I spent the last couple of days quietly reading short snippets of your work and can say that I have enjoyed it so far.

Blogging is a rewarding journey, but as you all know, it brings many challenges to the writer who attempts to show consistency in his/her work, particularly when focussing on some bread and butter issues.

Just moments ago, I read Dennis Cardiff‘s introduction to his blog where he is focussing on serving and being there for those who unfortunately have no alternative, but to sleep on the street. Mr Cardiff’s work coincides with one of my missions in life as a writer.

Dennis Cardiff’s Blog is entitled: Dennis Cardiff – Poetry & Prose (which you can easily source from my own blog community here).

dennis cardiff

The Baobab South African Journal of New Writing arrived on my doorstep just the other day. It was slightly titilating to have received a cheque along with the magazine for my modest contribution, having long discarded the vain need to be seen in print or in the blogosphere. If there is a yearning, it is to be appreciated as a writer and to continue the enriching journey of reading. The rewards, as they say will come.

One of the poems I submitted is below, hope you will enjoy it. I will explain, briefly how it came about.

But before I do that let me also mention Gabeba Baderoon, an accomplished and decorated poet who has had one of her many poems featured in this magazine.

gabeba baderoon


While I have not read much of her poetry over the last few years, I list her as one of my favourite South African poets, even though she resides happily elsewhere in the world. A short internet search will immediately call up all the information you will require to read about this award-winning SA poet.







I do not hear or see the same things that

You hear or see, nor do I expect you to understand my plight

Vriende Street was once a quiet, preserved lane resplendent

With firs, oaks and tall beauganvillas, branches whispering gently

In a soft breeze which merely echoes its approval of my arrival



It is now replaced with an ongoing rumble of traffic, heavy roars of

S U V ‘s,  ominous, hollow echoes of

S A P S  vehicles, to the accompaniment

Of  the cocky irritating whistle of an alarm, wistfully making its

Presence felt, it disapproves of me



It has been one of those days. I have over 30 essays to complete and revise for submission to my university, an ambitious array of papers on a number of subjects, including poetry, the Holocaust, films, the short story, and so on. I was feeling dreary, disorientated and somewhat discouraged.

When I first moved to this street in a large, urban suburb, just below Table Mountain, I felt relieved.

Could I finally escape from the noise and continuous ebb and flow of motorised traffic, coughing up poisonous fumes? Could I escape the continuous mean-spiritedness that is a staple of the mall down the road? Evidently not.

Even though I cannot hear as well as others, I’m hard of hearing, you see, even if I switched off, I could still hear, if not hear, feel the noises, all unnecessary.

And to make matters worse, say what you may, this little street of mine offers a false sense of security from the violence of our broader community here in Cape Town, whether criminal or political. You can still feel it, like the heat of the sun clinging to your clammy skin on the fiercest day of summer.


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