) I lived with my family in the great valley between the Babilonstoringberge1 and Kleinriviersberge2. There my mother taught at a small primary school for the children of farmworkers. I was one of her students in Grades Three and Four3, which she instructed together in one class.
The school was housed in two buildings. My mother and a second teacher shared a modest two-classroom building on one part of the farm, and the headmaster and a fourth teacher, one on another. Once a week, we would walk from one building to the other for subjects my mother did not present in Grade Four. On our way, we would pass through a forest with brambles and dandelions. These brambles and dandelions appear in the poem.
During that time, surely the happiest of my life, we stayed through the week in a farmworker’s cottage. It had two rooms, one door, a wood stove and four tiny windows overlooking the surrounding hills and valleys. Behind it was a ditch carrying water between a series of dams. It flowed fast in winter and hardly moved in summer. There I would marvel at dragonflies cavorting above the stream. The ditch and its dragonflies also appear in the poem.
I shared how my poetry comes about
Whilst “A Dream of Summertime” recalls images from the past, the majority of my poems are responses to the rural landscape about me now. Early in the month, I shared photographs of sights and the free verse they inspired in a set of five social media posts to demonstrate how my poems begin4. Were these lines to become a poem, they would undergo a significant transformation, since my ultimate goal is the composition of traditional verse.
Free verse is a powerful form of poetry, used to great effect by Richard Adams in the verses he conceived for Silverweed in chapter sixteen of Watership Down. Though his verses are a great inspiration to me, in the poems for this collection, I want to evoke the innocence and charm of simple rhyme on simple subjects—to hearken back to childhood, when poetry is uncomplicated, joyful, memorable and in its own way, profound.
Babilonstoringberge (pronounced “bah-bee-lons-twuh-Ruh-ng-beR-guh” with the “o” in “or”, the “e” in “wet” and trilled “R”s) is Afrikaans for “Tower of Babel Mountains”. The range is named after its most notable feature: a great peak resembling (from some viewpoints) the Biblical tower as depicted by Pieter Bruegel the Elder and Lucas van Valckenborch in their paintings.
Kleinriviersberge (pronounced “clayn-Ruh-fee-Rs-beR-guh” with the “e” in “wet” and trilled “R”s) is Afrikaans for “Small River’s Mountains”. The range often appears in my photographs, since I live near its eastern extension now. Indeed, it is one of its rugged spines you see in the photograph above.
At the time (the mid 1980s), these were known in South Africa as Standard One (Grade Three) and Standard Two (Grade Four).
The first of which can be viewed on Facebook here, Twitter here and Google+ here.
The South African spring is officially here, but it was already in full effect these past few weeks as the first swallows returned. This was providential because I spent the month revising “Swallows!”, a rhapsody about my favourite bird. After quickly evolving from a one-verse sketch into a four-verse ballad—the development of which I shared on social media1—the poem is now complete, and I shall start revising the next one directly.
I outlined new poems
Struck anew by the loveliness of the rural world around me, I was compelled by three sights to compose new poetic sketches: “Pear Tree” was inspired by a lonely pear tree in early bloom, the last of what was once an orchard2; “A Partly Cloudy Morning” by the mist floating above the wheat whilst I was out in the fields; and “A Blustery Day” by just such a day when the wind blew strong and made the pines sing as if they were a choir!
I embraced a longer artist cycle
Pleased though I was with the new poems, they brought the total number of new sketches to seven, and poems for this collection to thirty-four. It occurred to me that I shall never complete this project were I to continue composing new poetic sketches. I resolved, therefore, to stop writing new poems after “A Partly Cloudy Morning”; but a few days later, confronted by the pine tree choir, could not resist outlining the draft for “A Blustery Day”!
It was clear that my well-intentioned resolution was senseless. I realised that my original goal of publishing the poems by the end of the year was unachievable; and so, rather than subject myself to unnecessary pressure, decided to embrace a longer artist cycle3 instead. Where in the past I had hoped to publish poetry at least once a year in addition to releasing new music, I came to see that it was wishful thinking for work of this kind.
Writing traditional poetry is a time-consuming process, one I find deeply fulfilling, and I see no reason to go precipitously about it. There is value in living with one’s work for as long as one can in a period of reflection and refinement. Poetry—however simple (and mine is very simple indeed)—benefits greatly from this. I shall publish my poems when they are complete, be it this year or the next, and new music will come thereafter.
I shared the evolution of the poem—from the initial sketch to the draft as it was on 11 August 2018—on Facebook, Twitter and Google+ (the most legible version).
My village was once known for its pear orchards, earning it the nickname “Little Pears” Town.
By this I mean the time it takes to conceptualise, create and release work.
After several drafts, I completed “On the Nature and Purpose of Art”. The essay explains what I understand art to be and proposes a working definition: Art is the stylisation of essential elements from reality in Literature, Music, Painting and Sculpture to create an eloquent representational or abstract work that is not merely a reproduction, recording, documentation, illustration or decoration of reality but a transformation of it, imbued with meaning.
I intend to demystify the subject of art in a series of informal essays. Next, I want to investigate what informs an artist’s work. I want to answer, for example, what draws an artist to a certain theme and subject, and to a certain medium and technique. Why does the musician choose one genre over another? Why does the painter paint in this style and not that? I want, in fine, to discover “Why Artists Create What They Create” (my working title).
I completed “Zephyros”
Finding the perfect words with which to clearly and concisely express an idea in rhyming iambic verse is no easy task. The four verses of “The Robin-chat” took a considerable amount of time to complete for that very reason, as did the two verses of “Zephyros”. Its original title was “The Pines”, a lyrical ballad about trees moving in the wind; but the more I worked on the poem, the more its focus shifted from the trees to the wind itself.
Eventually, it was clear that the wind must be the subject, and so I drew inspiration from an earlier work: the couplet I composed for The Zephyr and the Swallow. The zephyr is, of course, the literary description of a gentle breeze. It comes from the Greek Ζεφυρος (transliterated as “Zephyros”), the personification of the west wind (and also of spring), which prompted a new approach to the subject (and from which I took the new title).
Unsurprisingly, this significantly altered the nature of the poem. Most challenging was the task of matching the second verse to the first (with which I was pleased early on) to satisfactorily conclude the composition. I came, at last, to two versions of the second verse. The first had an expansive quality (first line: “His ballad blows across the land…”), whereas the second felt more intimate (first line: “A sonnet sounding sweetly…”).
My chief difficulty was that both of these worked. I would eventually choose the latter, only to change my mind shortly thereafter. At the time I tweeted “[T]he verse I have rejected is, in fact, the one I must choose!” (27 July 2018). I am now confident in my decision, and the poem has become one of my favourites—but then, so are they all. I am now revising the first of three poems dedicated to swallows, a subject of which I shall never tire.
I revised my artist statement
The goal of my work is to extol the beauty of nature—the fleeting and near insignificant moments that seem to affect me most. The familiarly beautiful in my rural surroundings evoke within me a sense of awe that I must endeavour to capture in poetry and music. This is the essence of my artistic vision, a subject I consider in the “Context Matters” blog post. In its closing paragraph, I restate my artistic vision and adopt a new caption.
Previously “Ambient idylls”, I now describe my work as “Idylls in music and poetry”. I elaborate upon my meaning in a social media post dedicated to the matter thus: “It is my view that Man should not be silent when moved by the grandeur of Nature, that he should burst out in adoration, if his disposition allows it, and extol what he observes in art! This is what Forgotten Fields has become—an act of adoration!” (26 July 2018).
The highlight of June was Origins, the inaugural release of the Lonely Swallow label: a collection of six contemporary classical impromptus for the piano composed, performed and recorded by Affan at his home in London. The pieces ebb and flow with delightful melodies and tempos that gently transport you along—now light and lively, now quiet and reassuring. (Of these, “Origin IV”, the fourth track on the album, is undoubtedly my favourite.) I am honoured to have worked with Affan on releasing his first album. I hope you enjoy the work of this very talented musician.
I drafted an essay.
The subject of Art fascinates me. A graphic designer by profession, my field of study was the Visual Arts; yet, notwithstanding the theory, my conception of Art has always been nebulous, nuanced and pliable. I consider it fortunate that my pursuit of music and poetry has since forced me to think more intelligibly about the nature and purpose of Art. As a result, my understanding has become more clear, and to elucidate this emerging view, I have drafted a simple essay in which I attempt to demystify the matter. When completed, I shall post it here.
I resumed work on my poetry.
In the meantime, I continue revising the poetic sketches for the collection of poems I want to self-publish. Some are completed, some await rewriting, and some have been discarded. At the present time, I am writing “The Pines”: two verses about the sound of the wind as it moves through the trees. Even as I think of this theme, I smile. Writing these poems is a deeply fulfilling occupation. They are little celebrations of Nature—short, simple and sincere outpourings of admiration and awe. I cannot wait to share them in time!