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I, Johann Lodewyk Marais, a non-existent South African poet, introducing myself at UNISA, Pretoria, South AfricaRead on the 3rd of October, 2003, at the Summer Festival: “Celebrating Diversity”, presented by the Department of English, UNISA, and the John Povey Centre To Michael Chapman I Poets are very often well aware of the value and importance of expressing themselves in a special way in both content and form. They write about issues such as life, death, love, nature and politics in a particular way, and often communication with an audience on these issues is not the primary concern, if it is any concern at all. If one is aware of these idiosyncrasies of poetry, one is certainly also aware of how difficult it is to open the curtain on a stage where one has to show one’s face and perform as a poet. Like many other poets, I find it difficult to speak about my own work, for a number of reasons. The most important reason is that I hope that my poem or collection of poems will be able to speak for itself. Ultimately, after the poet has died, the individual poem or the collected work will not have a poet to speak for it, to answer questions and to come to its rescue. Poems have to be weaned from their creators. Looking from a distance at one’s own poetry does, of course, transform the poet, to some extent, into just another reader. For this reason, what I have to say about my own poetry need not be “correct”, “well-informed” or “objective”; and it will certainly contain all kinds of “prejudices”. In this context, the poet’s voice can very often be regarded as just another voice. Even a stranger’s voice. Bearing all these problems and conditions in mind, I have decided not to try to say much more about poetry in general, or about poetry worldwide or even about poetry in this country; but rather to try and introduce myself to you as a poet. For this reason, I have decided to entitle this lecture, reading or presentation: “I, Johann Lodewyk Marais, a non-existent South African poet, introducing myself at UNISA, Pretoria, South Africa”. The main reasons I have chosen this title are, firstly, that I stand before an audience who is probably not familiar with my poetry; secondly, that I may make this audience aware about an aspect of my work that is important (for example that I am, to a certain extent, an autobiographical poet); and, thirdly, that I may say things that may explain a few of my poems. I must confess, however, that I have decided, in the first instance, to follow this approach (or strategy) after acquainting myself with Michael Chapman’s recently published Southern African literature (University of Natal Press, 2003). This voluminous literary history claims to present a view of Southern African literature, but reading it as an Afrikaans poet is a disappointing experience. The space devoted to Afrikaans literature and its many writers, and to any Southern African language other than English is very frustrating, as is the absolute norm of the socio-political criteria used. According to Chapman I do not exist. Neither do many of my fellow white and black Afrikaans writers. Because we write in one of the minority languages of the world we are linguistically disadvantaged. In addition we do not meet Chapman’s criteria. Thus, although what I will say about my poetry may not be important to the gatekeepers of Southern African literature, it may give you a glimpse of my experience of life. It may even prove to be representative of the experiences of a certain generation of people in this country. These do not necessarily have to be typical experiences, of course. By referring to certain people, books and writers I will try to indicate those influences that I regard as important in my work. I hope that you will not find my approach too self-centred. In this regard I may excuse myself by saying that other writers have also introduced themselves. These include the German writer Bertold Brecht, who said, Ich Bertold Brecht komme aus die Walden. In the very first poem of his debut anthology, Breyten Breytenbach introduced himself as follows: Dames en Here, vergun my om u voor te stel aan Breyten Breytenbach, II Let us now turn to my poems. Very often the subjects of autobiographies and biographies pay particular attention to their ancestors. For example, in Charles Darwin: Voyaging (Knopf 1995), the first volume of Janet Browne’s two-volume biography of Darwin, much is said about Darwin’s paternal grandfather, Dr Erasmus Darwin, and his maternal grandparents, the Wedgwoods. This information is important, since it enables us to better understand Darwin and his world. My own paternal grandfather, Johannes Lodewyk Marais (1880-1957), was a farmer in the district of Harrismith, but since he died six months after I was born, my poem about him is based largely on anecdotal information about him that I heard from other people (mainly my mother). OUPA MARAIS Owing to the fact that my father, Hendrik Salomon Marais (1916-1970), and my mother, Johanna Herculina Oosthuizen (1922-), had to leave the platteland, where they grew up, for the city, I was born in the Queen Victoria Nursing Home in Hillbrow. My parents were two of the tens of thousands of Afrikaners who flocked to the cities during the 1920s and 1930s, when many white people were poor, and the wealthy American Dale Carnegie gave money for research on the “poor white” phenomenon. Both my parents were workers who were unable to complete their schooling. Their lives were “ordinary” and they would probably not have imagined a child of theirs standing here today and reading from his own poetry. JOHANNESBURG 1956 Three months after my birth, on December 21st, 1956, my parents left Johannesburg after many years of earning a living in the city. My father was called upon to take over the farming activities from his parents on the farm Sans Souci in the district of Harrismith. They took a small baby (or a “pakkie”, a parcel, as my father expressed it) with them. PA NEEM DIE PLAAS OOR On this farm I grew up as my parents’ only child. Simultaneously with Afrikaans, I learned Sesotho from the farm workers and my black playmates. Today I still regard Sesotho as a kind of mother tongue. However, on the farm I was often afraid at night, and felt very vulnerable. Decades later, in a democratic South Africa, many farmers probably feel the same vulnerability in the face of farm attacks. WAKKER One of the wonderful things about the farm was that it was situated in mountainous surroundings. To the farming community, rain was of the utmost importance and whenever it rained, it was regarded as a momentous happening. Sometimes it rained for many days on end. DRIE-AGTDAEREËN When I was twelve, my father became seriously ill. His bone marrow hardened and we had to leave the farm to settle in the town of Harrismith. After a cruel suffering my father died in the Kroonstad hospital on July 16th, 1970. In 1975 I matriculated from Harrismith High School. My English teacher, Miss El Bedford, was the youngest sister of Sir Laurence van der Post, although she very seldom spoke about him. In 1976 I commenced my studies at the University of Pretoria, and at the end of March of the same year my mother also relocated to Pretoria. TREK After completing my studies at the University of Pretoria I was conscripted into the army to do National Service from July 1981 to June 1983. HK In 1983 the Human Sciences Research Council (HSRC) in Pretoria appointed me as a researcher. I often found the organisation a very stimulating environment to work in, albeit sometimes being distrustful of its findings. Some researchers seemed to be unaware that their building had windows and that there was a world on the outside. At the HSRC I first did research on South African literature, but during the last decade of my employment there I was involved in social research. This acquainted me with issues such as environmental degradation, rural development, poverty, cross-border migration and HIV/AIDS. A phase in which I wrote poems about environmental issues and about sustainable development followed. TEKSTUALITEIT I gained much experience on sustainable development when contracted to do research in preparation for the building of a dam in the Lomati River in Mpumalanga from 1991 to 1993 and sporadically thereafter. HERONTPLOOIING Elizabeth Colson, who wrote a book about the building of Lake Kariba on the Zambezi, said that “Massive technological development hurts.” I agree with her. GRONDREGISTER Whilst doing research on cross-border migration in southern Africa, I spoke to many undocumented Mozambicans who worked on border farms in South Africa. I also had the opportunity of visiting Mozambique in 1998. This experience resulted in the writing of a travel book, which was published earlier this year. The title of the book is Lae wolke oor Mosambiek (“Low clouds over Mozambique”) (Skeurklip, 2003). Apart from this book, I also wrote a number of poems in which aspects of “a Mozambican experience” are described. MAPUTO I was appalled by the conditions in which undocumented immigrants from Mozambique, including young children, were sent back to Mozambique by train once they had been apprehended. I once visited the repatriation train on the Lebombo Station just before it crossed the border with Mozambique. When I saw the children on the train, I recalled Ingrid Jonker’s famous poem “Die kind”, which was read by President Nelson Mandela at the opening of South Africa’s first democratic parliament in 1994. DIE KIND Like the poetry of many of my fellow Afrikaans poets and writers (such as Eugène N Marais, C Louis Leipoldt, CM van den Heever, NP van Wyk Louw, DJ Opperman, Peter Blum, Adam Small, Breyten Breytenbach, George Weideman, Wilma Stockenström, Antjie Krog, TT Cloete and Martjie Bosman), my poetry is about this country. ’N LAND From Verweerde aardbol In order to appreciate this country (I often call it “this bloody country”), I try to get a glimpse into an understanding of its people, its birds, its animals, its trees, its stones. Almost daily I read the work of three poets, which I find essential: Pablo Neruda, DJ Opperman and Wilma Stockenström. From Neruda I have learned, inter alia, to appreciate the birds of my country. I wrote a whole book about them. WITBORSSPREEU Yes, the plum-coloured starling in this poem is none other than the German philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889 — 1976). I can still remember that Friday afternoon in May 1976, and the atmosphere that prevailed, when my young Philosophy lecturer, Marinus Schoeman, announced that Heidegger had died earlier during the week. From Heidegger I have learned, and am still learning, how important wonderment (“verwondering”) is. III If all my poems were to be regarded as conveying something of this wonderment,
I would be happy. Read Michael Chapman’s response in Seminaar Room.
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