POETIC LICENCE RABBIE SERUMULA

TEN years ago I would write and memorise a poem, and in the same week I would go and recite it at an open mic in Melville, at the Word N Sound Poetry Corner. I had a strong desire in my heart, and a weak poem in my head, but I was eager to be closer to this art.

With so much room to grow, I was consistent and fulfilled, but ever so eager to be closer to this art.

I had danced with her in the past – tense high school poetry rehearsals in Ms.’s class (I forgot her name but she was quite the looker, and the poetry just seeped in).

The motivation and the poetry were beautiful, and as a result, I represented Town View High School very well at the Dikonokono National Eisteddfod Festival that year, in 2002.

My poetry teacher also taught me Economics, and I subsequently did well in that too – I suppose I was destined to be either an economist or a writer. Since you are reading this, welcome to my choice.

I tell you this story because I had the pleasure of meeting readers last week at Grill Jichana in Rosebank (you will have trouble finding a better lamb shank) with the Saturday Star staff, and apparently the tone of my writing, according to those readers, is older than the look of my face.

So I went home and traced back where my poetry journey began. For some reason I tend to be forgetful of some key memories and parts of my life, and for the longest time I had been convinced that I only ventured into poetry 10 years ago. I started this column dramatically to emphasise this point.

And also, I cringe when I interact with those poems I wrote when I was younger, I hope you don’t find them online.

But in truth, it has been 20 years since I have seen the nakedness of a poem; the first one I ever memorised and recited was The Hermit, by Alan Paton at the Eisteddfod Festival.

The speaker in that poem had mastered solitude, and in every line I could feel it.

It was then when I learned that the readers’ hearts have strings, and the euphoria it brings tugging at them with words; how imagery can play a movie in their heads with characters springing out of a page, or a stage and I loved that.

In hindsight, the genesis of this column was when my boyish eyes, with liquid sunsets glimmering in them, met with the frame and aura of Ms. (I forgot her name but she was quite the looker, and the poetry just seeped in). To my eyes, her body spoke fluent poetry when she moved and gestured to emphasize words and I saw spoken word poetry become a dance.

I had a crush on her, but I fell in love with what she was teaching instead.