December 5th 2013

[Jane Berg]

I am struck by thought i do not fully understand,
a state of elevation
I cannot place,
in the rage of my experience.
I cannot place,
and yet i think I know the note
both new to me
and old to the face of the world,
a frightening form slouching from -
What is the West?
And what are we?
and I am not sure whether to welcome or to prevent,
the stranger on the stair,
He knocks once, beware
subtle and small
He knocks as if he lives there
like and unlike
the teacher and the reader
He knocks twice, familiar
this time it is resilience,
reinforces the door,
with the weight of enemy -
But I have no dead buried unto thee.
And yet I am oppressed
by a thought, I cannot collect
and I have set myself against already against
unsure as to what it might accept.
He knocks again,
With the eulogistic scent
I hear the knocking on the stair
Of a cane, and footsteps on the pedestal…
These feet are feet of mine
Reaching, greedy as hands,
for the set,
and reaching it they will settle,
become cement,
stained, and chained,
with the bleeding of the classes.

But I cannot place.

[Jane Berg]

Once again concerned about obscurity, pls all let me know what you think this is about.

[Tom]

I don't know what it is, but I like it
Seriously though, I really enjoyed reading it and love the bouncing inside rhymes. It's late though, let me sleep on it and I'll have a think.
It tastes good though - I have a lovely flavour in my mind.

[Tom]

But I can't stop thinking now - it's like a riddle.
Is the title connected to the theme. If so then I think St. Nicholas. The beast slouching from... or towards? The teacher, dead buried unto thee - I think a Christ connection (but I'm in that kind of space right now). It feels like a sense of religious engagement, but awkward, questioning. Ok, I'm still thinking.

[Tom]

BTW - As you can see I made a new forum. Every poem should have a home!

[Jane Berg]

Thanks for the feedback, love feedback, hhehe, were such egotistical creatures

its hard to explain but ya the date is important, Mandela's D-day. So its mainly a poem about nationalism, about being from anywhere.

We did a course last year on tarns-nationalism which is about immigration, people dealing with hybrid identities - stuff like that.
Which I LOVE.
So much of what I'm writing now is about belonging vs being an outsider. I don't feel South African, and no one here ever thinks I am. But its the closest place to which I have any claim. And when Mandela died and I was watching the coverage I felt for the first time this strange sense of ownership over his legacy, in a way that a South African would.
Which is the "thought" I mean.
Thanks for picking up the Christ thing, Mandela suffers from a similar deification and I was going for something religious feeling.
The slouching form, is yeats - second coming, because i feel this sensation as kind of a threat. So theres the idea of the stranger - first is the way nationalism enters through education, second, the idea of a struggle for independence (or against apartheid) which unifies people, thirdly is the event itself.
But people are willing to associate themselves with something when it stokes their egos, which is why I cannot embrace it. Partly its cowardice, I don't want to 'chain' myself to some kind of civic responsibility 'the masses' - shameful really but true- but more importantly, don't want to write with a voice particular to any nation.

[Tom]

Ahhh... thanks, everything seems clearer. It's nice to have some interpretation but I don't think you should worry too much about obscurity. I didn't pick up the specifics of your uncertainty but the general mood was very clear. Maybe real quality is determined by how well we can fit our own idiosyncracies into the poem.

[Jane Berg]

Yes I think so, thanks.

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