The Only Magic We Know

Selected Modjaji Poems 2004 to 2020

Marike Beyers, Marike Beyers

• Publisher: Modjaji Books
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781928215899
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: African Poetry
• Index: Literature

The Only Magic We Know is a celebration of all the poets Modjaji has published. This anthology offers a taste of the range and diversity of the poems that have appeared in the individual poets collections.

Across the River Kei

by Sindiwe Magona

Land of low skies, far horizons;

Sunrises that glow low steeples,

Paint cow horns above still

Far-from-discernible bodies

Huddled close in the morning kraal,

Chewing yesterday’s cud as sun’s early rays

Listen to the satisfied moos of cows

All heralding the dawn; early sun

Buttering morning clouds,

Bidding lovers disengage.

The Girl from Qumbu

by Christine Coates

Thatched huts on the hills

the eyes of speckled cattle;

these are the shapes of her childhood –

the girl from Qumbu.

A cowry – it is a darning shell,

it is an ear –

she hears the ocean,

the whispering voices of her grandmothers.

The crack on its underside –

this is where we come into the world –

from the salty sea inside –

the white circles milk makes,

the white enamel bucket.

This brown and spotted shell

the hides of Nguni cows,

the headlamps of her dad’s Humber

the shade of the amber tree –

like a tadpole finds its way out –

she breaks open.

Kalahari Blue

by Robin Winckel-Mellish

Here there is nothing but Camel Thorn trees. Crumpled shadows enfold the low scrub, then the rural dwellings and chicken coops, a pale shell in an ocean of bushveld. The day’s heat subsides and the sisters welcome the gloam, a visible spectrum between green and indigo. In the house the music player is turned on and the microphone connected. Outside the night sky begins its glitter, fireflies have reached the Milky Way. Two frail sisters put on frocks, carefully comb hair. They will sing the one song they are good at, the only song they remember: Blue on blue, heartache on heartache … As if tracking a Kudu they spear memory into music. Bruised shades of melody lift, as if a sea of driftwood is rolling. Turning, pushing forward, pulling back. The karaoke sounds grow louder, the cadence heavier. Somewhere in the shadow a hyena is laughing. Whoops as she brings down an antelope, sings as she tears the flesh, finds the chamber of its heart. Drags the carcass to her den like a sack of love.

School mornings before a test

by Christine Coates

Footsteps of the milkman,

the clink of bottles –

I’m up early to study;

it’s cold here in the Western Transvaal,

the light a dirty grey,

the unlikely hum of the milk cart,

its battery engine

down the street –

milk and orange juice.

Cars start up – dads taking kids to school,

maids walk from the bus stop

calling to one another

as they peel off into

individual driveways.

my Yeoville

by Colleen Higgs

Where were you when you could play

freedom fighter, a dangerous game,

a particular way

of being worried about spies?

And who was really ANC and who wasn’t.

And we danced. The Lurchers. The Yeoville Rapist.

Weird and wild and strange. Sex, drugs.

Because I lived there it was wonderful,

and the library, Tandoor, the Harbour, Midnight Express

Elaines, Rumours, Mamas.

The park at night, the path, the plane trees

the police station. Yeoville Checkers.

Bigger and wider and smaller my world was then

realised how much and how many

were mostly Zulu speakers

and so many who didn’t speak any English. Only Serbian.

Any night of the week on Rockey Street

there wasn’t one uniform

if you liked, you could fit in.

You could go and experience something–

come in from the cold

from Alberton, Kempton Park.

By the mid 90s the banks started redlining,

kickstarting slumlording.

You could hear buses changing gear

from the bedroom at Homelands.

One day the swimming pool opened to all.

Steak

by Arja Salafranca

For Don and Sue

There’s a perfection in the sharp knife,

handle thick and satisfying to hold.

It eases through the meat, parting it

like the Red Sea.

A thin trail of red juice eases out,

I spear the soft butt...